by Mike Shel
By this time, the queen’s eldest son Edgar had been sharing regal responsibilities with his mother for many years in anticipation of his eventual succession. Most believed he would act as a competent and faithful steward of her legacy. But the thought of a Hanifax without Geneviva on the throne corrupted the judgment of many, and a motley parade of would-be saviors emerged. Most were scheming charlatans, discovered soon enough and dealt with accordingly. At last, in sad surrender, the towers of Boudun were hung with black banners in preparation for the inevitable.
But then came Palca, high priest of Timilis, a lesser and oft-disparaged deity of the Hanifaxan pantheon. He arrived at court with a message from his god: Timilis would spare the people the loss of their beloved ruler and she would continue to reign for many years. In return, the throne would raise Timilis and his church in the religious hierarchy. He would be elevated into the company of the great gods and a grand basilica would be built for him in Boudun. Was this not reasonable if only the servants of Timilis, his little-respected clergy, could deliver Geneviva from the Gray Plague? Hadn’t the priesthoods of the All-Mother and other great gods failed?
In desperation, Geneviva’s high councilors and family agreed to this proposal over the strenuous objections of the cults of the great gods. Palca and the rest of the priests of Timilis resident in Boudun locked themselves away with the ailing queen in her chambers. Three days later, she emerged, cured of the disease and bursting with newfound energy. The people of the empire rejoiced: Geneviva was well and would reign over her people with strength and wisdom once more!
All praise be to the Great God Timilis!
The riding clothes Auric had brought with him from Daurhim weren’t suitable for a visit to Her Majesty’s court. The Syraeic League supplied him and the other members of the party with appropriate attire, and they arrived the next morning at the Imperial Palace, queuing outside the throne room with a throng of other supplicants. He felt foolish in his new frilly, high-collared shirt, but it was all part of the ritual. Looking over at poor Belech, who appeared about as natural and at ease in his tailored clothes as Glutton and Lugo might, Auric had to stifle a laugh. This didn’t escape Belech’s notice.
“If anyone at Darcy Road Tavern ever hears of this,” growled the man, highlights of rouge applied to his cheeks, “I’ll strangle you to death with these damned garters and toss your body in a ditch. With those clothes on.”
Pallas Rae had informed them that the fashion at court had become more outlandish, and they had best submit to it or face ridicule and expulsion. Standing here now in this horde of hopeful petitioners, Auric realized their cosmetics and attire were comparatively simple and sedate. Indeed, the faces of nearly every one of the dozens of courtiers present were painted white or some other soft hue, or covered in powder so thick that clouds of the stuff trailed behind them. Many wore elaborate wigs and rich clothing, some grotesque and absurd. The temptation to stare was difficult to resist. Lumari had to pinch Del Ogara twice to keep her from gawking at a woman whose costume was so ungainly it required the assistance of two maidservants so that she could walk.
Auric also noticed several attendees bore tattoos of words or phrases, though they did their best to conceal them, employing extravagant fans, scarves, or voluminous wigs to hide them from the world. He managed to read the markings on two attendees. An older man in an entirely crimson ensemble that made the eyes ache had the words land whore tattooed on his forehead, which he attempted to hide with the bangs of a scarlet wig. An attractive woman with a pair of maids attending her had a longer phrase on her cheek; Auric caught the words daughter of a war profiteer and pederast when some dandy whispered in her ear, making her briefly neglect her manic fluttering of a burgundy fan.
The great parlor’s high ceilings were painted with scenes of battles from the queen’s campaign against the Azkayans, and this drew Belech’s attention from his own discomfort. The old soldier craned his neck to study the elaborate paintings, pointing at one detail, then another.
“You’d hardly think man capable of such beauty,” he marveled.
During their hour of idle waiting, court servants had come into the chamber to inexplicably open or close the same curtained windows at least seven times. A trio of children dressed in lily-white robes and angel’s wings made from heron feathers wandered about the room swinging brass censers, spewing the scent of sickly-sweet incense.
