Orphan: Book One: Chronicles of the Fall

by Lee Ramsay

  With a rattle of armor, the guards at the far end of the throne room straightened as the double doors between them opened. Silence descended on the gathered nobility as the Chamberlain of the Court entered the room and strode toward the dais. Clad in a doublet of Sheranath emerald and black, a cloth-of-gold sash pinned in place with a brooch bearing the royal crest beneath charcoal velvet robes of state, he was an imposing figure. His staff of office – a tall and slender piece of cherrywood capped in a faceted emerald – thumped the floor in time with his left foot. He looked to neither side nor acknowledged the clustered nobles at the foot of the steps leading to the throne.

  The chamberlain’s booted heels snapped together with an audible crack as he stopped six paces from the bottom of the dais. A long moment of silence hung in the air before he dropped to his right knee and bent his head to the empty seat. So, too, did the other Anahari men, while the women sank into a deep curtsy.

  After a moment of genuflection, the nobleman rose and faced the assembled peerage. His staff thumped the floor three times, signaling the homage to the dead grand duchess was complete. Once the rustle of cloth from the rising nobility quieted, he gave a curt nod and spoke in a soft voice that nonetheless carried throughout the throne room.

  “Her Grace the Grand Duchess of Anahar, Anasha Sheran, is dead. The last scion of her ancient line of House Sheranth, she died without issue; no female heirs of her blood – legitimate or bastard – exist within the records of this court. I, the Royal Chamberlain of Anahar, thus proclaim her line to be dead, dead, dead.” The staff thumped the parquet floor with an air of finality. “Does anyone wish to contest my declaration?”

  Silence hung in the throne room as the chamberlain waited the proscribed time for protest.

  “This is a sad time for House Sheran,” the man said at length. “Though the House continues with lesser bloodlines, none of those lines are eligible for the succession by ancient law. After consultation with the heads of the families, be it stated that none in House Sheran protest the orderly succession of the throne to its legitimate claimant – the Heiress Presumptive, Sathra of House Sheranath. May she come forth now to assume her rightful place.”

  Soft-soled boots and slippers whispered against the polished floor as the peers turned once more toward the throne room’s doors. Sathra waited just beyond; her unbound mahogany hair shone in the light of wall-mounted candelabras, flowing from a central part to spill across her shoulders. A blood-red velvet gown of simple cut adorned her body; worn off the shoulders, the neckline’s broad gold and black brocade trim preserved modesty as it crossed her bosom. She eschewed any jewelry – an oddity, compared to the pendant necklaces, earrings, and rings the other women wore.

  Unlike the other women in the chamber, she had elected not to wear a leather corset in favor of displaying her gravid belly. Ice blue eyes swept the assemblage as a few murmurs of shock rose. Despite Anahar’s matriarchal society, such a display was considered vulgar – particularly for an unwed woman; it was customary to hide one’s pregnancy beneath a concealing robe.

  Only when the shocked murmurs passed did Sathra proceed down the center of the hall. The hem of her gown whispered against the floor as she stopped six paces from the chamberlain; here, she pinched her skirting and sank into a curtsy to the throne.

  The chamberlain struck the floor with his staff when she rose and faced him. His face a dispassionate courtier’s mask, he favored the young noblewoman with a level stare. “Her Grace the Grand Duchess of Anahar, Anasha Sheran, is dead. Do you, Sathra of House Sheranath, claim the Rite of Ascension as Her Grace’s designated Heiress Presumptive – and with it the throne of Anahar?”

  “I do so claim.”

  “Do you acknowledge that, though you become head of state, your body is henceforth property of the state?”

  “I do so acknowledge.”

  “Do you accede that any child you bear is property of the state, with laws of primogeniture conferring your grace unto your firstborn daughter to the exclusion of all others, and that no son of your line shall inherit upon your death?”

  Sathra’s palm caressed the swell of her belly, darkening the velvet’s nap as she rubbed against the grain. “I so accede.”

