A mousy girl appeared from deeper in Lady Palida’s quarters and Elora told her, “Run to the foodstores and pack this as full as you can. I want foods of all sorts.”
“But m’lady, the Lady’s things—”
“Can wait,” Elora finished. “This is more important. After you fill it, find a servant to carry it here while you run to the kitchen for some bread and a plate of whatever meat they’re serving. Hurry, we have work to do.” The girl left the room at a trot.
Servants who have servants? How deep does it go?
The thought of a sackfull of food made Hatta hungry, but how could he accept it? “Elora, I haven’t a way to pay for the food. I thank you, but I’m sure I can manage.”
“Is that right?” She looked up at him with an innocent smile. “You tell me exactly how you intend to manage and I’ll leave you alone.”
Hatta was stuck. The only animals in a city this big would be scavengers such as rats and pigeons who could never lead him to more than a few crumbs.
After only a moment of thought, Elora continued, “I didn’t think so.” Her face turned serious. “Hatta, the kingdom is in serious danger. Lady Palida and everyone else who has anything to do with the Provinces are leaving the city. Tonight. I’m bound to Lady Palida, but Tjaden and all of the Elites from the interior will remain loyal to Captain Markin, King Antion, and Lady Cuora. I’m sure it will work out eventually, but some people are saying the only way this can end is with war.”
A dirty word, war. Worse by far than other curses men used. But there was something Hatta could do. Only he still had no idea what it was.
“I’m destined to…” he began, but paused to think how to explain it. In his pause a strange retinue stormed into the room.
A servant carrying a large, thin mirror led the group. He walked backward facing the mirror toward a curious pair—a boy, not even up to Hatta’s chest, and an apparition of a woman, purely white from head to toe. At first it appeared that she was merely draped in white, but as Hatta inspected her he saw that not only were her clothes white, but her skin, hair, eyelashes, lips, and fingernails too. Everything except her eyes, which were what truly captured Hatta’s attention. They were such a dazzling blue that it appeared all the color that should have innervated the rest of her body was concentrated in two small circles. They appeared to pulsate with living energy.
He could only wrest his attention away from the woman in short bursts to examine the boy. Dressed in a thick robe the same color as Hatta’s hair, he carried himself as if leading the group of servants behind him.
Next to Hatta, Elora made some sort of bowing movement, but Hatta was too intent on the Lady to notice much. The eyes. Never in his life had he seen such an intense concentration of color.
The pair cut off their conversation when they reached Elora and Hatta.
“My Lady,” said Elora, “this is Hatta, a friend from Shey’s Orchard.” That made Hatta smile, but at the same time he was intrigued that Elora spoke to the Lady’s reflection in the mirror that the servant carried.
“To meet a friend of Elora’s is a pleasure.” As she spoke, the white-clad servant angled the mirror so Hatta and the Lady could see each other, and she addressed his reflection rather than his person. “Lady Palida am I.”
Even in the reflection her eyes engulfed him, and he couldn’t respond. She was only a few years older than Hatta. Twenty-five, maybe. And as Hatta came face to face with her, through the mirror, he confirmed that she truly was white—not albino, or blonde, but white. “Your eyes,” he managed, and she raised a white eyebrow. “My Lady, that is. I’ve never seen coloring to equal. I could swear they are living sapphires. And yet your skin lacks color in the extreme.”
“Your pardon, My Lady,” Elora interjected. “Hatta was on his way out to allow me to continue to prepare your things.” She made another bow toward Lady Palida’s reflection.
“Would you be the king?” Hatta asked the boy, ignoring Elora’s escape attempts. He’d heard Maravilla had a boy king.
The boy nodded and smiled, looking over Hatta’s garish clothes. “I am,” he said, but didn’t have a chance to say more before Elora tugged Hatta’s sleeve and led him to the door. Hatta watched over his shoulder.
The king quickly forgot about Hatta and Elora, and turned to Lady Palida’s image in the mirror. “My place is here, Mother. And I think it would be best for you to stay and appeal to diplomacy.”
