The Queen's Tower

  Nina loved the idea, and told Vadik he was, “so clever, dear.” Anik rolled his eyes at Daryna, but when Nina asked him, he agreed it was a “marvelous plan.”

  Then Nina asked Daryna for her opinion, and try as she might, Daryna couldn’t make herself say what she was supposed to say. It was all she could do not to blurt out, “That’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard.” She certainly couldn’t pretend to be enthusiastic about a giant, useless building that would be a tremendous waste of money if it ever got built, which of course it wouldn’t.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” she finally snapped, “I just remembered something I need to do.” She spurred her horse and turned away from Addle Street into a side alley.

  “Daryushka! Where are you going?” cried Nina.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll catch up with you tonight,” Daryna called over her shoulder.

  She rode alone through the backstreets of Leornian for a while, heading nowhere in particular. She was ashamed of herself for losing her temper, and she kept wondering why she had. There was no reason to be angry with Nina or Vadik or Anik. They were precisely the same people they had been when they came to Myrcia. If anyone had changed, it was her.

  “Damn and blast Faustinus!” she thought. “I will not let him do this to me. I will not regret my choice. I am not going to start being dissatisfied with my life, just because he won’t be a part of it.” She clenched her fists and twisted at the reins in her hand until the horse tossed her head in annoyance. Daryna patted the animal’s neck and whispered a few soothing words of apology.

  Looking around, she discovered that she had wandered into the university district, entirely by accident. On a sudden impulse, she dug in her pack and found the little scrap of paper that Presley Kemp had given her, bearing an address on Docent Lane. It took her a few minutes, circling around the ivy-covered towers and buttresses of the various colleges, before she found the right street and the blocky little red brick apartment building with a mossy slate roof.

  Grigory answered the door and almost fell over from surprise. “My lady! Please, come in! We were still unpacking.”

  It was only when she walked into the tiny front parlor and saw Presley Kemp seated at a worn old table, sorting socks from a saddlebag, that she realized she might have interrupted an intimate moment between the two men. Luckily, she hadn’t, but there were signs that a romantic interlude was planned for the near future: a bottle of Immani Argitis open by the hearth and two glasses waiting next to it.

  “Lady Daryna!” Presley jumped up to bow. “What an unexpected honor. Should I put some tea on?”

  “Oh, yes, please do,” said Grigory. “My lady, you must stay and have tea with us.”

  She looked at the open bottle of wine again. “Thank you, that would be lovely, but I really can’t stay long.”

  As Presley busied himself with the tea, Grigory showed Daryna around the little apartment. In addition to the front parlor, he had a small, but neat bedroom, a pantry, a privy, and a little study with a desk under a dormer window. “It’s not much,” he said with a modest grin, “but it’s more than a tent.”

  “I think you will be very happy here,” she said.

  “Yes, I think we will,” he said, glancing back toward the hall and the front parlor. Then he realized what he had said. “I mean that I will, of course.”

  He was blushing now and trying not to smile. Daryna was happy on his behalf, but at the same time, her heart ached for him. Perhaps she should warn him that romance was fleeting, and love was an illusion. It always seemed as if it would last forever, but it never did. There would be moments of happiness, but soon enough, they would be drowned in bitterness and regret.

  She would have told him that, but most likely he would learn it for himself in time. Or perhaps Earstien would be merciful, and Grigory would be lucky, and everything would work out for him and Presley. Maybe, for once, optimism and faith would be rewarded.

  “I want to give you something,” she said. “Do you have your Ptitska with you?”

  “Of course, my lady!” He pulled the little carved bird out of his pocket and handed it to her.

  She turned it over in her hands a few times, feeling the wood and the worn paint. Then she closed her eyes, whispered the spell, and sent her magy into it. It quivered in her palm and grew warm, like it had been left out in the sun on a summer day.

  When she opened her eyes, she handed the Ptitska back to Grigory. He took it with a bemused smile, turning it this way and that, trying to detect some difference.

  “Say the word, Lochtsee,” she said. “It’s old Trahernian. It means...well, try it, and you’ll see what it means.”

  He said it, and the Ptitska glowed with a bright orange light, as if it were made of glass and there were a candle inside.

  “It’s a miracle!” he said, clutching the light to his chest.

  “It’s practical,” she said, smiling. “I figured you could save a lot on candles when you’re staying up all night studying.”

  She taught him the termination spell to make the light go away, and she was about to suggest they go have their tea with Presley, when Grigory fell to his knees and kissed her hand.

  “Thank you, my lady. I’ll never forget this. I’ll look at it, and I’ll remember you. And I’ll remember home, as well. I promise, my lady, I’ll never forget that I’m just a poor Loshadnarodski miner.”

  “I trust you can be a great deal more than that,” she answered, as she helped him back to his feet. “Now let’s go see about that tea.”

  After barely one cup, she announced that she had to be going. Both men begged her to stay, and Presley went so far as to suggest they all have supper together. But she knew they were just being polite. She went down to the street, but rather than collecting her horse from the porter and riding away, she walked down the block, looking in shop windows and watching pasty-faced undergraduates rushing back and forth.

