by Sacchi Green
Those included a half-dozen suitors for Ilyaviere’s hand, each specifically selected by Lord Nestrington. Not one of them low born or unknown, not one poor or powerless, despite the queen’s dictates. All acceptable mates for even the grandest lady, each fluent in Solistine, because, as Ilyaviere noted acerbically, “I must be able to converse with my husband!”
But one candidate was so wealthy, so virile, so powerful, the prime minister had cast his lot with that prince. Sending stealthy couriers to and fro, he signaled his allegiance—and his willingness to subjugate Ilyaviere after marriage. For Nestrington thought women poor vessels of authority. Entirely too emotional, too empathic, too apt to display weakness, wholly unsuited to matters military. Wherefore, the first courtship visits would be mere shams, notwithstanding all their pomp and circumstance. Nestrington was saving the best for last.
While the prime minister established elaborate protocols for greeting Ilyaviere’s suitors, the queen devised a plan of her own. “When the gentlemen pay me court in my bedchamber, Aivlynn, you must sit behind yonder curtain, playing soft music on your flute.”
The sorceress instantly grasped the queen’s intent. Still, her stomach roiled and ragged breath caught in her throat. “But, Majesty…” she stammered, “I would be…privy to…events of a most personal nature.”
Ilyaviere sent a captivating smile the witch’s way, laid a hand on her slim arm. “There can be no secrets between queen and her most valued counselor. Without you, I would know nothing but the artful face every man presents. You will see each to his very core. Only with your aid will I identify a proper consort.”
The applicants arrived at carefully spaced intervals over a period of months, six nobles from surrounding realms, all bent on marriage to Solisterre’s unmatched regent. Without exception, Ilyaviere noted, they were titled and landed, wealthy in their own right. And each was handsomer and stronger than the one before. Days of sport, feasting, and dance followed their introductions into the court, until finally came nights of amorous assessment. Every aristocrat was ushered in turn to the queen’s chambers.
Unseen, Aivlynn sat on a stool there, just beyond a heavy tapestry, instrument in hand. As Ilyaviere bedded her suitors, the witch’s heart pounded wildly and her mind was abuzz with unthinkable longings. First came Finnid the Seventh, Baron of South Mervaglia, a sprawling agricultural region that produced exceptional wines and had historic trading ties with Solisterre. Aivlynn rested her flute against trembling lips, hoping her fey melody would block all sound emanating from the other side of the tapestry. A fall of satin slithering to the floor. The baron’s confident laughter. A rhythmic escalation of breath. The distinctive sound of flesh on flesh. For hearing the slightest hint of excitement in the queen’s voice filled Aivlynn with inexplicable despair.
In seconds, the sorceress knew Finnid was not the mate for Ilyaviere. For the next hour, then, she could simply play her songs without summoning supernatural forces. And as Aivlynn fingered the silver keys, she focused her total attention on the antique tapestry, counting the minuscule stitches on its reverse, comparing its fading colors to nature, wondering why she felt so disconsolate. At last her dismal obligation ended. In the morning, she would break bread with the queen, hoping her report found favor, not knowing what would transpire if they were at odds with one another.
“What say you of Finnid?” Ilyaviere inquired, smoothing a napkin over her lap.
The sorceress studied those dancing eyes, then looked deeper, seeking insight from her sovereign’s psyche. Reassured to sense they were in accord, she answered, “The man is a hopeless egotist.”
“Born and bred.” Ilyaviere laughed. “At table, the baron spoke only of his own appetites. And in bed—”
“It was no different?”
“It is as you surmise, my friend. Once he was sated himself, he assumed he’d pleasured me.”
Despite the queen’s frustration, something inside Aivlynn leaped with joy. “Yet,” she remarked, “it appears that you parted with the gentleman on good terms.”
Ilyaviere nodded. “While dancing, we agreed to a most beneficial exchange. For the privilege of grazing Mervaglian livestock on underutilized fields within my domain, Finnid will supply our court with fine wines.”
After council that day, the queen would raise the same question to her prime minister: “What think you of Baron Finnid, my lord?”