  The chamberlain snapped his heels together and canted his head in a short bow. Two servants approached at a crook of his fingers – one with a plush emerald green pillow, which was placed on the floor before Sathra, and the other with a smaller velvet cushion on which the royal coronet lay. “Then kneel, Sathra of House Sheranath, for the Rite of Ascension.”

  Taking the hand he offered, Sathra sank to the cushion. The chamberlain bowed over the royal crown, then lifted the platinum circlet from its pillow and set it gently on the noblewoman’s head. The settings for the coronet’s square-cut emeralds were cold against her forehead, but the metal soon warmed.

  The chamberlain began the Rite of Ascension, speaking in Old Anahari; she did not understand most of the words, as they were spoken in a dialect brought from the lands of the Distant East. Understanding them, however, was less important than recognizing the truth behind the ceremony. The dynamics of magical energy flowing through the room altered with each phrase he spoke. Her responses – which the chamberlain had spent hours working with her on for precise enunciation – channeled the altered energies through the gemstones studding the crown. The stones’ crystalline hearts catalyzed and merged the magic with her flesh and with wards set into the throne.

  I’ll be damned. I always thought Ankara’s statement that she and the throne were one was nothing more than hyperbole, Sathra thought as she concentrated on reciting her portions of the Rite. I never imagined she had devised a way to link herself directly to the crown – or to the throne itself.

  The purpose behind such a joining, however, remained a mystery. Until she had time to study the Rite itself, as well as the underlying enchantments built into the recited phrases, their intent would remain obscure.

  To her surprise, the Rite was surprisingly brief; she had anticipated it to be longer, but she supposed that was due to her struggles to master the Old Anahari phrases. Accepting the chamberlain’s offered hand, Sathra rose from the cushion and smoothed her gown. He bowed to her, then half-turned and extended his hand toward the throne.

  Lips dry, she crossed the handful of steps separating her from the dais. She was aware of her parents’ eyes on her, but her attention remained fixed on the throne as it grew in size with each step she took. On the last riser before reaching the dais’s top, she paused; in all her years at Ankara’s side, she had never noticed how large the royal seat truly was.

  The new grand duchess flicked her tongue across her carmine-stained lips, though she could not be certain whether it was a response to intimidation or from anticipation. She climbed the last step and crossed the three paces to the cushioned seat. A slight smile crossed her lips as she turned toward the assembled peers, and she eased herself onto the throne with her hands on the elegantly shaped arms.

  “My ladies, my lords, I present to you Her Grace the Grand Duchess of Anahar, Sathra of House Sheranth,” the chamberlain called out, his voice reverberating from the throne room’s walls. His staff of office struck the floor. “Glory to Anahar!”

  Every nobleman dropped to his knee and bent his head, and every woman sank into a deep curtsy with her eyes averted. The armored guardsmen stationed around the chamber brought their right fists to their chest in salute. “Glory to Anahar!”

  “Pride and Primacy,” Sathra said, returning the royal motto’s closure as the echoes of the shout faded.

  THE CORONET RESTED on a plush pillow, the gem-studded platinum glittering in the light pouring through the private antechamber’s windows. Sathra rubbed the red pressure line crossing her brow and waved the servant carrying the pillow away.

  A few hours of discomfort are trivial to the position I now hold. Listening to oaths of loyalty from the Greater and Lesser Houses was entertaining, at least.

  The a
ntechamber door had just closed when her mother resumed their argument from before the coronation. “There is time yet to terminate the pregnancy,” Alyse said from where she sat beside the room’s fireplace, a crystal flute of clear white wine in her hand. “It is not unheard of for a woman to miscarry so early in their term, particularly when it is their first.”

  “The child is the property of the state, Mother.” Sathra sighed, struggling to keep irritation from her voice as she moved to a table near the windows. Water from a silver carafe burbled into a crystal flute taken from a silver tray, and she sipped the cool liquid as she drifted to a chair opposite the marchioness. Feet extended, she leaned against the padded back to ease the strain in her lower back. “It is beyond my control now. We do not wish my first act as Grand Duchess to be the murder of my heiress.”