“Too late is it. To stay here for me longer is not safe. Of your father and you is the land of Palassiren.” Placing a tender hand on the boy’s shoulder, she said, “Onion—”
“Mother, please.” He looked around, embarrassed. “That is not a proper name for a king.”
Smiling, she apologized and King Antion continued. “I refuse to just give up the kingdom. And I don’t see any way to avoid eventual war with Provinces that completely surround us. I fear if you walk out now it will mean the end of Maravilla.”
Though Hatta was almost out the door, he called out, “Don’t worry, I’ll soon save the kingdom with my mirrors and kindness!” The mirror bearer didn’t have to shift the angle to allow Lady Palida to see Hatta, she just glanced over the shoulder of her own reflection. The last view Hatta had of the room before Elora dragged him out was the evanescent gaze of her piercing eyes.
With a look that showed more shock than anger, Elora asked, “You do realize that was the king and one of the members of his Council.”
“I found them very gracious. Might you tell me about her colors?”
“That’s not really something that’s polite to ask about, Hatta.”
Just then Yuli arrived with a plate of food, which she shoved into Elora’s hands then disappeared into Lady Palida’s quarters. Elora said, “I don’t have any more time, but I’m so grateful to you for bringing the letter from my father...”
“And the mirror,” cut in Hatta. “Please don’t forget the mirror.”
“Of course,” said Elora. “I’m honored to have your first mirror.”
A manservant, dressed in white, delivered a bulging sack. Thankfully Elora only had time for a very short farewell. Hatta hadn’t eaten a proper meal for a week, and the plate of bread and beef was almost too much for his shrunken stomach. After cleaning the plate he picked up the rucksack and left the palace.
Activity around the palaces had increased. Now that Hatta understood the reason behind the bustle, he saw a bit of order in the chaos and realized he was witness to a momentous event in the fate of the kingdom.
In one corner of the courtyard in front of the palaces was a nook with almost no activity. Hatta had nowhere to be, so he settled in. Watching the events of the evening might give him some insight into his role.
Within two hours a line of wagons, coaches, footmen, and horses lined up in front of Lady Palida’s palace. Gaps in the line filled in and it grew longer as more and more people joined the procession. Last to arrive were Lady Palida and her retinue, including two mirror bearers, through which she inspected her convoy. Even though she was over a hundred paces away, and night had fallen, Hatta was sure he saw her eyes giving off their own light.
She and the King, her son, bowed to each other’s reflections, then the King walked north toward the largest palace, encircled by blue-clothed Elites. Elora emerged from Lady Palida’s palace carrying a small travel case and, to Hatta’s delight, her mirror! Before she and Lady Palida climbed into their carriage, the red woman Hatta had seen on the walls of the city arrived along with another contingent of soldiers.
Brief words were spoken through mirrors between the white and red Ladies before Lady Palida turned and entered her carriage. Elora moved to follow her, but the Red Lady stopped her, seized the mirror, and inspected it. Even from the distance Elora appeared nervous. After exchanging a sentence or two, the Red Lady shoved the mirror into Elora’s waiting hands, and Elora darted into the carriage.
As the procession lumbered toward the inner gates, a small rush of men moved to j
oin it. They were clad in blue and half wore the Circle and Sword. The Elites and Fellows formed the rearguard as the people of the Provinces fled Palassiren.
The dozen or so Elites who didn’t leave, looked on as their brothers-in-arms departed, and Hatta felt a twinge of pain for his own brother. Whatever event had caused the schism in the kingdom went deep enough to separate men who considered themselves brothers.
Husbands and wives. Brothers. Mother and son. The conflict had just begun and already too many people were separated from those they loved. Squinting through the night, Hatta saw the outline of the boy on the large palace’s center balcony. His hands went repeatedly to his eyes as he watched the procession thread through the inner gates.
Only a couple years older than me when I lost my mother, thought Hatta, and shared a tear with the boy king.
“I’ll do my best, Boy King,” said Hatta quietly into the distance. “Of course, I can’t make any promises because there is a chance I’m mad.”