Shaking his head definitively, Nestrington made a show of contrition. “A grave disappointment, Majesty—he was not as I’d supposed. You have my sincerest apologies. Perhaps our next guest will be more suitable.”
A fortnight later, Count Jovange of Withriland shared Ilyaviere’s bed with equally unsatisfactory results romantic. Over a sumptuous breakfast the next day, the queen leaned toward Aivlynn, mischief in her smile. “Let me guess what the flute revealed, dear witch… Count Jovange is nothing but an ass—dismissive of my lineage, too pompous to acknowledge any other’s intrinsic worth.”
“You mimic my instrument excellently well, oh Queen.”
“Nevertheless,” Ilyaviere confided, “Jovange and I came to agreement on a matter of great significance. Withriland is fortunate to have numerous magicians well-versed at transmutation, while Solisterre’s wizards are most proficient in matters of healing and augmentation. We have pledged to share knowledge that both countries may profit. We shall build an academy for that purpose. ”
“An international school of magic?” Aivlynn asked, her voice rising with excitement, hoping she might one day lecture there.
“Just so. Situated right here in Denethra.”
Next Ilyaviere welcomed Duke Xenobold of Renfortig to her realm. But after a night in his arms, she wailed, “What a despi cable toady! He’s far too fawning, too reverent of my position. I could never bear him in my presence—his submissiveness would drive me wild!”
Aivlynn grinned, while steeling herself, for there was more. Something that must be said, even if it discomfited her ruler. “Xenobold’s subservience would also bring out the worst in Your Highness—and might prove lethal to his health at a time when political intrigue runs rampant.”
Ilyaviere ceased spreading yanil jam to look sharply at her witch. Aivlynn met that haughty inspection without flinching. Finally the queen laughed. “How refreshing to hear the truth for once. I must send something really splendid to Taliander, in thanks for anointing you!”
After breaking her fast, the queen chanced to cross paths with Nestrington in the gardens. “How did you regard Duke Xenobold, my lord?”
The prime minister waved a flippant hand. “His reputation is greatly overstated. No doubt we can make a better match for Your Majesty.”
To all appearances the sixth applicant, their neighbor to the West, was an ideal partner for Ilyaviere. For the first time, the prime minister appeared to feel that a suitor satisfied his every expectation. Prince Zanderson was heir to Underliste, a mountainous land rich in essential ores. He was somewhat older than Solisterre’s queen, but not too old. Tall and muscular, with sunbrowned skin, Zanderson had the requisite chiseled features, square jaw and cleft chin. His thick hair had gone appealingly silver long before its time, and his manners in court, at table, were impeccable. But for all his royal blood, for all his polish and sophistication, the prince made Aivlynn’s skin crawl.
As she seated herself behind the tapestry on that fateful night, the witch wondered why this task grew harder each time. By now, she thought, I should be inured to my duty. For Ilyaviere must marry, and she is wise to seek my guidance, prudent to insist on testing each suitor. Still, Aivlynn squirmed on her small stool, fighting foreign demons. The prime directive of Wicca was clear and unyielding: harm none. So why had she found within herself an urge to injure those men who so freely fondled the queen?
She struggled mightily to ignore the hallmarks of Zanderson’s courtship. The masculine rumble of that princely baritone. The sound of bedclothes flung back. Muffled groans from Ilyaviere, giving way to a most exu
berant form of amorous exercise. Chairs were tumbling, it seemed. Curtains rending. Precious objects crashing from mantel to floor. Shoving bewilderment aside, Aivlynn lifted her magical instrument.
The flute rendered its verdict just as the first blow landed, right before Ilyaviere shrieked in pain and outrage: Zanderson was a brute who believed that to rule was to force, to punish. He mistook women—even queens—for playthings to bend to his will. Dashing into the bedchamber, the witch tripped over splintered furniture, skidded on broken fine goods littering the marble tiles.
While Aivlynn had sat slumped in selfish gloom, her queen had fought a bitter battle. Naked now, Ilyaviere was bent over the victor’s lap, both wrists restrained by an outsized hand, red welts rising on her royal rear, a whip descending. Aivlynn’s response was instinctual—unchecked Estrellian magic surged through the room. Time ceased. Motion stopped. Silence fell. Caught in the grip of unearthly cold, Prince Zanderson was helpless and terror-stricken.
