Call of the Chosen- Broken Kingdoms

by Michael DeSousa

  She slid a sheet of paper in front of her, grabbed her pen and inked it before writing, Dear brother Mak. I have found a solution I would like you to try…. She stopped, wringing her wrist. Just how was she going to get Sig’s remedy? She’d have to ask Conner, the Night Lady representative, but he’d insist that he needed to be present when administering it. Revealing those connections to Mak wouldn’t be something she wanted. Not to mention that Conner would probably try to sell his services to him, and once Mak knew from whom the cure came from, he’d rather die.

  Or, she could ask Sig directly. Who knows, maybe she could broker a contract between him and the priests, thereby softening his ‘apostate’ image. No one would object to that, she thought. And the less she had to depend on the Night Lady, the better. She rubbed her wrists again. “Risky, Zana. Giving Sig a foot in….. Nothing risked, nothing gained.” Besides, she wanted the family together again at some point, right?

  She slid another sheet of paper over the previous and readied her pen: Siga, I need your help. She paused. Would she lie? She had to. Lowering her pen, she continued, One of my dear friends has been exposed to the Golden Lady, and I saw how effective your remedy…” Exposed?

  She scanned Gene’s message again: “Prolonged Mild Exposure.” What did ‘prolonged mild’ exposure mean? Just how many trips did he take to the Impossible Tower? As far as Zana knew, there were only two kinds of exposure: brief moments of contact where one would survive for a while longer but descend into madness and the other was a prolonged direct contact that resulted in death within an hour or so. How could Mak be exposed for a prolonged time yet not be dead or insane already? Mak, what did you do?

  “More of ‘Mother’s secrets,’ Mak,” she whispered. Still, she wouldn’t be daunted. She continued writing, …remedy was. I would like to purchase. —Of course, he wouldn’t want money. He’d want— Damn it. She knew exactly what he would wanted.

  She took in a sharp breath. “No risk; no reward,” she reminded herself. She scratched out the last line and continued underneath it. Sig, I would like you to send me a few batches and instructions, and in exchange, I’ll consider an installation of your new endeavor. That canon of his. The destruction it caused still sent shivers down her spine. But outside the Holy City, she wrote. Out into sea. Please, this is a far as I can go. Reply promptly. Signed, Your Sister in need, Princess Ladress, Zana II. “And now for what we both want.” Post script: If your remedy works, I’ll consider convincing the Temple to contract a subscription of the remedy with you. They may need it for the future, and your reputation could certainly use the publicity. She doubted he’d be interested; he didn’t seem to care at all about his ‘apostate’ nickname. But the average faithful did, and if the family was going to be reunited, he’d have to show some good faith eventually.

  ‘Giving away the kingdom treasury,’ Fiora would say. But if this all worked out, Mak would be healed, the Night Lady wouldn’t be needed for the Temple anymore, and Sig would appear to actually have a heart. Not much progress toward reconciliation, but, “small steps climb the mountain,” she whispered.

  She reread her letter and drafted up a final copy. Grabbing a cylinder from her desk supply, she rolled up the paper and placed it with in. With a key from her blouse pocket, she opened a locked drawer from her desk with an assortment of colored waxes, each having a significance the couriers and her brothers would know. To the couriers, they meant speed of delivery. To her brothers, it meant importance of message. Blue was used for general invitations. She sent many of those for balls and gatherings they seldom attended. Green for important replies, commentaries, favors, and more personal letters. She sent a few to Sig asking —in vain— if he had sent some her potential suitors. He never replied, but the point was made. She finally decided on a red wax. Red didn’t necessarily mean danger, but urgency. When Sig saw this, he had to open it immediately.

  She grabbed two blocks of red wax and melted one onto one side of the cylinder with her magic. She then took out her insignia ring —the Ladress family ring, an insignia of seven stars encircling a black crown. When Mother’s Regency ended, it was supposed to be given to Sig, and he would ascend to kingship, but that didn’t happen. Instead, she held it now and stamped both sides of the cylinder message. Satisfied, she placed the cylinder in the outgoing correspondence box to be sent out. “What next—”

  Three knocks hit the door. “Annacia is here,” Erald said.