Even after the refugees cleared the courtyard, Hatta stayed on the wall, looking across at the king. His father, King Barash, had been killed by the Jabberwocky only a year and a half before, and now his mother was forced to flee. Hatta would stay and keep him company as long as the King watched the empty courtyard.
A quarter hour later, the King retreated and Hatta followed his example, walking home feeling torn and trodden on.
The next morning, Hatta’s first thoughts were of his mirrors and shop. He rushed to open the doors of his business for the first time, sure that the departure of everyone associated with the Provinces would not prove a damper on his business. He didn’t have nails, or a hammer for that matter, or any easels to display his mirrors so he had to set them on the floor, leaning against the wall. It wasn’t hard to go next door and greet the tailor in his confident mood, and the old man was happy to see him.
After initial greetings, Hatta produced the large rucksack and said proudly, “I can repay your kind food now. I have…” he looked through the sack, “a gourd, a portion of a ham, plenty of bread…”
“That’s not necessary, young man. I have sufficient; you keep that for yourself.”
The old tailor told Hatta he would be happy to send his few customers to see the mirrors and even found two racks that could double as easels which he cheerfully lent to Hatta.
His first customer walked through the door an hour later. A woman, followed by a servant who carried a tied package. She browsed for a few moments then left without speaking. Over the course of the day he only had half a dozen chances to sell mirrors, all of them unsuccessful. The lighting in the building was insufficient. That was it. He hadn’t considered the north-facing shop in early springtime. Hopefully it would change as spring turned to summer.
Most people entered or left with only a word or two. But a well-dressed couple offered his highest hope and deepest worry. The woman was intrigued and even used the word “distinctive”, but her husband was quick to express his opinion.
“Why would you want a mirror that’s half cloudy? Only half of the surface reflects clearly. Mirrors should be square. These hazy, wavy borders are a waste of material.” He didn’t acknowledge Hatta standing ready to assist or answer questions.
An hour after dark, Hatta closed the door on his first day as a shopkeeper, hoping it wasn’t a sign of things to come.
I don’t care about silver, but I’ll never save the kingdom at this rate.
Chapter 17
Knight
Security in Chism’s cell was tighter than the barrel he used to escape Far West Province. Even without the injured shoulder and gimpy leg he didn’t stand a chance. Lady Cuora had always been hard, but Chism could tell by the ardor of the guards that their fear of her had grown since he left on campaign months earlier. If Chism escaped, any guard responsible would take his place under the headman’s axe.
Two days after arriving in Palassiren, he faced trial for the assault on Duke Jaryn.
With wrists and ankles shackled, Chism stood in front of the three thrones of the King’s Council. Any of the owners of the chairs could pronounce judgment on any particular day, but today all three chairs were occupied, reflecting the seriousness of the charges. Four small, clean squares on the floor to the right of the other thrones marked where Lady Palida’s throne sat until she fled the city with her people on the day Chism arrived in Palassiren. One small indication of the upheaval which now faced the kingdom of Maravilla.
With one chair missing, the room was off-balance. Asymmetrical. They hadn’t taken time to center the three remaining chairs. That set Chism on edge as much as the impending trial.
Three people sat to judge him, but the verdict likely belonged to Lady Cuora. Chism had never known Captain Markin to defy her. If he ever did, today just might be the day since he was the captain of the Elites, and Chism’s crime against Duke Jaryn was committed when he was an Elite. The boy king, Antion, stood even in rank with Captain Markin and Lady Cuora. However, if those two sided together, Antion’s decision would mean nothing. If he even supported Chism. But the chance any noble would condone or forgive an assault on a duke was as likely as a chicken befriending a fox.
He did have two supporters in the throne room—Lieutenant Fahrr and Ander. After separating from Chism it was only a matter of ten days journey for Quicksilver Squadron to reach Palassiren. Both men had visited him in prison, but neither thought there was any hope of an acquittal. They stood behind Chism and to his right, forced by the guards to stand apart from the prisoner as if they would attempt an escape after insisting he return to Palassiren for trial.