Releasing Ilyaviere, Aivlynn covered the queen’s nakedness, led her to a chair, and lowered her onto a swansdown cushion. Then, indigo eyes glittering with glacial intensity, the witch turned to the spellbound suitor, contemplating a myriad of possibilities. Discarding, considering again.
Suddenly, the proud prince was shrinking. Squealing. Bristling with gray fur and spiky whiskers. A fat and greedy rat then, waving a wormlike tail, balancing a miniature golden crown on his wicked head, sniffing the air frantically. Leaping off that ornate chair, the creature darted from corner to corner, seeking escape. “Run, rat, run!” Aivlynn cried. “No harm will befall you between here and the outskirts of your kingdom— and there shall you revert to human form. But beyond the confines of your lands, you will forever be seen for the vermin you are!”
Wincing, Ilyaviere shifted position, bent to pluck the tiny coronet from the rat’s head. A souvenir, she thought, small enough to slip on her smallest finger. A reminder of lessons learned about the risks of courtship and betrothal for women of every station. But the witch deflected her. “To stay their hands at the approach of this nasty rat, Zanderson’s border guards must see the ancestral crown.”
The queen sank back on that cushion, yelping at the damage done to her exalted person. “Did you speak the truth, Aivlynn? Will he never again be free to leave Underliste?”
“Never,” the witch confirmed. “Also,” she added, a luscious smile playing at the corners of her mouth, “I have blessed yon suitor, as well as cursing him.”
“How so?”
“I have conferred exceptionally long life upon Zanderson—”
Ilyaviere’s elegant eyebrows shot skyward when she deduced the political implications of that endowment. “Solisterre will be safe from Western assault for decades to come!”
“Most certainly the prince cannot lead troops against you.”
The queen’s face fell. “But suppose in his rage and humiliation, Zanderson sends his wizards and generals to attack us? Why should he not direct his battalions from afar?”
“Other than that he would appear a base coward? Perchance, Majesty, you might forestall military action through diplomatic interventions of the type you craft so well.”
“Ah!” Ilyaviere crowed. “We shall paint a pretty face on the matter. Possibly offer Underliste deeply advantageous trade agreements? Conceivably enter into joint defensive treaties?”
“Excellent ideas. And…”
“Yes?”
“It may be well to float a tale or two about Your Highness. That you were not so beautiful as the gentleman expected? Not as…accomplished…in bed? Mayhap a rumor that you are— forgive me—likely infertile?”
Ilyaviere clapped her hands. “Brilliant, Aivlynn! That should also discourage interest from other dreary suitors. Perhaps I shall have peace after all!”
The witch rested her hand upon the latch to the chamber door. “Have you listened well, Prince Rat? Then be gone!” And she shooed Zanderson into the hallway, closing the heavy portal behind him, laughing softly.
“What amuses you, dear witch? Beyond reducing that beast to his primal form?”
Aivlynn turned to the monarch, bowing slightly. “I have placed other significant constraints upon that knave, which shall be revealed to him in due time.”
“Tell me,” Ilyaviere coaxed, her face alight with curiosity.
“No longer can he lift a hand in anger—or erect a certain other appendage, whether in fair mood or foul. For the rest of his many days, no maid needs fear for her safety in Prince Zanderson’s presence.”
But despite Ilyaviere’s radiant smile, Aivlynn sensed the queen’s unabated pain—a flight of frenzied doves beating within her. “Your Highness,” she stuttered, “I…I…should like to perform a healing, but…”
“To do so, you must lay hands upon my wounds.”
“Truth,” the sorceress acknowledged, near to fainting, awaiting instruction.
When Ilyaviere dropped that robe, the witch was struck speechless by her queen’s rare beauty. Peach-velvet skin, subtle lines, with curves and planes as beautiful as anything nature ever devised. Flawless—except for the brutal marks left by a dark prince. Aivlynn marveled at the intense flood of desire washing through her, racing downstream toward treacherous falls, sweeping away all denial. How was it that she’d known everyone’s heart but her own? At last, she summoned restraint, swallowed hard, and said, “Pray recline on your stomach.”
