by Ellyn, Court
“Fitting,” said Saj’nal, but edged away, surely fearful the White Falcon expected the same from him.
Goryth rounded on the king and gruffly whispered, “Sire, do this thing, but do not ask me to do it myself.”
Shadryk’s face was impassive, his whisper like a knife’s edge: “I did not ask. My subjects and your troops will see that I do not spare even my favorites when they disappoint, but I’m also sparing you their ridicule. They will see you do this thing, and they will worship you for it.”
Goryth didn’t want worship; he wanted to keep all his fingers!
The royal physician climbed the steps with his bag of instruments; his orderlies brought hot irons for cauterizing. The executioner approached, and bowing, extended the axe. Goryth growled, unbuttoned his left glove and tossed it to the crowd. No sense ruining a perfectly good glove. The people leapt and scrambled for it. Grabbing the axe’s oaken haft, Goryth shoved the executioner away. “If I find it dull,” he declared, “I’ll take your head with it once I’m done.” He tested the edge with his thumb. Keen enough to slice through his calloused skin. Good.
So easily could he give it a mighty swing and sever Shadryk’s lovely head before anyone could stop him. But it was a half-formed and desperate plan. Goryth didn’t give a shit about Westervael or a golden crown, but about this king? Yes. He believed in the man who had the audacity to risk everything for a dream. The Brother Realms would be reunited, and anything that got in the way had to be cut away and cast aside.
Goryth extended his left hand and gripped the rough stone rail. It was warm from the sun though the wind blew chill. Raising the axe, he called across the square, “This I do in obedience to the Great Falcon, in accordance with his justice … and mercy.” He grit his teeth and brought down the axe with all his strength. Blood sprayed the upturned faced of the soldiers below the platform. Saj’nal doubled over and vomited all over his pretty beaded shoes.
~~~~
60
Kelyn’s feet were killing him. When no one was looking, he shifted his weight onto one foot, then the other, to allow them to taste blood again. The Falcon flanking the other side of the silver doors snickered. Loudmouth Lestyr of Whitebarrow had been a member of the king’s guard for nearly three years; he was competent enough with a blade to catch the Rhorek’s attention, but he was a cocky son of a bitch who made it a point to butt heads with Kelyn every chance he got.
Kelyn was too fed up and exhausted to ignore him. “Sure, go ahead,” he insisted, despite the order to maintain strict silence. “You’ve only been here an hour.” Kelyn had been playing door warden since breakfast. It was now afternoon, and he had yet to be relieved for lunch. Surely Captain Jareg’s conscience suffered no qualms in leaving a man to starve.
Lestyr chuckled. “No complaining, deserter.”
Kelyn scowled his direction, but before he could defend himself, one of the silver doors swung open and Captain Jareg hurried past. Over his shoulder he called, “Kelyn, His Majesty requests the dubious honor of your presence.”
Rhorek’s private study and refuge, an intimate room off the formal grandeur of the Audience Chamber, provided welcome relief to Kelyn now as well. Entering, he bowed, sighing at the delicious luxury of stretching his spine. The king beckoned him to a window that opened over the gardens. A crisp breeze carried the laughter and squeals of children. Snows that buried the garden paths had been trampled or piled into fat figures of soldiers and the walls of miniature forts. Dashing among the bare rose bushes, the king’s children shaped snowballs and launched them at each other. In some cases, the play was good-natured; in some cases, not. Their age ranged from two to sixteen, but even the youngest were not spared the onslaught. A round-faced toddler caught a snowball upside the head, lurched into a drift and sat there wailing. A nurse hurried to him and snatched him away.
“Quite the bounty, eh?” Rhorek asked. “Eleven of them—twelve with Eliad—and not one of them legitimate. Not a one permitted to inherit my crown. My eldest girl there—” he pointed at a comely figure in teal wool and fur-lined hood. She watched the others from a safe distance and squealed when a snowball hurtled her direction. “Intelligent girl. Not too sociable though. But it’s the distant ones who observe best. She might’ve made a tolerable queen. Shame. I suppose it’s about time for me to begin looking for a suitable match for her. Irony is, her father isn’t even married yet.”
