Tales of the Crown

by Melissa McShane

  Half an hour’s walking brought her to a clearing gilded with firelight. The old house was as dilapidated as ever, with snow clogging its roof and chimney and turning its steps into irregular humps. But the fire was in the open, a small fire in a cleared area, with an Eskandelic tent erected nearby. A dark figure crouched over the fire, but stood when Willow approached. “Did you have trouble getting away?” Gianesh said.

  “A little. They’re all busy with the Wintersmeet Ball. How is he?”

  “Sleeping. He is still tired from his ordeal. Shall I wake him?”

  “Not yet. Gianesh, things have changed.”

  “I see Kerish is not with you.” There was a question in his voice. Willow didn’t want to talk about Kerish at all. She just shook her head.

  “That’s part of it. Gianesh…I have to ask you the biggest favor anyone’s ever asked of anyone.”

  Gianesh raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Willow’s words deserted her. She moved to the fire and warmed her hands. “I can’t take Felix south.”

  “And you want me to. That is not such an imposition.”

  “That’s not it. The reason I can’t take Felix is…I’m going to be Queen of Tremontane.”

  Stark astonishment crossed Gianesh’s features. “You?”

  “It was a compromise. The only way we could avoid civil war. But it means…”

  The tent flap stirred. “Willow!” Felix shrieked, and flung himself at her legs. Willow staggered, then crouched to put her arms around the boy. “Willow, I feel so much better,” Felix said. “Gianesh told me we’re going back to Eskandel. That you will be my mama for real!”

  Willow clutched him tight. Her eyes burned with hot tears. “I know what Gianesh told you,” she said. Then, “Sweet heaven, Felix, you’re barefoot! Back into the tent, back into bed before you freeze.”

  “Come with me,” Felix said, tugging on her hand. She followed him and helped him into the camp bed laden with blankets and a fur cape and a sleeping Ernest. Felix kept tight hold of her hand. “Where’s Kerish?”

  “Kerish…Felix, something’s happened, and I need you to be brave.”

  His eyes and mouth went round with fear. “Is Kerish dead?”

  “No. He’s fine. It’s just…Gianesh told you you didn’t have to be King, yes?”

  Felix smiled. “I know!”

  “Well, someone still has to rule Tremontane. And I was going to choose someone. But the Counts and Barons…they want it to be me. They want me to be Queen of Tremontane.”

  “You can’t be Queen!”

  “I can if they all agree to it.” She refused to think of Quinn and his horrible knowing smile. “And if I don’t, there will be war.”

  “But…if you’re Queen, you can still be my mama.”

  “No, Felix. They think you’re dead. If they knew you were alive, you’d have to be King. And I don’t want that for you. I want you to be free to grow up without that burden.”

  “But…” Tears filled Felix’s eyes. “But who will take care of me?”

  Willow stuck her head out the tent door. “Gianesh, would you come here, please?”

  With Gianesh in the tent, it was crowded and a bit warmer. “Gianesh, I need you to take care—” Willow stopped, swallowed, and went on, “I need you to take care of my boy. Will you do that for me? I told you it was—”

  “I will care for him as if he were my own,” Gianesh said, putting his hand on Willow’s shoulder.

  “But…” Felix began sobbing. “But—mama!”

  Willow gathered him into her arms and held him while he cried, unable to stop her own tears. “Felix,” she murmured, “I will always be your mama, however far away you go. I will think of you every day. And someday I will see you again. I don’t know how, but I promise you I will see you again.”

  She rocked him gently until his sobs turned into shuddering breaths, aware that Gianesh had stepped outside to give them some privacy. Ernest whimpered and put his paws on her arm, so she patted him, then picked him up and gave him to Felix. “You’ll have to be very brave,” she said. “Ernest needs you to look after him. And Gianesh will teach you about animals—”

  “But I want—”

  “So do I. But we both have a duty. And this is the only way you get to have a normal life. Do you remember I once told you that parents want things for their children that sometimes the children don’t like? Well, this is different. You’re never going to be happy as King, and I want happiness for you. Unless you want me to go back and tell all those people we only pretended you were dead as a test for them?”