  “Oh, yes, thank you. Send her in.”

  In came the young woman with a small sauce and a cup of tea. “Good morning, Your Highness. An early start is it?”

  “Yes, morning Annacia. You can place….that…anywhere…” Zana shuffled some papers around, failing to make much room on her desk. “Here, thank you. And, while you here, can you drop this to the couriers’ office.”

  She smiled. “Gladly,” she said, grabbing the message and exiting the room.

  Relieved, she sat back into her chair with her tea in hand, only then noticing the outside window shutters had been left open. The bright topaz light drowned out much of what could be seen outside, but Zana could still make out dawn coming, and with, Fiora and her day’s schedule. But right now, she decided to enjoy this moment, sipping —she smiled— citrus orange tea. Autumn was certainly here.

  Her letter would reach Sig in only a few days, and hopefully, he would reply by the end of the week. Promise of a contract from the Temple wouldn’t convince him much, but allowing that new cannon of his be built near here, would convince him. He would probably have suggested locations in his reply too. Not on land and far out far into sea, she’d have to insist. Convincing her court of having one of Sig’s abominations even that close was going to be quite a task. Even the families who still supported Sig would think twice when they learn what devastation it could do. “So long as Mak lives.” Besides, Sig assured her the cannon wasn’t made from the Sea Roar or powered by Lairgor’s spirit.

  She took in another sip and shivered, remembering the raw energy in the air when that thing fired, the whirlwind, the rain, the deafening roar when it boiled the ocean and sunk the freighter. Defensive or not, what kind of enemy was Sig thinking of when he built it? “Only the ones in his head,” she answered. “But no less real to him.” In the end, it’ll become a useless weapon, a rusting relic out there in the northern Knives. “Really, Sig, who do you think is going to attack me? The Islanders? The One-King? Why couldn’t your suspicions at least make some sense?”

  She sighed before leaning forward over her messy desk.

  “Now to convince Mak.” She decided to start another letter: Mak, wonderful news. No, that made her sound urgent; he already knew she didn’t want him entering her city. He’d think she was making up some excuse. “I’ll have to go to him,” she said, frowning. She scanned her desk. “To a bigger pile of work, then,” she raised her tea in a mock cheer.

  Back to writing, she continued her letter: Dear Mak, as you know, my priest confirmed your diagnosis, but she erred in treatment. She has formulated a remedy for you to try. All lies, she admitted, but it couldn’t be helped. He’d never take anything from Sig, even to save his life. And it would open her up to questions she’d rather not answer. I can have it ready by the week’s end. “I hope.” And then I will travel to your Green Farm Estate for you to try it. Sabina can administer it and see whether it helps or not. I haven’t given up on you, brother, but our agreement about your visit remains. I can discuss the arraignments while I’m there. She had to add that last part, regrettably. With sisterly love, Princess Ladress, Zana II, Holy City of Zanf’r. “Good enough.”

  She thought about writing to Sabina too, but decided against it. She’d see her in person when she visited and have a moment alone with her. She’s been flaky too, missing luncheons, dances and receptions, but considering Mak’s problems, maybe Zana could understand. She tapped the pen against her cheek. “But why didn’t she tell me about his problems in the first place—”

  Another knock c
ame at the door. “It is I.” —Fiora, Already?— “May I come in, Your Highness?” . Brightening blue morning light streamed in through the window now, competing with the topaz in the room. The sun hadn’t appeared yet, but that didn’t stop Fiora.

  “Yes, come in,” she said with a sigh as her thoughts already longed for the end of the day, dinner, a warm bath and a book to read. No rest till then, she thought.

  Fiora entered, wearing her usual gray and gold colors with a gray veil neatly pressing her white hair back behind her and tied into a ponytail that hung behind her shoulders. She stood posed, stoic as ever, with lucid gray eyes to match her intelligence and wrinkles to match her wisdom. If Zana hadn’t seen her tender side when she was her dry nurse and tutor, she’d believe Fiora could be Cyne’s mother.