Ah, now Kelyn understood. At first, he worried that Rhorek was proposing to hand his daughter over to him. But even a king’s bastard was too lowly a match for one of Kelyn’s station. Rhorek turned from the window and asked, “This is the first session of your ‘punishment’ as my confidante. You may speak freely.”
Kelyn shrugged and hazarded, “Change the law.”
Rhorek sat heavily on the window ledge. “I don’t think I’ll need to.”
Suppressing excitement, Kelyn asked, “You have something else in mind?”
The king hesitated. “It would be fitting, especially now that Leania has joined our cause. Do you think such a marriage would appear too political, now of all times?”
Kelyn grinned. “You speak of Lady Rhyverdane.”
“What do you think?”
Kelyn recalled sitting at the high table during Assembly, when his brother asked him the same question concerning another lady. Rhorek read his sad expression and started to voice his alarm, but Kelyn smiled just in time. “I can only tell you what I know my father has told you: it’s long past time Aralorr had a queen.”
Rhorek flapped a hand. “Yes, yes, that was Keth’s favorite argument. But of Briéllyn. Is she suitable?” Did the heart in love never mature? Did it remain always giddy and timid and bold, certain and uncertain?
“I think she is … beautiful,” Kelyn began, cautious, measuring the king’s expression. Rhorek smiled and nodded, bidding him go on. “… sharp-witted, sharp-tongued, confident yet reserved, bold yet respectful—when not countered—and generous, sire. She went beyond duty or expectation when she stayed to help with our wounded. In short, I think she would be a valuable asset to you … by making many of your decisions for you, and giving you a second fresh opinion—or perhaps my opinion would become second. And she would certainly keep the king in line.”
Rhorek laughed. “I think you’re right. But will she accept?”
“You would need an avedra to advise you in that.” Was Kelyn’s regret as plain to Rhorek as it sounded to his own ears? “I can hardly read Briéllyn’s mind, so you’ll just have to ask her.”
Rhorek sighed and swore softly.
Kelyn gazed down into the garden. Two older women stood outside the arena of snow, chatting inside their furs and watching the children batter each other. Two of the notorious mistresses who’d tried to win more than just the king’s bed. Two in a long line. Had someone else loved them and dreamed of them before the king’s eye fell on them?
To his own surprise, Kelyn said, “If you don’t love Briéllyn any more than the rest, leave her for someone who will. But if your love for her is greater than political concerns, don’t let anyone bar her from you.”
~~~~
For the next two days, Rhorek avoided the issue. He tried not to think about Briéllyn or his obligation to his people and how he’d failed them all these years. He met with Lords Wyramor and Tírandon gladly. Allaran had received word of a brutal attack on Graynor’s harbor, and Lander reported that Tírandon’s reconstruction had begun.
“Apparently Leshan has grand plans,” said Lander. “He won’t confide them to me though.”
“His letter says he is sending all the way to Zeldanor for more stone,” Rhorek observed, shading his eyes from the sun’s glare while looking over the parchment. The gardens were quiet; the children were at their studies, the snow had turned to slush, and so the lords had the grounds almost to themselves.
“Yes, he’ll keep the dwarven stonecutters busy.”
“We do have Lunélion to rebuild as well …” Rhorek’s co
ncerns regarding funds and taxes to pay for Leshan’s big plans withered on his tongue, for over the low wall dividing the roses from the kitchen garden bobbed Briéllyn’s auburn head, blazing brilliantly in the sunlight. Since returning to Bramoran, Rhorek had invited her to dine with him once or twice a week, but wishing to spare her reputation, they had never dined alone. Their company might include Captain Jareg or Lander or Princess Mazél when she rode up from Lunélion. Her countrymen, Lord Allaran, was a favorite of hers; they were both sharp-tongued when their opinions were roused, and they could banter for hours. Rhorek preferred to watch the gestures of her slim, calloused hands and listen to the cadence of her laughter.
He shoved Leshan’s letter into Lander’s hand and said, “I’ll be along shortly. We may have another guest for dinner.”
