The Queen's Tower

by J. S. Mawdsley

  Faustinus knelt and placed her cup on a table before clasping her hands. “What do you say?”

  “I say I came to Myrcia to get help for Loshadnarod’s mines. What do I care for Myrcian royals killing each other? Queen Merewyn was never anything but a distraction from that goal. I’m not going to let these events distract us even more.”

  “But, Daryna.” He freed a hand so he might brush her cheek with his fingertips. “I can help you. Forget all those idiotic things I said last night. I will help, no promises or compromises from you necessary.”

  She knew that tone of voice, with the reassuring words that sounded so sweet, but which she couldn’t trust. Of course, she might not be able to trust Broderick, either, a man who was most likely a murderer, but she could control him. Whereas with Servius, she couldn’t even control herself. “I’ve found other help.”

  “Really,” he asked, rocking back on his heels. “From whom?”

  “Broderick.”

  He bolted upright, his face flushing, and she thought for the first time in their acquaintance, she had surprised him. “Have you not been listening? He’s a murderer.”

  Daryna snorted. “The woman who blew down the gates of Terminium and the man who leveled Paradelphia are going to hold the suspicion of murder against someone?”

  “You can’t trust him.”

  “But I can trust you?”

  “If either of us is going to have trouble trusting the other, I think it should be the other way around.”

  She clenched her jaw and stared into the fire. She should have known he would eventually bring up her betrayal. He wasn’t wrong, but she still couldn’t change her mind. Her every effort must focus on helping Loshadnarod, and Broderick was the safer bet, murderer or not. “Broderick will send a dozen engineers to assess the issue, and then only a small company of men to train the miners how to use whatever equipment is necessary. In addition, there will be a fellowship for a Loshadnarodski student at the University of Leornian to study engineering. Grigory will be staying to begin his studies.”

  Servius nodded slowly. “And what do you have to give Broderick in return?”

  “Nothing.” She looked up at him when he snorted at this reply, but she caught his eye and kept it. “He realizes that it is in Myrcia’s best interest for Loshadnarodski silver to flow. A strong neighbor is a safe and useful one.”

  “Not really how the Empire looks at it, but I suppose it’s one theory.” He frowned down at her as she refused to comment further. Finally, he whispered, “You really can’t trust him.”

  “I know. But I can work with him.”

  “Then I suppose there’s no reason for me to stay any longer.”

  “You won’t stay for the funerals?”

  He shook his head. “There is no good reason to. Lady Hildred and Prince Maxen will still be dead, and King Ethelred will still be ignoring the evidence that his bastard is responsible for them both.”

  She hadn’t wanted to see him after last night unless it was to strangle him, and yet now here she was faced with him leaving, and she realized how much she didn’t want him to go. But that was Servius Lepidus Faustinus. He was a mass of contradictions. He was a contagious disease. He infected everyone who loved him with the desire to both embrace and throttle him. She managed a smile, but she knew it was a pathetic thing. “Do you think we will see each other again?”

  “Oh, dear girl,” he laughed half-heartedly. “We both have centuries and centuries yet to go. I predict it will be rather impossible to avoid me in all that time.”

  Her smile became a touch more genuine, but tears also started to collect in the corners of her eyes. “Be well, Servius.”

  He stepped up to her chair and leaned down to kiss her cheek. “And you.”

  She couldn’t contain a whimper behind the lump in her throat, but by the time it escaped her, Servius had disappeared from the room.

  Chapter 38

  BRANDON HAD THOUGHT the day Hildred and Maxen died would be the worst of his life. After all, what could devastate a man as thoroughly as the deaths of his sister and the child of his oldest friend mere hours apart? It had seemed impossible anything could break his heart more, but somehow, it had grown worse. He hesitated to tempt fate, but he thought this day would surely be the lowest point of his life. If it were not, he could not see how he would survive one worse than this—the day he buried his sister and all the kingdom looked on with a shrug at her murder.