  She held two books in her hand. One was opened, faded red spine with a brown worn leather covering, the book Zana dreaded, a ledger crammed with meetings, appointments, and audiences. Fiora adjusted her glasses, gazing down on its pages. “Already awake, were you,” she asked with slight annoyance and then briefly regarded the tea. “We could have begun much earlier. You have much to do today.” Zana felt a tug of irritation and impatience rising within her, a willingness give up the day to walks in the garden. Fiora was testing her with her King-Maker blessing.

  “Lady Fiora, please, not now. I’m exhausted.”

  “Your court doesn’t care if you’re exhausted,” she answered, tracing her fingers on the pages. “They will try your patience, and you must always guard your will, intellect, and reason against emotions that may betray you.” Definitely Cyne’s mother. “Your mother would have appreciated my advice.”

  “Mother wasn’t betrayed by emotions.”

  The corners of Fiora’s lips tugged upwards slightly, apparently appreciating Zana’s wit. “No, she wasn’t,” she said. “But neither was she so forgetful.” Fiora then lifted an eyebrow, revealing Mother’s diamond encrusted silver circlet in her hand.

  “It’s not as if everyone wouldn’t recognize me anyway,” she said, tilting her head forward so Fiora could put it on.

  Fiora placed the books on the table before undoing a simple braid Zana had done to manage her hair. “No excuses,” she said. “If you needed help putting it on, you could have called someone. That’s why we’re here.” Zana rolled her eyes out of view from Fiora. Instead of arguing, Zana turned her attention to the books Fiora brought with her. The second one looked familiar. “There, done. That salty air has certainly done its work. Later today, someone will come to treat your hair.”

  “What’s that book you brought?”

  “Oh,” Fiora said, showing it to her. “It came in a few days ago.”

  Zana snatched it from her. The spine was well-worn and cracked and some of the pages stuck out, but she finally had it. The Night Lady pulled through; Zana held her Mother’s journal book encompassing the month she died. She embraced it close to her chest; the smell of brittle pages and dry ink brought old memories to the surface. Maybe now she could find something that could help find the real killer.

  “You know you’re not supposed to have that,” Fiora said, taking hold of the ledger book again. “If your brother, Prince Landrie—

  Zana jerked her neck straight. “Landrie has done nothing with this. He decided long ago to stuff it in some old library and forget about it. Look at this, he hasn’t even transcribed it to a new book.” She opened the book and reset one of the torn pages.

  “Done nothing? What more could he do?” Look for clues. Find the real killer. Give up blaming Sig for everything. “My dear Za’nina,” Fiora said with a warm grandmotherly voice. “Let the past go—”

  “No. Not yet. I must—”

  “So much like your brothers you don’t even realize it,” she said, shaking her head. “Let’s look at this logically, alright?” —Zana fought back a snort— “Do you believe Prince Landrie never read it for himself?”

  Zana hesitated. Landrie wouldn’t; he respected father’s old ways too much. Or maybe he didn’t want to feel that pain again from reading through Mother’s journal. Could she do it? She had to. No one else cared about the truth. “Maybe he did,” Zana said.

  “Princess,” Fiora let out with sternness in her voice.

  “No. He wouldn’t. He had no reason to. He was already so sure he knew all about what happened to Mother.”

  “Ah,” Fiora said, thoughtfully. Ever the tutor. “Then, what do you hope to find written there?”

  “Clues, evidence. Maybe Mother wrote down suspicions of someone lurking about.”

  Fiora’s expression didn’t change; she was obviously not impressed by Zana’s reasoning. “If so, why would she not have communicated it elsewhere? To the guard? To me? Or take precautions herself?”

  “I…I don’t know,” Zana answered, feeling deflated. “Maybe, the threats were vague or veiled; she didn’t perceive them as serious enough.”

  “How very suppositional. I’ve taught you better than that.”

  “I can hope, can’t I,” Zana snickered.

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Fiora sounded. “Hope is a two-edged sword. It can sustain you or torment you, neither of which has to do with the true matter of things.”

  “A pesky emotion, I suppose.”