  Felix recoiled. “I don’t want to be King. Why can’t Lord Quinn be King? Or Lady Heath?”

  “Lady Heath doesn’t want it either. And Lord Quinn would be a terrible choice. That’s why they chose me—so Lord Quinn can’t be King.” Again Kerish’s face flashed before her eyes, and she closed them against the memory.

  “You shouldn’t have to do things you don’t want to.” Felix wiped his eyes and his streaming nose. “It’s not fair.”

  “This isn’t about what’s fair, it’s about what’s right.” Willow hugged him again, careful of Ernest between them. “And…I have to go.”

  Felix clutched her. “Don’t go!”

  She would have given anything at that moment to stay where she was. “I can’t be gone for too long, because they pay attention to me now. I’ll tell you what—I’ll stay until you fall asleep, and when you wake up, it will be morning, and you and Gianesh can go back to Umberan.”

  Felix shook his head, buried in her shoulder.

  “Felix—”

  “I know. I just don’t like it.”

  “What would Hilarion say about doing things you don’t like?”

  “He says to drink the bitter spoonful now to prevent a stomachache later. But I don’t think that fits right now.”

  “Close enough.” Willow eased him back into the bed. “Do you want me to sing to you?”

  “I thought you didn’t know how to sing.”

  “That was me pretending to be bad so you wouldn’t think about being afraid. I know a song my mother used to sing to me.”

  “All right.” Felix petted Ernest’s silvery gray head as the dog settled in next to him.

  Willow wiped her eyes and cleared her throat.

  Now the day is over,

  The sun, it dips into the sea.

  It burns a path along the waves

  That brings you back to me.

  * * *

  The stars will be your blanket,

  The moon will paint the grasses blue,

  The night will be your guardian

  ‘Til I come home to you.

  * * *

  Then rest you on your pillow

  Within your cradle, slumber deep.

  I’ll watch o’er you ‘til morning comes

  As peacefully you sleep.

  She was crying again before the end of the song, but Felix was asleep, and only Ernest heard the last words. Willow bent and kissed the boy’s forehead, then carefully rose and went outside, where Gianesh again crouched by the fire. “Thank you,” she said.

  “I love him too,” Gianesh said, rising to face Willow. “And you have made the right decision.”

  “I fear I’m robbing him of his heritage. But then I remember…oh, a million little details that tell me he’s better off not wearing the Crown. It’s not as if I wanted any of this.”

  “Your country is lucky to have such a woman at its head.” Gianesh put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I honor you for your choice.”

  You wouldn’t say that if you knew what I have to tell Kerish. “Thank you,” she said again. “Will you…correspond with me? If you can find a safe way to do it?”

  “I think we are friends enough that no one will think it odd that I write to you with news of the zoological collection and my newest assistant.”

  “That eases my heart. Goodbye, Gianesh.”

  The Weight of the Crown

  I wrot
e this after Exile of the Crown, in which Zara refers to the first man she loved. It was my husband’s idea for me to write about that part of Zara’s life. It was never meant to be read because it was more or less a quick exercise, but I think it turned out well.

  Takes place in 897 Y.B.

  * * *

  Zara had lost track of time, here in the east wing drawing room that had no clocks because her mother disliked the ticking. It was after midnight, judging by how dark it was outside the windows, but beyond that she couldn’t guess. She felt caught in a timeless space, waiting for the news she’d been expecting for days. Her father had banished her and Anthony from his apartment, saying he didn’t want them to see his struggle, but Zara had seen the look in her mother’s eye and wished she dared disobey. It was probably his last request, and last requests should be honored, yes?