While Lieutenant Fahrr maintained a stolid reserve, Ander nodded supportively when Chism glanced at him. His fatherly Fellow’s gray hair was longer and more unkempt than Chism remembered, as if tousled by hurricane winds on the way to the trial. It looked as if it had lightened in the short weeks since they’d seen each other.
Since entering the throne room and taking her seat, Lady Cuora hadn’t spoken. She simply stared at Chism, dark hair disheveled as normal. At thirty, she was young for her position, but still almost twice Chism’s age. She had a solid build, with an unattractive face. A fiery personality shone in her eyes. No one would ever describe her as beautiful. In fact, homely was more accurate but Chism thought volatile fit much better.
Behind Lady Cuora loomed an unfamiliar soldier in red. His prominent underbite gave him the look of a bulldog with a sharp edge of cruelty. He obviously held a position of power, but must have ascended in the few months Chism was away.
Lady Cuora motioned and a page recited the charges. “Chism, an Elite, stands accused of assault on the body of Duke Jaryn of Far West Province. After disabling the guards, he placed his sword to the Duke’s throat and threatened his life in order to plead the case of a commoner, who he claims was mistreated by the Duke. By his own testimony and the witness of his lieutenant, the incident occurred thus. The matter now rests in the Council’s hands.”
Captain Markin fidgeted in his chair, Lady Cuora continued studying Chism, and King Antion was the first to speak. “Do you admit to bodily assault on Duke Jaryn?” He was remarkably composed for a nine year old.
“Yes,” answered Chism. “But not without cause.”
“In defense of a commoner? A pig farmer if we were informed correctly.”
Chism nodded and King Antion considered.
Lady Cuora spoke, causing nearly everyone in the room to flinch.
“And you’ve succeeded in splitting the kingdom. Are you happy with the results of your actions?”
“No,” said Chism.
“Don’t answer unless I tell you to. We find you guilty.”
“Verdict before trial?” objected Chism. Lady Cuora’s impulsiveness did not surprise him. He’d seen and heard enough of her rash judgments during his time in Elite training to know what to expect.
“In the court of royal opinion, trials are of little import,” she answered.
King Antion spoke
up, “We have not ruled yet, Lady Cuora. I would like to hear the case before we decide.” Chism admired the little man. Very few people had the nerve to stand up to her.
Rolling her eyes, she asked, “Who assaulted the duke?”
Following her previous orders, Chism didn’t reply.
“You may answer the question,” said Lady Cuora with a contented look.
“I assaulted Duke Jaryn.”
“And the long-term results?” She gave a small nod to prompt an answer.
“Revolt, my Lady.”
“So, you took actions which resulted in the division of my kingdom. Have I convinced you of your guilt, Elite?”
She appeared to be waiting for an answer, so Chism said, “If you insist on placing blame, look no farther than the Circle and the Sword.” The mention of his former emblem pained him.
Both he and Lady Cuora turned to look at the symbol on Captain Markin’s uniform, causing him to squirm on his throne. “He says it’s the Circle and Sword’s fault, Marky,” said Lady Cuora. “Perhaps they should be on trial.”
Captain Markin stilled himself, but didn’t answer. In command of a battlefield there weren’t many men better than Captain Markin, but in the political arena he was far outmatched.
Addressing Chism, she continued. “The Circle and Sword have held this kingdom together since before your first breath. So which one has broken custom and caused our current predicament? Will it be the Circle or the Sword that I send to the headsman?”
Tapping her fingers on the curved wood of her dark throne, Lady Cuora considered her own question. After a few moments, she gave up and motioned for Chism to answer. “My actions against Duke Jaryn were in defense of the Circle, my Lady. He had a duty to defend one of his citizens against the corrupt rule of an earl, but he turned his back as if she were a piece of dirt with no more connection to him than a raven has to a writing desk.”
Lady Cuora interrupted, “You care more for one filthy woman in the street than for the integrity of the kingdom?”
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