  “Lady Ladress,” Fiora scolded. “You will act your age and stock. Now, answer me this and then put the rest to bed: If your assumption is correct, why did your mother give that book to Prince Landrie instead of…that boy?” That boy. Anger slipped into those words like rip currents in a deceptively calm shore. But what she said made terrible sense. Mother’s will mentioned nothing about Sig, dividing her personal belongings between the four of them. If Sig hadn’t spent so much of his time on that damn island after Father died, maybe the family wouldn’t have become so strained at the end. Maybe Mother wouldn’t have been alone.

  “Do you believe he could of…,” Zana asked, feeling the worn cover of mother’s journal with her hand.

  Fiora’s expression softened. “What I ‘believe’ has nothing to do with what is laid before me. We must come to conclusions based on the evidence we have. It isn’t as if he’s been eager to elevate those suspicions. He still refused to see me when we were last there, didn’t he?” Maybe because you already think he’s guilty.

  Fiora readjusted her glasses, drawing lines on the ledger with her finger. “This all could wait for another time. Now, let’s go over your schedule for today.”

  Zana exhaled deeply, readying herself for the litany to follow.

  “This morning, you will be having breakfast with your advisers about affairs conducted during your absence. Afterwards, you will have a chance to…properly refresh yourself. Someone will come to treat your hair. Then, you will see your audiences until lunch.” Fiora rested a sheet of names besides Zana’s tea. “Number five,” Fiora said, pointing her finger, “is one you should be prepared for.”

  “The Baron of Lowtown?”

  “Yes,” she answered, tracing an ‘x’ over the name. “The eldest of the Rushnik family, Kalpric Rushnik. Tavern guild master.”

  Zana closed her eyes and rubbed her wrists. “What do they want now?”

  “An explanation of Mother Evening Sky and her sudden departure and the delayed offering as well,” she answered. “He claims to have seen her bald and hurried onto a carriage. He would like to petition you to investigate the issue.”

  Zana shook her head. Did the priests really have to make a spectacle of her? “Zealous priests or conniving tavern masters. Which would you pick?”

  “Conniving tavern masters,” Fiora said.

  “Why?”

  “If you execute a priest, they might enjoy the martyrdom.”

  Zana cracked a smile. “Have you interviewed him?”

  “Yes,” Fiora sighed. “Late last night, he wouldn’t leave until he knew you would see him. I sensed deceit, concealment, and excitement in his heart —nothing out of the ordinary so I can’t say for motives.”

 
“I’m sure it’s about greed. His family is always about greed. Have our ‘listeners’ found anything more about him?”

  “Only that you shouldn’t take him lightly,” Fiora added. “His family hails from the Demos region, not a bastion of royal-blood sympathy as you know. And he’s garnered much support among the refugees outside our City. I have already suggested that you have him arrested on subversion charges, and I wouldn’t wait much longer.”

  Zana frowned. Arrest him? What would the rest of the Rushniks do? And what sort of message would that send to her people? Become too prosperous and the princess would become jealous? Kalpric Rushnik hadn’t done anything illegal but continue his family’s love of growing rich. And in growing rich, he’s made friends in almost every social circle. Even at her dinner parties, his name comes up: the man who can make a profit selling air to fish. He’s organized so-called ‘social-partnerships,’ fraternities, and ‘neighborhood-councils’ throughout the City. He even financed the Offering Celebration. He should be lauded for public service, if he wasn’t antagonizing her sovereignty. Yes, Fiora was right. She couldn’t ignore them anymore. He’s becoming a rival, creating his own little underground ‘Demos’ right under her. For what? The Baron of LowTown. ‘Baron.’ “I know what he wants,” Zana said. “Land and the status it brings.”

  “That he can not have,” Fiora quickly answered.

  “Landrie’s allowed it.”

  “Prince Landrie’s situation is different. He has more land in his mountains than he can possibly explore himself. It would be prudent for him to give that task to his subjects to expand his territory for him, but they remain his subjects; they don’t rise to become little counts and barons. The Rushniks cannot, will not ever be one of us.”

  Zana sighed. “Rushnik calls himself ‘baron’ already. He and his partners pay quite a lot into our treasury. But, you’re right. I can’t ignore him for much longer. If he wasn’t married with children, I’d seek a suitor for him and subdue him that way.” Zana rubbed her wrists. “Maybe it’s time I sit down with him—”