  The mighty Finster Cathedral overflowed with people ostensibly coming to pay their final respects. As the daughter of a Duke of Leornian and wife of the Bishop of Formacaster, Hildred rated no less than Bishop Robertson officiating. Having the head of the church leading the service should have conferred a most reverent air, yet even though the cathedral felt oppressive in its fullness, Brandon noted no reverence in anyone attending, save his family and Hildred’s husband and children. Everyone else has come to see and be seen and to talk about what comes next. Not for me, of course, or even her children. I don’t rate that level of concern, and apparently, neither do they. No, all these pretend mourners want is to know who Ethelred will name as his heir. And they all hope it will be Broderick, beloved captain general and murderer.

  Brandon wondered how many people outside a very small and select group even suspected Broderick of these crimes. He guessed not many, so he thought he should show true Ivich compassion toward them and forgive them for throwing their support behind Broderick. But what compassion was being shown by any one of them? They did not care that Hildred was dead. In fact, she had not been well liked by many at court, and more people than not in the cathedral were probably happy to see her gone. She had been his sister, a brilliant, determined woman, and even at her most difficult, he had loved her.

  No one cared.

  The choir began another hymn that had been a favorite of Hildred’s—“Earstien’s Light We Praise.” A soft stirring accompanied the choir, the mourners less interested in the music than the latest gossip. Those who weren’t discussing the succession were talking about the competition among certain courtiers to see who could commemorate Maxen’s life in the most vulgar and hypocritically ostentatious way. Margaret, he knew, was trying to plan something to honor the murdered crown prince, and he believed her heart was genuine, but other than his daughter, he did not suspect many people regretted Maxen’s loss.

  Of course, everyone was also talking about Merewyn.

  It could not be hidden that Maxen had consumed the poison that killed him while with his mother in her tower apartment. Given that Merewyn had been sitting next to Hildred when she died at the feast, most people assumed the adulterous, probably also traitorous, queen had finally gone mad. The talk was that Ethelred had kept her locked in the tower all these years, not as punishment, but to protect the world from her, as though she were a rabid dog. When people prodded Brandon for confirmation of these theories, he said nothing.

  He believed Merewyn essentially innocent of the murders, and he said so to anyone who listened, but he did not know how to discuss the state of her mind. Every day she seemed to understand less and retreat further into the past. For the first time in all her years of captivity, yesterday she had wanted to talk about Fransis.

  The choir reached the end of their hymn and Robertson stepped forward to begin the homily. At this, Brandon let his own mind wander. Robertson mourned Hildred as little as anyone, and Brandon cared not what the corrupt bishop had to say about his righteous sister. He knew Merewyn hated Robertson, and Brandon thought perhaps after seventeen years of respecting her privacy, he should ask her why. Merewyn had been instrumental in helping Robertson along the career path that led him to this bishopric, the two of them seemingly close, right up until Fransis was hanged. By the time Merewyn arrived in Leornian to take up residence in her tower, her opinion of Robertson had plummeted. Had Merewyn’s change of heart had something to do with the coup attempt? Was the man a traitor in addition to abusing his office? And if he were? What doe
s it matter? Fransis is long dead and Merewyn has gone mad. If I can’t get justice for crimes a few days old, what would anyone care about crimes as ancient as Fransis’s rebellion?

  Brandon’s eyes settled on Ethelred. He loved his friend, and it grieved him deeply that his friend had lost his child. If he were being fair, Brandon must also admit that Ethelred was truly mourning Hildred, as well. With Merewyn’s imprisonment, Ethelred had grown to rely on Hildred, and a bond had formed between them. Brandon would have thought Ethelred would have been more interested in justice, but the king’s mind and heart refused to accept the truth. Not when accepting the truth meant accusing his eldest and most beloved son of murder.

  Brandon’s gaze transferred a few chairs away from Ethelred to Broderick. It physically pained him to look at the man he knew in his soul had killed his sister, but he forced himself to look, nonetheless. Broderick appeared bland, even bored, as Robertson spoke of Hildred’s service to the needy and orphans. Brandon had no doubt Broderick longed for his father’s throne, but surely everyone would accept the obvious line of succession from Ethelred to his brother, Edgar, now that Ethelred had no living, legitimate children. Of course, Edgar, a man no one loved, only had one legitimate child himself, a young girl. No, the succession was unstable. Someday soon, the throne might be empty, and Broderick was the only one with the charisma to seize it. And when that happened, who would dare speak out against him? No one would remember his crimes. No one would remember Hildred.