Lander and Allaran bowed their departure, and Rhorek meandered through the paths toward the low wall. Briéllyn hunched over a bush of winter-grayed herbs in her fine velvet skirt. Her fingers deftly sorted through the twigs and crunchy leaves, tossing some away, placing others in a basket. Rhorek leant on the wall, and watched her a long while, his heart thumping in his throat. He smiled when she scratched her cheek and left traces of earth behind. Her search brought her eyes around and she saw his shadow on the ground. She lifted her gaze, shielding her eyes with a dirt-caked hand, then jumped to her feet and overturned her basket. Blushing, she laughed and pushed a stray strand of red hair behind her ear. “I was expecting anyone but you, Your Majesty.”
“I was hoping you would join us for dinner. We need a female to add some wisdom to the conversation.”
Briéllyn chuckled dryly. “If His Majesty requires.”
“If Lady Rhyverdane prefers.”
She glanced at her hands, dusted them off. “I’m hardly presentable.”
“You’re lovely.”
She was not blind to his admiration and acknowledged his compliment with a curtsy. “I must deliver these herbs to the infirmary, sire. Most of the wounded have recovered, you may be glad to hear, and I’ll be able to go home soon. I can’t imagine the state my lands are in after those shavers tromped across them.”
She bent to restack the herbs in her basket, and Rhorek idly rapped the wall with his knuckles, pondering the dreadful idea of her leaving him. You’ll just have to ask her, Kelyn had said. But perhaps Briéllyn had no desire to stay. Likely she felt that her lands and people had no one else to care for them. His disappointment caused him to sound irritated: “Where is the assistant I gave you? Isn’t she supposed to gather medicines for you?”
Briéllyn gave an indignant snort. “She brought me pauper’s thistle instead of ragtail, and if I hadn’t noticed, I might’ve killed one of my patients.”
“Surely we have no plants here as dangerous as that.”
Briéllyn set her basket on the low wall and took out a withering stem topped with tiny round seed heads. “This is ragtail, sire, as I’m sure you’re aware. It’s good for two things: suppressing coughs and flavoring pickled cabbage. The pauper’s thistle, over there in that corner,” she pointed at a bristly weed whose seeds looked similar, “is used in small quantities to spice soup or sauce. In large quantities, it’s a diuretic. Now, in the sick ward is a young soldier who has a very dangerous case of pneumonia. His fever occasionally returns, and he can’t get rid of his cough. If I give a diuretic to a feverish patient, I dehydrate him further and worsen his condition, perhaps even killing him. And so, sire, I meant exactly what I said.”
Rhorek watched her lips move with her recital, and the way the syllables tumbled from her voice filled his head like wine. As soon as she paused, he said, “Marry me.”
“What?”
“I hadn’t meant to ask you in a kitchen garden, but …” He shrugged and felt the uncertainty of youth returning to plague him. A strange, unwelcome feeling. He tried to hide it behind a direct, objective mask.
“You’re serious,” she said, then planted a fist on her hip. “Or is that what you said to convince all the others to … well … ?”
“On my life, no,” he declared. “I have never spoken those words to a living soul, though many wished to hear them. Everything is changed now. Life has caught up with me, and I’m paying for the indiscretions of my youth with endless worries.”
“Youth? Some of those “worries” are very young. I’ve seen them playing in the gardens. And Eliad? He’s not a child of your youth.”
“I don’t expect to slip anything past you, lady. Believe me, if I thought as highly of a single one of them, I would ask them instead.”
“That’s hardly a good recommendation, Your Majesty. You’ve kept all those women on a string, but you don’t think highly of them—”
“As highly, I said.” Briéllyn opened her mouth to argue, but he shut her up by hurrying ahead. “If you were to accept, you would take away the worries of a king and his people.”
“By providing an heir,” she said, sounding disappointed. “I’ll be honest with you, sire. I’d given up on the possibility of children long ago. I’m almost thirty. The responsibility of providing for the future of a kingdom seems one more suited to younger shoulders.”
What woman wanted to be faced with the duties of marriage before the proposal was even concluded? He was losing her to it. He reached across the wall and squeezed her shoulders. She was such a slight thing, but sturdy. She didn’t flinch or try to pull away. When she met his eye, he confessed, “Lady, I am enamored with you. I cannot express how deeply it pains me to think of you leaving, that I must do without you. Do not force this man to be king for another day alone.”