Auric overheard Gnaeus speaking to Del. “It feels as though we’re backstage at a circus rather than the Queen’s Court.”
An accurate, but dangerous observation, thought Auric. Whatever gods listen, protect us from our own thoughts and guide my tongue.
At that moment, a striking woman wearing a gown suitable for the most extravagant aristocratic wedding tapped Auric playfully on the shoulder. Her natural beauty shone through the thick white foundation that covered her face, as did her smile, a row of perfect white teeth appearing between lips painted with vertical stripes of royal blue.
“You seem somewhat out of place here, sir,” she said with a girlish lilt. “Have you arrived from outside Boudun?” She extended a hand. “Ilanda Padivale, Countess of Beyenfort.” A nimble curtsey.
Auric took her hand and bowed formally, feeling the artificiality of his movements. “I have, my lady. I am Sir Auric Manteo, of the Syraeic League, at your service.”
“Oh, an adventurer,” she purred, vibrant blue eyes lighting up. “Tell me an exciting story of your exploits, Sir Auric. It would help us pass the time in this dreary limbo.”
She was a stunning beauty, with an oval face, high cheekbones, and a straight nose ending in a small, upturned point. Painted on the left side of her face in shimmering royal blue were the most delicate lines, graceful and intricate, applied no doubt that morning in the lady’s boudoir by some artist servant. They’d be wiped off again with the rest of her make-up when she prepared for bed that night, as though those lovely lines were no more meaningful than a smudge of lipstick. Auric felt a part of himself, the tanner’s son, recoil. The effort required to produce this ostentatious display—the rich make-up, the jewels, the decadent, impractical gown—how many maidservants were required? And what was the cost, while there were beggars in the streets of every city in the empire?
Auric wondered with grim humor if he was duty-bound to amuse this pretty, pampered aristocrat. He thought of his nightmare. Perhaps she would like to hear of how a rapacious corpse had opened Ursula’s belly with its filthy claws and spilled her insides out onto the ground; how steam had risen from them like freshly grilled sausages served on a platter. Would she find that an entertaining diversion from her boredom?
“Alas, my lady, I am a poor storyteller,” he said instead. “I’m sure you would be bored with talk of digging in the dirt for the bones of buried Buskers.”
“Ah, delightful alliteration! But I think your protest is nonsense, Sir Auric,” she retorted, tapping her words out on his chest with her folded fan. “I’m certain I would find any telling absolutely transporting.”
Something about that smile. Was she mocking him? He sensed it beneath the surface of this performance, some other…persona? Agenda? What did he know of Beyenfort and its aristocracy? It was in the north of Harkeny, but that was all he could muster. Gods! He was laughably inadequate for these patrician games. What was she up to?
“Oh, but Sir Auric speaks the truth, lady,” said Gnaeus, swooping in with a practiced elegance Auric couldn’t help but admire. He took the woman’s hand and planted on it a gentle kiss. “I am your most obedient servant, madam, Gnaeus Valesen of the Syraeic League. I would be happy to share some stirring tales with you.”
“Oh, this is a handsome one,” the countess sang, unfurling her heavenly smile for the tall swordsman.
“Ah, you flatter me, lady. Would you like to hear me tell of my encounter with a pair of basilisks in the swamps of Urwyd?” Gnaeus took her by the arm and led her
a short distance away, shooting Auric a grin as he did so. Countess Ilanda waved a smiling farewell at Auric with her fan, winking. He wondered if the lad thought he had stolen her from him. If so, he’d let him rank it a victory. His theft felt more like a rescue to Auric.
“Mother Belu, that one’s a beauty,” whispered Belech in his ear, now standing beside him.
“Yes, beautiful. Countess of Beyenfort, attempting to find some amusement while she waits.”