  Alyse waved her hand dismissively. “Do you think Ankara would have allowed herself to be placed in such a compromising position?”

  “I am not Ankara,” Sathra said with poisonous smoothness, arching her eyebrow, “and neither are you, Mother. Do not mistake me – you are brilliant and patient, but as much as you resemble our kinswoman, you do not comprehend the depths to which Ankara went in ensuring her dominion over us all.”

  “Ankara’s plans are moot,” Alyse said, setting her glass on the spindly table beside her chair. “The other Houses could not move against us to prevent our assumption of the throne. Most were settling into their estates when the court summons came. It will not take them long to recover from the death of ‘Anasha’ and begin plotting against us. Already they whisper of assassination by your hand.”

  Sathra’s expression remained bland as she sipped from her glass. “So I have been told.”

  Alyse gave her daughter a patient, albeit annoyed, look. “Perhaps you would care to explain why you find this so trivial? Now is the time to secure our hold on the throne by building alliances. Your belly has proclaimed you fertile, but I ask you – what House would spare a son to wed and bed you when an heiress precedes them?”

  The marchioness’s expression darkened as her eyelids lowered. “Unless, of course, Ankara erred in her judgment and bred you to a weak House.”

  Sathra set her glass on a table twin to the one beside Alyse. “She did not err. I thought perhaps she might have, but the more I think on it, the less concerned I am with the father’s pedigree.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Why should I tell you?”

  “I am your mother. Through me, I bring the Sheranath Marches and their soldiers to your banner. Through my doing, House Sheranti and House Sherantar both stand with us.”

  “I am the Grand Duchess of Anahar,” Sathra said, her voice smooth. “You owe your fealty to me as such. I am also heiress to House Sheranath. Do not think to trade on your being my mother to elevate your plots and schemes above my own.”

  Alyse’s pale skin went bloodless beneath her daughter’s dispassionate gaze. Her shoulders straightened, her chin rising haughtily as the rubies laced around her neck sparkled. “Do you think to threaten me?”

  “You are gifted, Mother,” Sathra said, hands caressing the swell of her belly. “Your blood flows through my veins, and now through my child’s. But you sent me to Ankara to learn, and learn I did. Who do you suppose might win – you with your gifts, or me with mine and Ankara’s centuries of learning?”

  After a moment, Alyse bowed her head. “I seek to ensure the primacy of our House, Your Grace.”

  “As do I, Mother.” Sathra rose and moved to a panel built into the wall beside the fireplace. She located a section of trim and pulled, drawing it several inches from the wall before turning it to the right. A click sounded, and the whole of the panel swung away on silent, hidden hinges with a push. “Conte Sempron. I apologize for keeping you waiting.”

  “Think nothing of it, Your Grace,” a rich voice said from the candlelit gloom beyond the door. “You provided a comfortable place to wait, food and drink, and accommodating company. If I might have but a moment to dress?”

  “Certainly.”

  Alyse rose and slipped up beside her with a suspicious glance toward the open door. “Conte? You don’t mean to tell me that you’re considering an alliance with Merid?”

  “I am indeed, Mother. Why should I not?” Sathra asked as she returned to her seat. “For more than a year, Merid has asked for Anahar’s support. The Caledorn and Troppenheim both have bred like rabbits. The Meridan may have superior arms and armor, but they lack the population to field an army against their satellite states. If the Hegemony of Ravvos intercedes...”

  “May I remind you that Ankara had her reasons for not aligning with Seban Terador?”

  “They were quite valid reasons – for her,” Sathra said, sipping from her glass as she met Alyse’s eyes. “I am not bound by her limited vision of taking Anahari bloodlines back to what they were when our people left the Distant East, although I agree with her opinion that we should not sully ourselves with Western Celerus’s rabble.” She took another drink of her water. “Merid has the arms and armor we do not, whereas we Anahari—"

  “—have the fresh blood and magic Merid lacks,” Marcus said as he exited the secreted room. The Meridan nobleman’s hair lay loose on his shoulders, a vibrant gold to match the close-cropped mustache and beard framing his lips. The doublet’s skirting fell to the middle of his thighs, and the fabric displayed a violet knap when he ran his hand across it. He gave the two women a deep bow, and his green eyes lit with wry amusement as Alyse fell back. He moved to the table, took one of the crystal flutes, and filled it with wine from a chilled bottle.