  At the end of the block, there was a tavern called the “Mine Shaft,” of all things. That was either an extraordinary coincidence or a good omen for Grigory’s future. Perhaps it was an adolescent double-entendre. Or maybe it was all those things. She went in and found it a warm, cozy place with meandering little parlors and low, heavy oak beams holding up an undulating ceiling. She ordered a large mug of ale and settled into a table near the hearth.

  She drank slowly as she watched students come and go. One boisterous group was reciting bawdy poetry. A few glum-looking young men were drowning their sorrows after failing an exam. Near the front windows, there was an elderly professor marking papers and studiously ignoring everyone around him.

  From time to time, someone would speak to her. One fellow asked if she would recommend the mead or the stout. Another one asked if she thought it would rain later. Since she was seated by the fire, she was occasionally asked to throw another log on, which she was happy to do. Absolutely none of them recognized her. No one knew she was the “Blessed Daryna Matushka.”

  When her drink was nearly finished, a handsome, blond-haired young scholar approached and asked, with a self-confident grin, if he could buy her another one. She declined, but he didn’t leave.

  “I’ve never seen you in here before,” he said.

  “I’m visiting from out of town.” She wondered if he would get the hint.

  “You must be a merchant,” he said, sitting down across from her.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Your clothes are too fine for a professor’s wife. Or maybe you’re a noblewoman, in town for the prince’s funeral.”

  Looking around the little tavern, she asked, “Do you often get noblewomen stopping in here?”

  “More often than you’d think,” he replied, leaning closer. “Some people think there’s something...wild and forbidden about college boys.”

  She almost snorted ale out her nose. “‘Wild and forbidden’? Are you serious?”

  “You laugh,” he said, shaking a finger, “but you’re intrigued now,
I can tell. How about we go back to my rooms? I’ve got some Cheruscian fortified wine I’ve been saving for a special occasion.”

  To her own surprise, she found herself seriously contemplating the offer. It would be quick and meaningless, but it might actually be fun. And certainly no one in Loshadnarod would ever know about it. What could it hurt, really?

  “You know you want to,” the young man said.

  The trance was broken. She shook her head, laughing. “Perhaps some other time.”

  There would, of course, never be another time. She was leaving Leornian, and there was no reason to saddle herself with more regrets than she already had. Leaving the last of her drink in the young man’s care, she went back down the street and retrieved her horse.

  “The holidays are over,” she said to herself. “It is time to go home.”

  Chapter 40

  THE BRUSH GLIDED THROUGH her hair, taking away her tension along with the tangles. She had been counting, and this would be stroke number forty-eight. She sighed contentedly. They were nearly halfway now, and after the hair brushing, there would be the application of the paste that made her face feel tingly and look so pretty. Having a botanist for a father should be a requirement for every lady-in-waiting. Merewyn didn’t know what she would do without...who? Wait. There was no botanist’s daughter. That must have been some story she had read. She liked to read, but not as much as she liked to dance and feast. But not too much feasting or she would get fat.

  The brush met a knot and yanked her head back.

  “Stupid girl,” Merewyn shouted, her reverie broken. She opened her eyes so she could glare at the offender in the mirror, but she did not know this girl. Who was brushing her hair? Turning around in her chair, she let her eyes circle the room, but she caught nothing familiar. Where was she? Whose room was she in? Someone intended to harm her, that much she knew, and this must be some part of the elaborate scheme. She must escape.

  Leaping to her bare feet, she shouldered the strange girl out of the way and ran for the stairs. Her soles slapped against each step, and she watched her feet fall, holding up her skirt, careful not to trip. When she reached the bottom, she looked all around for a way out. The room seemed familiar—the door opposite the bottom of the stairs, a fireplace to the left of that, three windows tucked into a nook behind two pillars beside her. She knew this room. Without understanding why, she screamed. This room, familiar but unsettling, horrified her. It was a bad place, an evil place, for lack of a better way of putting it. The room should be destroyed, and she would scream until it crumbled into dust.

  Two men burst through the door, one a soldier and one a nobleman. The latter was Brandon, wasn’t it? But why did he look so old? She ran out of breath, sucked in as much air as her lungs would hold, and screamed again.

  “I’m so sorry, father,” said the inept hair brusher, rushing down the stairs. “She knocked me over and ran. I couldn’t stop her. I’ve no idea why she’s screaming.”

  Brandon, or the old man who reminded Merewyn of Brandon, enfolded her in his arms, burying her screams in his shoulder. He patted her head, and said, “Shh. Be calm, Merewyn. All is well.” She did not believe him, but she replaced her shrieks with tears and aching sobs all the same. “Are you alright?” He seemed to no longer be addressing her, so she lifted her head to inspect this girl.

  The inadequate beautician wiped a trickle of blood from her forehead. Merewyn smirked with pride at causing the hurt and wished she had done more.

  “I just bumped my head on the corner of the mirror,” said the girl. “There are bandages upstairs if you can help me get her back up to the other room.”