“Beyenfort?” said Belech, eyes narrowing. “I spent quite a bit of time there during my time in the legions. What’s the Countess of Beyenfort doing among these painted nincompoops?” Belech made a contemptuous gesture at the costumed throng about them with his ruffle-sleeved arm. “The Padivales are a serious family, Auric, as are all the nobles in that part of the empire. They must be, what with those bloodthirsty barbarians knocking on the door. Men and women both are trained from childhood to ride and fight in the cavalry. I once witnessed a twelve-year-old girl, daughter of a count I think, unseat a mounted veteran in full plate!”
“Was the girl’s name Ilanda, by any chance?” Auric asked.
Belech furrowed his brow. “That sounds familiar…might have been. Who knows? It was a decade or more ago, anyway. I believe the girl was betrothed to one of the count’s sons.”
Auric looked over at the countess, fluttering her fan. At that moment, she spared him a delicate glance while Gnaeus narrated his tale, punctuating it with grand gestures. She smiled, lips closed, acknowledging Auric with a small nod. Her attention returned to Gnaeus, who was none the wiser. Auric found himself delightfully pleased, an involuntary smile breaking across his face.
“What is it they say about not judging the mettle of a man by the splendor of his armor?”
“Huh?” Belech responded.
The sound of the butt of a wooden staff striking the marble floor reverberated throughout the chamber. The booming voice of a dark-skinned chamberlain in outlandish attire cut through the rustle of petticoats and conversation.
“All gathered to petition her most noble majesty, Queen Geneviva I, come forward and be heard!”
A familiar refrain was recited by all in the crowded hall: “Long may she reign!”
The chamberlain, a man so tall and burly he made Belech look diminutive, listed the applicants to be admitted first. Miraculously, their party was among those named. Auric thanked Pallas Rae and her connections at court for sparing them more time wasted in sumptuous oblivion. Auric and his companions pushed their way through the crowd, the targets of jealous glances and a few spiteful elbows.
The audience hall had changed since Auric last stood there. Masterfully executed martial frescoes on the ceiling he remembered so vividly were hidden by hundreds of floating Revival balloons, decorations from a holiday eight months ago. A member of the queen’s elite guard stood before each fat marble pillar lining the painted walls. Each was armored in the traditional deep green breastplate emblazoned with a golden griffin rampant, the symbol of Hanifax, and wielded an ornate halberd. But strips of white cloth were tied around their heads so that their eyes were covered, effectively blinding them.
Self-important court officers herded the admitted petitioners toward the vacant throne, which sat beneath a painted silk canopy at the north end of the chamber. Auric and his bewildered companions were positioned to the left of the throne, near a woman and man with heads and eyebrows shaved, wearing singed sackcloth. Each held a slowly-melting candle, their fists bearing masses of hardened wax. Arranged around them were a few metal buckets containing pale powders. Observing the duo, Lumari’s face went white. She whispered harshly in Auric’s ear.
“Those buckets. Incendiary powders, used in the manufacture of fireworks. Only a fool would store them in such large quantities, uncovered, and near an open flame. They’ve got enough there to send the lot of us halfway to the moon.”
A procession of powdered and costumed notables walked into the chamber from behind the throne. Their clothing was antique, out of fashion a hundred years ago. “Members of the extended royal family,” Auric murmured to his companions, Lumari’s alarming words still rattling about in his head.
The faces of the nobles were covered with a foundation of days-old white makeup, flaking off in twisting wedges, while their cheeks were freshly rouged with a garish red pigment. Their expressions were hard for Auric to decipher. Were they in a daze? Bored? He couldn’t help but read some measure of fear in their eyes. The elderly man leading them, who walked with a marked stoop, leaned on a cane crowned with a griffin of carved ivory. He banged his cane on the marble floor in an uncertain rhythm, as though to quiet the gathered supplicants, already silent and attentive. When he spoke, exposing black teeth, it was in a feeble voice all had to strain to hear.
“All present bow to Her Most Gracious Majesty, scourge of the Azkayans, monarch of Hanifax, empress of its dependent duchies and earldoms, Queen Geneviva Reges I.”
“Long may she reign!” cried a few of the royal family standing near the throne, revealing their own artificially stained ebony teeth. Those who hadn’t participated in that chorus jerked at the call, as though startled from an uneasy slumber. Everyone in the hall took to a knee, save the blinded palace guards.