The hard lines of her mouth softened. “Do I have an hour to consider, or must you have an answer this minute?”
“An hour, a day, take as long as you need. Only, not too long. I’ll be an age older tomorrow.”
Looking dazed, she dragged her basket slowly from the wall, curtsied, and started away up the row of fennel. She made it halfway through the leeks before she turned back. “Very well, I accept. But I’ll need a couple of weeks to return home and set my lands in order. If … that is acceptable?”
Relief flooded through Rhorek like cold and hot together. He lifted her earth-smeared hand and kissed it. “I was terrified you would refuse me.”
She raised her chin. “I’m not that great a fool, Your Majesty.”
~~~~
Runners were sent to every holdfast and village in the northwest with letters announcing that, at last, Aralorr would have a queen who would see that Tallon’s blood remained on the throne. Highborns and their representatives flocked to Bramoran to witness the wedding and the coronation.
Alovi journeyed from Ilswythe, pleased that Keth’s wishes for his friend and country were finally fulfilled, but more happy by far for the excuse to visit her son.
Princess Rilyth arrived with the appropriate fanfare to wag her finger at her brother and tell him it was about time he saw to his duty. She also brought the duchess’s regrets. Rhoslyn, it seemed, was too ill to attend, though Rilyth was unable to explain the nature of her illness.
Allaran’s family rode all the way from Wyramor, and like Alovi, came to see their father as much to enjoy the spectacle. Even Ha’el, crown prince of Leania, made an appearance. A slimmer, darker version of his father, he wore full royal regalia when he gave away the bride. “Appropriate,” Ha’el declared, arriving with Briéllyn at the dais. “In a time when alliance between our realms proves a necessity, you choose your queen from among Leania’s lovely and accomplished ladies.”
Descending from the throne, Rhorek said, “Indeed, it is, Your Highness. But first, I chose her for love.”
And so, on the turning of the year, when the night is cold and long, a night made for lovers, King Rhorek wed Lady Briéllyn of Rhyverdane. After Captain Jareg gave the rites, the king lifted the Falcon Crown from his head and touched it to his wife’s brow, declaring her queen of Aralorr and Evaronna.
Despite the war and the depleted granaries, the peop
le celebrated. Out in the Green, among the bright pavilions of armies, and in the streets among the burned husks of Bramoran Town, bonfires lit the dances of a hopeful people. Cellars were emptied and a thousand toasts raised to the Black Falcon, his queen, and the future peace of the land.
~~~~
Near dawn, Kelyn stumbled to his room off the Falcons’ common hall. Rather than drunk, he was exhausted and far too sober. Every member of the Guard had been needed to monitor the exuberant crowds, inside the castle and outside it. Shortly after midnight, Rhorek had escorted his queen to their suite, where half a dozen Falcons guarded the doors. More were stationed below the windows to deter any jealous mistress who might wish to disrupt the honeymoon, as well as guard against mischief of more menacing kinds. Once, after the banquet, Kelyn thought he saw a small blade glittering in a servant’s palm. After the incident with the assassin at Assembly, he thought it wise to be cautious. But after scaring the young man half to death, the blade turned out to be a silver comb that had fallen from a lady’s hair. He was charged with bringing it to her. “Which lady?” Kelyn asked.
“Lady Ni’avh,” the servant said.
“I have a cousin Ni’avh.”
“Of Wyramor, yessir.”
Kelyn saw the item delivered into his shy cousin’s hand before continuing his tour of the corridors.
Far more disturbing were whispers of rumors he’d heard among the dancing highborns. “My hairdresser told me herself, this very day,” said Lady Zeldanor. Short and thick-limbed, she’d had to stand on tiptoe to whisper into the ear of Lord Lanwyk’s skinny granddaughter. Her whisper was not a delicate one and half-told in laughter. “Not ill, but, you know …”
Lanwyk’s granddaughter gasped. “I thought they weren’t to be married till next spring.”
“Not to be married at all now, so I’ve heard.”
Kelyn had drifted past, watching hands and reading lips, and once his back was turned, Lady Zeldanor added, “Shh. That one there’s his brother.”