  Brandon (Merewyn now assumed it must be him, however odd the gray in hair and beard made him seem) put an arm around her waist and saw her safely up to the other room. Once there, she released herself and walked a lap about the perimeter of the space. It felt more familiar when she walked and less horrifying than the room below, but she still couldn’t quite understand why she was so uneasy in this place.

  “Merewyn,” Brandon said, joining her on the second lap. No, not a lap—a circuit. “Would you like to sit down now?”

  Using her sleeve, she wiped the last of her tears away, never missing a step. “No. I want to walk.”

  “You don’t mind that I’m walking with you though, do you? It is rather nice once you get going.”

  “It’s hard to stop,” she answered, although she did not remember how she knew that. When had she ever paced around a room like this? Merewyn glared at the girl. “She can’t brush hair.”

  Brandon looked at the girl who had placed herself in Merewyn’s seat before the mirror, cleaning and bandaging the cut on her forehead. Merewyn wished it had been bigger, deeper, and required a surgeon to stitch up.

  “I’m very sorry, your majesty. I will take more care the next time.”

  Merewyn gathered her loose hair and pulled it over her shoulder, stroking it gently with her fingertips. “There will be no next time. You will never touch my hair again. I command that you leave court immediately.”

  The dismissed lady-in-waiting and Brandon exchanged a look. Merewyn was certain they thought she had not noticed it, but of course she had. What was his relationship with this awkward thing? He surely would not defend her in defiance of his queen.

  “When will her new apartment be ready?” the girl whispered, as though that would prevent Merewyn from hearing, as if she were old and deaf. “Being here isn’t good for her.”

  Brandon peeled off from their latest trip around the perimeter to join the girl. Merewyn kept walking. Let them try to conspire against her—she would defeat them in the end.

  “Soon,” Brandon answered in a hushed voice. “I’m so sorry, Margaret. You have already done so much more than I could have ever asked. Perhaps she would be better off with a physician. You have to go back to Formacaster soon, and I worry that Lady Anna will not be a suitable replacement.”

  “If I hadn’t told the king I would fill in at the Finstertide feast for Aunt Hildred, since I knew all the plans, I would stay and help her myself. You know how much I’ve always cared for her, father. But I promise, Lady Anna will do well. I interviewed plenty of ladies and physicians, and I sincerely believe she was the most knowledgeable. But she is also kind in a way no doctor could be. And much better than Lady Haley, certainly.”

  Lady Haley. That sounded familiar. Why did she know that name? Merewyn quickened her steps, sure her rate of motion would restore her memory faster. Brandon said something to this Margaret person that she missed in the bustle of her skirts, but she was positive it was significant and dealt with Lady Haley. When she passed them next, she heard Margaret say, “At least she was executed. Broderick got away with everything.”

  “The king loves Broderick, and there was no proof against him,” Brandon said. “The king can’t order the execution of a man without proof, any more than he could execute a woman who is not in her right mind.”

  What was that? Who were they talking about? She felt a growl building in her chest and she bit her lip, barely holding in a new round of screams. Who wasn’t in her right mind? She must know.

  “The king could at least demote him. There was no reason to leave him as the captain general, running around the kingdom as if it’s his own.”

  “I know the captain general,” Merewyn said, slowing her pace when she realized so many turns around the circumference had left her dizzy and short of breath. “He made certain no one could prove that I helped him plot to overthrow the king. I wanted to confess, but he made me promise to say nothing, which is strange, since it was my idea to kill the king, and he never wanted to do that.”

  She smiled, seeing Fransis’s placid, loving face in her mind. “He’s too kind and gentle to ever think of overthrowing the king on his own. Do you think that if I go and confess now to Ethelred, he won’t hang Fransis after all?”

  She stopped and ran straight at Brandon. “When is Fransis to be hanged? I’m not too
late, am I? I think it would be bad for Maxen to have his father kill his favorite uncle. Maxen should learn compassion, seeing as how he is to be king one day. And who better to teach him that than Fransis? Am I right, Brandon? He’s the most compassionate, loving man in the world!” She grasped his hands in hers, shaking them until he looked her in the eye.

  He was crying. Brandon, too, was a compassionate man.

  “Ethelred will let Fransis live if I confess,” she cried, “Let’s go tell him right now. It’s all my fault. Surely Ethelred will spare him. It’s all my fault, Brandon. It’s all my fault.”

  The End

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  About the Author

  We’re a husband and wife novel writing team and have been since about a month after our marriage in 2007. He’s a teacher of freshman comp at a local college, with additional forays into teaching education law. She’s an adult programmer at the local library, leading book clubs, teaching tech, and the like. Being able to write together so happily once made a friend remark that we are as mythical as unicorns.

  J.S. Mawdsley live in Ohio, where they share their house with half a dozen dying houseplants, and their yard with several neighborhood cats all called George, a raccoon named Ringil, and a couple of blue jays who are just like George and Martha, sad, sad, sad.

  Read more at J.S. Mawdsley’s site.