  Anthony dozed in one of the chairs the color of iced lemon, his mouth hanging slackly open so he looked five years younger and more innocent than he did when he was awake. She felt ashamed of how she’d expected him to find an excuse not to sit this vigil with her; he was so frivolous, so prone to stupidity, but when it came down to the final hours, he hadn’t complained or said anything selfish. True, he was asleep, but she envied that rather than resenting him for it.

  A door opened down the hallway. Anthony woke, sat up and wiped his mouth. “Is it—”

  “Hush,” Zara said.

  Dr. Trevellian came toward them, his steps slow. “It’s over,” he said to Zara, paused, and added, “Your Majesty.”

  It didn’t matter that she’d been expecting this, that it had always been at the end of this ordeal. It still felt like a blow to the chest, making her heart beat painfully hard like an animal fighting its cage. “There was no pain?” she said.

  “No. I’m afraid that’s all I could do for him.” Dr. Trevellian said. “Rowenna would like you to join her now.”

  Anthony immediately ran down the hall and through the open door. Zara had to remind herself to move, one leg at a time, allowing the doctor to precede her so she’d have something to focus on.

  Her parents’ apartment looked so much like the drawing room, all those couches over-stuffed and upholstered in pastel colors, the fire trying vainly to heat the room—or maybe the cold was coming from her, radiating from her lungs and out her mouth like icy wind. She thought about asking the doctor to feel her breath, but realized that was lunacy. And she no longer had permission to indulge lunatic thoughts.

  Her mother was kneeling beside Father’s deathbed, holding his hand. Her eyes were dry when she looked up at Anthony, who’d come to stand just behind her and couldn’t stop staring at the body of the King. Zara was certain he had no idea he was crying. She approached the bed and put her hand on Mother’s shoulder. “I should have been with you,” she said.

  Mother shook her head. “My dear, it wouldn’t have helped,” she said. “But he wanted you to know how he loved you. Both of you.”

  Zara nodded. She’d had her last conversation with Father two days before, just after Dr. Trevellian had said there was nothing more to be done. “I’m not ready,” she’d told him.

  “Neither was I,” Father had said. “I think on some level we never are. At least you have advance warning. My mother just died in her sleep one night.”

  “Don’t be flippant,” Zara had said, crushing his hand in hers.

  “I can only face this with a sense of humor, little robin,” he’d said. “I know how it is, grieving while the world expects you to be strong. I can’t imagine anyone better suited to it than you. Anthony—” He coughed, and Zara supported his head until he could breathe again. “Watch out for him,” he continued. “He still has a lot of growing to do.”

  “He’s seventeen, Father. An adult. He should be able to make his own decisions.”

  “Nevertheless. Now. I’ve left you my notes, and you’ve spent enough time in Council meetings in the last five years that I feel confident leaving it to you. Keep an eye on Lestrange, he’ll walk all over you if you let him.”

  “They’re none of them going to take me seriously. I still look like a child and I haven’t spoken out much.”

  “You will make them take you seriously, Zara. I have confidence in you. Remember in three months you’ll need to replace the chief of Transportation. I suggest you keep my secretary; he knows everything I’ve forgotten and training a replacement at this time—” He’d coughed again, and Zara had shushed him.

  “I know, Father. Don’t worry about me. Worry about Mother.”

  “She has a great burden to bear. Take care of her, will you?”

  Now, looking at her mother’s white, drawn face, she felt selfishly that the greater burden was hers. The kingdom. Her wastrel little brother. Her gentle mother. All those people depending on her, and only one man she could depend on without question. She’d see him tomorrow afternoon; there wouldn’t be time before that, but she wished more than anything she’d asked him to marry her a month ago, so she could take comfort in his arms tonight.

  So many details. Finding a room for Mother to sleep in. Arranging for watchers to sit with the body all night, until it could be removed to the casket in preparation for the viewing. Arranging to be roused early so she could handle all the other details. She fell asleep almost against her will, her mind fighting her body for control and her exhausted body winning the battle, and woke feeling rested, and guilty about feeling rested. Her father was dead; she should have had a sleepless, agonized night.