  The only person who had tried to convince Ethelred of Broderick’s guilt was Faustinus, and he had left Leornian. This meant no one remained in Myrcia who believed Broderick guilty and had Ethelred’s ear. The king’s blind spot toward his bastard was obvious—he’d made the man captain general, for Earstien’s sake—so the murders of Hildred and Maxen, not to mention Merewyn’s insanity, would go unpunished.

  As the succession teetered.

  It hadn’t slipped Brandon’s notice that if Fransis yet lived, he would be in line for the throne right behind Edgar. Being healthier and more lively, Fransis would likely have outlived Edgar and become king.

  But if Fransis were alive, Broderick would have never become captain general, and Fransis would still reign as the most beloved man in Myrcia. So, Maxen would not have been murdered, making the whole question of succession moot. Earstien, but I miss Fransis!

  Tears formed in the corners of Brandon’s eyes and he hastily wiped them away. He felt the sacrilege of crying at the thought of Fransis at his sister’s funeral, but his emotions had taken on a life of their own in the past week. His personal life and his beloved kingdom were crumbling, and Earstien seemed to have forsaken Leornian and all the people of the once great city.

  Well, perhaps not everyone. Letting his gaze drift now to his other side as Robertson launched into how dearly Earstien loved mothers (Hildred’s own six children now gripping hands next to their father in the row in front of Brandon), he saw Presley sitting with Grigory Sobol. Grigory would be staying in Leornian, first recipient of the university’s new fellowship for Loshadnarodski engineers. Brandon knew Broderick was responsible for the fellowship, and he could only guess that it was designed primarily as a distraction from his guilt. But whatever Broderick’s motives, this would prove an unquestionable good for Grigory and Presley. They would have what he had always longed for with Fransis, if only for a few years during Grigory’s studies. And Presley was so smart, Brandon did not put it past him to come up with some sort of long-term solution during those years of study. But whether or not it turned out to be forever or only a passing fancy, the young men would have a chance at happiness for a while, and he thanked Earstien for granting them at least that much.

  Robertson wrapped up his homily and began an interminable prayer. In the final stillness, Brandon wondered what the future might hold for himself and Myrcia. He prayed for justice and mercy, knowing well Earstien would mete out both. I just hope he deals them out each to the deserving. Amen.

  Chapter 39

  PRINCE MAXEN’S FUNERAL was grander than Lady Hildred’s. Hundreds of knights paraded, and bands played solemn marches in the streets. Kenedalic bagpipers wailed out some long, screeching dirge as the coffin was carried from the Bocburg to the cathedral. As grand as the ceremony was, however, it was also sadder and more pathetic. After a brief orgy of mourning, where all the ladies of the court cried and patted the poor boy’s casket, everyone dried their tears and went on with their lives as if he had never existed.

  Most of the court, it seemed, had plans to leave Leornian immediately after the funeral, and the streets were clogged with carts and carriages. Along the riverbank, as well, west of the Bocburg, a long line of gilded private barges waited to carry the greatest families of Myrcia away.

  “In two days, everyone of consequence will be gone,” said Presley, as he returned with the Loshadnarodskis to the Bocburg. “In a week, it will be as if the court was never here.”

  “What a sad thought, Mr. Kemp,” said Nina, turning in her saddle. She gave him a wink. “I trust you, at least, will remember our visit with fondness.”

  Presley’s face reddened as he looked at Grigory. “Indeed, your majesty,” he said. Then he quickly looked away and pretended to study the storefronts along Addle Street.

  The queen had wept with all the other ladies at the funeral, but her good spirits had returned quickly. Her son was not so fortunate. He had been brooding on Maxen’s death all week, and the funeral seemed to have affected him deeply.

  “He and I had such great plans,” Vadik said, looking around the Bocburg as they rode in at the gate. The prince’s eyes fell on the Queen’s Tower, and he shook his head in disgust. “Such a waste.”