  “His majesty the king, like your late grand duchess, for many years believed selective breeding could keep Merid strong,” Marcus continued, swirling the wine before sipping. “Unfortunately, neither he nor Ankara discovered the reason many of our people suffer from hemophilia, madness, or one of a host of problems. They were unable to find an acceptable means of eliminating the problem.”

  “Ankara suspected that the Houses of Anahar and Merid have become too inbred,” Sathra added as she met her mother’s eyes. “She believed new blood needed to be introduced, and was studying the lower castes to determine which families were healthiest. Her theory was that, because commoners mingle their bloodlines more broadly, instances of hereditary illness are fewer.”

  “A conclusion our scholars have reached as well, your ladyship,” Marcus said to Alyse. “It is why I was sent as an envoy to speak with the late grand duchess. His majesty believes the time is right to end past conflicts between our nations and fuse our bloodlines.”

  “He believed a count would make a reasonable ambassador?”

  “Anything less would be an insult. It is with regret that he sent a conte, but most of our marchesi and duchi are either married, too old, or too young.”

  “I see.” The marchioness’s face hardened as she pursed her lips. “You are neither too old nor too young for my daughter. Am I to assume you are unwed as well?”

  “Your ladyship is most insightful.”

  “Perhaps your king meant to insult Anahar anew by offering the likes of you. Does he still consider us so inferior that he would not waste a son on us?”

  “With respect,” Marcus said, his tone careful, “would the Anahari be comfortable sending the daughter of a marchioness to Merid, where she might be held hostage to Anahar’s good conduct?”

  “A fair point.” Alyse divided a scowl between Marcus and Sathra before lowering her eyes to her daughter’s swollen belly. “Would I be safe in assuming, then, that my daughter was propositioned to be the mother of our unified people?”

  “That was his majesty’s intent,” Marcus said with a bow. His eyes slanted toward Sathra. “Unfortunately, her grace has been less than forthcoming about her child’s parentage. She will neither confirm nor deny whether the babe she carries is of my seed.”

  “I have neither the intention nor obligation of doing so,” Sathra said. “Is the marriage proposal pred
icated on such disclosure?”

  The Meridan shook his head. “It is not. His majesty recognizes Anahari customs differ from our own. He merely asks that, should you accept my suit or that of another, at least one child be acknowledged as descending from a Meridan bloodline.”

  “Then until a union is formalized and a man of Merid wets his cock between my thighs, I will hear no more questions about the parentage of the child I bear,” Sathra said with finality. “I am not a broodmare to be used in satisfying questions of hereditary illness. If you wish to conduct your experiments, you will content yourself with the maidens provided so we may test the theories of Meridan and Anahari scholars. I shall not tolerate my own family using my womb as a means to secure a political future. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Alyse answered, sinking into a curtsy.

  Marcus echoed her confirmation with a bow and changed the subject with a courtier’s grace. “Speaking of the late grand duchess, have you apprehended those responsible for her assassination? In the experience of the Meridan court, a political assassin who is not caught within the first four days is seldom uncovered.”

  “I have tasked my most trusted advisor with the search,” Sathra said. “I have been anticipating his report much of the afternoon, but receiving it during the coronation was an inappropriate time. Would either of you care to sit with me to hear his report?”

  “I am most curious to hear how Anahar conducts such inquisitions.”

  Alyse met her daughter’s pale blue eyes with a lifted eyebrow but said nothing.

  The new grand duchess moved to the doors leading out of the anteroom. The armed and armored soldiers flanking the door straightened as she swept between them, the heels of her shoes clicking on the throne room’s parquet floor. “My lord chamberlain,” she called out, not bothering to look over her shoulder to see if the marchioness or the conte followed. “Has my inquisitor returned from his search for the assassins?”