  All morning she had to remind herself that “your Majesty” meant her. She clung to her responsibilities like a tether connecting her to the world, welcoming the barrage of demands that gave her something to think about that wasn’t cold grief. She didn’t see Anthony or her mother, didn’t really want to; it was hard enough to maintain her composure without their presence as well. She wondered how she looked to the men and women around her, whether they judged her tearless, somber expression an appropriate expression of grief. Well, let them judge. She’d cry for her father later. Or never. Tears hurt, which was why she never cried. She’d never understood why people felt you couldn’t really grieve without tears. Her heart was cracked and frozen; wasn’t that enough?

  Finally, her awkward dinner with her silent family over, she left the east wing and took a familiar path through the palace halls until she came to the Long Gallery, hung with portraits of the Kings and Queens of Tremontane. Many of them hadn’t been painted from life, particularly Kraathen of Ehuren, who’d established the kingdom some nine hundred years earlier, and all of them reflected changing artistic styles over the centuries.

  She came to her father’s portrait and stood with her hand on the frame. It had been painted the year she was born, when her father was in his early thirties, and he’d been right; she’d rather remember him as the hearty, laughing man he’d been than as the wasted, hollow skeleton he’d become at the end.

  She looked at the empty space on the wall next to the portrait. How soon would they insist she sit for her own portrait? The idea felt macabre, as if she would be posing for her own memorial. And she looked young for twenty, young enough that people who didn’t know them (as if there were many of those) mistook her for Anthony’s younger sister. The whole thing was distasteful.

  “Contemplating your own mortality?” an amused voice said. Zara turned and threw herself at the speaker.

  “Jonathan,” she said, and finally the tears came.

  Jonathan held her close while she wept, saying nothing, just rubbing her back gently to comfort her. “It’s been a long day for you, hasn’t it, your Majesty?” he said.

  “Don’t call me that. Not you.”

  “I’m teasing, Zara. Are you all right? As all right as you can be, given the circumstances, I mean.”

  “I’ll survive. I suppose I have to.” Zara wiped her eyes and stepped out of his embrace. “Thank you for coming.”

  “I always do. Shall we walk?” He took her hand and drew her along bac
k past the rows of portraits.

  “I don’t have long. There’s a funeral to plan. Not much planning left, thank heaven, but there are still so many things only the Queen can decide.”

  “It’s so strange, you being the Queen. I’d never thought how odd it would feel.”

  “My father was ill for a long time. I’d think you’d have gotten used to the idea.”

  “Knowing it will happen isn’t the same as the reality, apparently.”

  They stopped by Kraathen’s portrait and Zara turned to face him. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about,” she said. “I’ve been putting it off because Father…anyway, this isn’t the best time, but I don’t want to wait any longer.”

  Jonathan put his other hand over their joined ones. “I know. Zara, we should have had this conversation a long time ago. I should have been the one to bring it up.”

  She smiled at him. “I think, legally, it’s my responsibility.”

  He didn’t smile back. “Zara—”

  “Jonathan, you know how I feel about you. Will you marry me? Be my Consort?”

  He was silent for a long, long moment. Zara’s smile faded. “Jonathan?”

  He shook his head. “Zara, you know I care about you, but the truth is—”

  “Is what?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry about what?”

  “Are you going to make me say it?”

  “Yes, because I don’t understand. If you love me….”

  He looked away from her, toward Kraathen’s grizzled face, and Zara’s frozen heart cracked a little more. “You don’t love me,” she said.

  “Zara, it’s not about love—”

  She snatched her hand away from his. “Explain,” she said in a cold, cutting voice that made her sound a stranger even to herself.

  “I do care about you. You’re the most amazing woman I’ve ever met. You’re strong and independent and you’re going to be a wonderful Queen. I just…want someone who needs me. Someone I can take care of. You aren’t that.”