  “It is a lesson from Earstien,” said his mother softly. “We never know when we will be called to his Light.”

  “Exactly,” said Vadik, as he stopped to dismount. “Daryna Matushka, when we return to Loshadnarod, I will want your help. I have so many new ideas, so many things I want to try. I want to do everything right away, as soon as possible.”

  “Of course,” said Daryna indulgently. She didn’t bother asking him about his plans; she was sure he would tell her all about them on the ride home. She didn’t warn him that there was only so much change that a kingdom could tolerate at any one time. He would discover that for himself pretty quickly. For now, she would let him console himself with his dream of a modern Loshadnarod. It was his way of mourning, apparently.

  The servants had their baggage waiting in the entrance hall, and it was barely half an hour before the Loshadnarodskis were ready to leave. There was a very brief farewell ceremony in the great hall, with a final exchange of presents and pleasantries. Ethelred wasn’t there, which was understandable. Prince Edgar took his place, racing through the proceedings in a bored monotone, as if he was tired of having visitors. The Loshadnarodskis might have taken offense, except that by this point, they wanted to leave just as much as Edgar wanted them gone.

  Only Nina seemed to regret the hasty departure. “It’s such a shame we couldn’t stay longer,” she said, as they went back out to the courtyard where their horses were waiting. “Perhaps we could come back next year.”

  “Perhaps,” said Daryna, who knew they wouldn’t.

  Of all the members of the court, only Caedmon came outside to see them off. “I am sorry we must part under such circumstances,” he said, as he went around shaking hands. When he got to Daryna, he lowered his voice and asked, “Are you going to be all right?”

  “Perhaps,” she said, “given enough time.”

  Grigory said farewell to everyone at the courtyard, as well. He was moving into a new apartment near the university that Presley Kemp had found for him.

  “I want to thank you again for this opportunity, my lady,” Grigory said, bowing to her. “I promise I’ll try to be worthy of it.”

  “I’m sure you will be,” she said.

  With Grigory and Presley gone, there was nothing for the royal party to do
but mount up and leave. Nina led the way, with Vadik at her side, and Daryna fell in behind them with Anik Kaur. As they rode through the gatehouse, in the shadow of the Queen’s Tower, Daryna turned in her saddle and saw Caedmon on the front steps, watching them go. He raised his hand, and she waved back.

  There was so much traffic in Addle Street—most of it headed the other direction, away from the cathedral—that it looked as if they might spend the entire afternoon simply getting out of the city. Nina waved to people they knew or pointed out interesting shop signs to her son. Anik Kaur was more businesslike, and talked with Daryna about Sir Broderick Gramiren’s plan to help Loshadnarod.

  “It seems like a very good deal for us,” Anik said, rubbing his chin. “And certainly it is a very good deal for young Mr. Sobol and his friend. I do wonder, though, what the captain general will want in return.”

  “You think it’s a trick?”

  “The Polkovnik and I were talking about it last night, and we suspect the Myrcian engineers will be assigned to gather intelligence on us while they are in the country.”

  Daryna sighed. She didn’t want that to be true, because she didn’t want Faustinus to be proved right. But it was too late to worry about that now. The deal was made, and one way or another, they would all have to live with it. “Let us speak of something else,” she said wearily. “Any other topic in the world, if you please.”

  Vadik, who was apparently tired of his mother’s prattling, overheard Daryna’s remark, and took this as his cue to tell them all about one of his grand dreams for the future. He wanted to build a giant hall of masonry, steel, and glass somewhere on the steppes near the Myrcian border. It would have a clear glass dome and huge stained-glass windows on every floor. “It will be called the Wool Hall,” he said proudly. “The Prince Maxen Memorial Wool Hall, to be precise.” The idea, as he explained, was that instead of the Loshadnarodskis taking their flocks down the Trahern Valley every year to sell their fleeces in Myrcia, the Myrcians should come to Loshadnarod to buy their wool. The great Wool Hall would be the center of the world’s largest fleece fair, and it would be a fitting tribute to Maxen.