Yet as Ilyaviere lay before her, that glorious mane tumbling about smooth shoulders, that sweet, tormented derriere on full display, the sorceress felt control flee. “Majesty,” she murmured, astounded by her own effrontery, “I fear if I touch you, I will be unable to stop.”
Brushing tawny hair from her eyes, Ilyaviere spoke in a deep, smoky voice. “I believe you may master more than one form of medicine before this night is through, darling witch. I command you: work your magic upon me.”
At first there was only the sibilance of whispered spells— or, perhaps, endearments. Followed by the blessed relief of cool hands on stinging flesh, stroking, soothing, restorative. Next sizzling kisses at the nape of the queen’s neck, warm breath at one sculpted ear. A delicate dance of fingers began then, trailing down regal thighs, and up again, dipping into beckoning mystery. Ilyaviere moaned, turned, reached for Aivlynn. Who paused scarcely a moment before leaning forward to kiss each lush and yearning breast, who brushed a thumb through silky curls at the junction of ardor and ecstasy. Whose hands, lips, tongue seemed to know exactly what was required of them.
While arching and writhing, Ilyaviere still managed to gasp, “You, my love! I must behold you! Now!”
At that, the witch worked a divestment spell. Instantly nude herself, Aivlynn basked in the queen’s adoration. “Lie with me—atop me!” Ilyaviere demanded.
“Your Majesty’s obedient servant,” the sorceress breathed. She lowered her body onto the bed. Slipped one knee between slender thighs. Tweaked a royal nipple. Quivered as Ilyaviere rose against her over and over, crying, “What sorcery is this, witch? What spell have you cast?”
“None, Highnness, I swear. Only sincerity. Only love.”
Then Aivlynn felt the touch of a trueborn queen, sure and dominant. As ever, when fire strikes ice, melting ensued—and stopped not throughout that infinite night. In each other’s embrace, the lovers discovered the full spectrum of joy, from lightest caress to holiest of sensations.
At dawn, her thirst finally slaked, Ilyaviere lay in Aivlynn’s arms. Blissfully cool, she realized she’d long been seeking a moon to light her darkest corners. Here, she thought drowsily, is one who sees me truly yet loves me deeply. She’ll strengthen me where I’m weak, accept such gifts and faults as are mine. This witch will venerate nothing but my spirit—in bed and out.
And though Aivlynn had resided amongst women all her days, never had she guessed they held the key to her happiness. Still aflame with feverish passion—warm at last—she saw she’d always longed for a sun to orbit. But this sun was ni
gh to dying out. “Flare again, bright star,” she urged, nuzzling a soft breast, sparking a heavenly inferno within her queen, intensifying the fire at her own core. Together then they burned through every foolish inhibition, turned every dull convention to ephemeral ash.
Resting alongside Ilyaviere as the sky lightened, the sorceress thought simply, This is why I was sent to Castle Paschendrale. Here lies my destiny.
***
In council that noon, the prime minister folded his hands on the torchwood table. Noting no vestige of heat, he said suavely, “I missed Prince Zanderson in court this morning, Your Majesty. Will he dine with us this eve?”
Ilyaviere’s smile was one he’d never seen before. In a voice like sun-warmed honey, she replied, “Last night in my bedchamber, Nestrington, our guest had a truly transformative experience.” Across the table, men’s eyes met, their randy speculations generating a hint of warming embers in the wood. “Unfortunately,” Ilyaviere continued, “urgent business has called Zanderson home. Permanently.”
Lord Nestrington was uncharacteristically befuddled. “Permanently? But…but…he seemed so fine a match for Your Highness!” And I had an understanding with that scoundrel! The prime minister’s mind raced, his hands shook. Hath anyone else knowledge of our private negotiations? Will Zanderson expose me as a traitor?
The queen smiled that secret smile again. “He most assuredly will not return.” Then she glanced at the thick sheet of parchment lying before Nestrington. “What weighs most heavily upon us this day?”
Clearing his throat, the prime minister made a visible effort to relax his furrowed brow. “The treasurer proposes recoinage—”