The figure who walked from the far end of the hall had the gait of a vivacious young girl and was dressed in a sumptuous antique gown, white and black pearls woven into the fabric. At a distance she looked like her earlier portraits: a commanding, handsome woman of aristocratic mien, wearing a formal burgundy wig draped with ribbons of green and gold, the colors of the Hanifaxan flag. But as she drew nearer, the layers of make-up coating her face could no longer conceal the deep crevasses that webbed her flesh, nor did it distract from her gruesome smile of rot-blackened teeth. Sitting at the center of the yellowed sclera of her piercing eyes were irises of a keenly bright, unnatural red. The juxtaposition of her fluid and graceful movements and her decaying, alien countenance was a travesty.
Behold Queen Geneviva, thought Auric bleakly. Crowned at twenty-three, now in the 117th year of her reign.
7
Long May She Reign
The two years following Queen Geneviva’s miraculous restoration found her again the monarch she had been twenty or more years ago: clever, vital, engaged. If on occasion she offered a remark that seemed out of place, or exhibited whimsical judgment, it was dismissed as an aberration. Her name was still a watchword for wisdom and foresight. But at the second annual celebration of her recovery, a newly minted holiday known simply as Revival, there was a tragedy at the commemorative parade sponsored by the guilds of Boudun: a costumed war elephant, imported at enormous expense from the southern continent by the Guild of Jewelers, ran amok, killing or injuring four dozen revelers and causing considerable damage along the procession route before it was finally put down.
When the masters of the guild presented themselves at court to offer apologies to Queen Geneviva for unintentionally marring Revival’s festivities, she shocked everyone by accusing them of deliberate sabotage, unleashing the animal on the people of Boudun with a mind to cause destruction. Though the merchants tearfully protested their innocence to the end, she had them impaled alive on stakes, a barbaric form of execution abolished by royal edict over four hundred years ago.
Everyone was horrified by this draconian response to what all but the queen agreed was an unlucky accident, though most rationalized the savagery as a monarch’s grief for the harm done her subjects. But while the queen’s conduct and life at court seemed to return to normal, over the ensuing years there followed more acts of impulsivity, whimsy, and strange cruelty suggesting Queen Geneviva was not well in mind. Still, no one did anything to intervene.
That changed at last when the queen ordered a large contingent of troops, tasked with holding at bay the always-volatile nomads on the northern frontier, to march south to the Duchy of Warwede. She insisted, contrary to all a
vailable intelligence, that the Azkayans were planning an invasion. In harmony with her generals, Crown Prince Edgar, her oldest son and nominal heir to the throne, argued that such a move would allow the Korsa tribes to spill across the Selvey River and into the Duchy of Harkeny, or overwhelm the line of fortresses protecting the Duchy of Ursena. There was no need for a major transfer of troops to the long-quiet Azkayan border.
The queen erupted with incandescent fury, screaming that Edgar was plotting with the Azkayans to clear his way to the throne. The crown prince protested his loyalty in vain. He was executed as a traitor, and his head placed on a pike at the Mouth of Boudun while his body was thrown in the harbor. However, the following day she had the head retrieved from its ignominious perch and given a proper royal burial. She delivered the funeral oration herself, weeping for her dear son, whom she said was maliciously slain by the insidious machinations of Azkaya, as though she herself was not the author of his death.
It was after the crown prince’s funeral that the queen’s council finally thought to consult with the now-elevated clergy of Timilis. What had they done to cure the queen? Why was she behaving in this cruel and capricious manner, so contrary to her nature?
High Priest Palca’s response was delivered with mock indignation. “The Great God Timilis has given us back our queen, just as promised. You had no such questions when we restored her to you. Now that your love for our monarch wanes, you come asking for explanations? Timilis works in ways we mortals cannot fathom. You should thank the god daily for his bounty. Geneviva rules Hanifax! And it be so forever!”