Avempartha trr-2

by Michael J. Sullivan

  She dropped the shoes, planted her feet, and reached out her hand as if standing on the edge of a precipice, “Please.”

  Arista rolled her eyes and standing up, walked away from the window. She crossed the room to her bed that lay beneath several layers of clothes.

  “No, wait!” Bernice shouted again. She shook her hands at the wrists as if trying to dry them. “Melissa, clear her highness a place to sit.”

  Arista sighed and ran a hand through her hair while she waited for Melissa to gather the dresses.

  “Careful now, don’t wrinkle them,” Bernice cautioned.

  “I’m sorry, Your Highness,” Melissa told her as she gathered an armful. She was a small redhead with dark green eyes, who served Arista for the past five years. The princess got the distinct impression the maid’s apology did not refer to the mess on the bed. Arista fought to keep from laughing and a smile emerged. It only made matters worse when she saw Melissa grinning as well.

  “The good news is the bishop delivered a list of potential suitors to his majesty this morning,” Bernice said and Arista no longer had any trouble quelling laughter, the smile disappeared as well. “I’m hoping it will be that nice Prince Rudolf, King Armand’s son.” Bernice was raising her eyebrows and grinning mischievously like some deranged pixie. “He’s very handsome, many say dashing, and Alburn is a very nice kingdom-at least so I have heard.”

  “I’ve been there and I’ve met him. He’s an arrogant ass.”

  “Oh, that tongue of yours!” Bernice clasped her hands to the sides of her face and gazed upward mouthing a silent prayer. “You must learn to control yourself. If anyone else had heard you-thankfully we’re the only ones here.”

  Arista glanced at Melissa and the other two girls busy sorting through her things. Melissa caught her look and shrugged.

  “Alright, so you aren’t certain about Prince Rudolf, that’s fine. How about King Ethelred of Warric? You can’t do better than him. The poor widower is the most powerful monarch in Avryn. You would live in Aquesta and be queen of the Wintertide festivals.”

  “The man has to be in his fifties. Not to mention he’s a staunch Imperialist. I’d slit my throat first.”

  Bernice staggered backward threw one hand to her own neck while the other reached for the wall.

  Melissa snickered and tried to cover it with a pretend cough.

  “I think you’re done here, Melissa,” Bernice said. “Take the chamber pot when you go.”

  “But the sorting isn’t-” Melissa protested.

  Bernice gave her a reproachful look.

  Melissa sighed. “Your Highness,” she said and curtseyed to Arista, then picked up the chamber pot and left.

  “She didn’t mean anything by it,” Arista told Bernice.

  “It doesn’t matter. Respect must be maintained at all times. I know I am only an old crazy woman who doesn’t matter to anyone, but I can tell you this: If I were here-if I had been well enough to help raise you after your mother died, people wouldn’t be calling you a witch today.”

  Arista’s eyes widened.

  “Forgive me, Your Highness, but that’s the truth of it. With your mother gone, and me away, I fear you were brought up poorly. Thank Maribor I came back when I did or who knows what would become of you. But no worries my dear, we have you on the right track now. You’ll see, everything will work out once we find you a suitable husband. All that nonsense from your past will soon be forgotten.”

  ***

  Her dignity, as well as the length of her gown, prevented Arista from running down the stairs. Her bodyguard Hilfred trotted behind her, struggling to keep up with the sudden burst of speed. She had caught him by surprise. She had surprised herself. Arista had every intention of walking calmly up to her brother and politely asking if he had gone mad. The plan had worked fine up until she passed the chapel, then she started moving faster and faster.

  The good news is that the bishop delivered a list of potential suitors to his majesty this morning.

  She could still see the grin on Bernice’s face, and hear the perverse glee in her words, as if she were a spectator at the foot of a gallows waiting for the hangman to kick the bucket.

  I’m hoping it will be that nice Prince Rudolf, King Armand’s son.

  It was hard to breathe. Her hair broke loose from the ribbon and flew behind her. Rounding the turn near the ballroom, Arista’s left foot slipped out from under her and she nearly fell. Her shoe came off and spun across the polished floor. She left it, pressing on, hobbling forward like a wagon with a broken wheel. She reached the west gallery. It was a long, straight hallway lined with suits of armor, and here she picked up speed. Jacobs, the royal clerk, spotted her from his perch outside the reception hall and jumped to his feet.

  “Your Highness,” he exclaimed with a bow.

  “Is he in there?” she barked.

  The little clerk with the round face and red nose nodded. “But his majesty is in a state meeting. He’s requested that he not be disturbed.”

  “The man is already disturbed. I’m just here to beat some sense into his feeble little brain.”

  The clerk cringed. He looked like a squirrel in a rainstorm. If he had a tail, it would be over his head. Behind her she heard Hilfred’s familiar footsteps approach.

  She turned toward the door and took a step.

  “You can’t go in,” Jacobs told her, panicking. “They are having a state meeting,” he repeated.

  The soldiers that stood to either side of the door stepped forward to block her.

  “Out of my way!” she yelled.

  “Forgive us, Your Highness, but we have orders from the king not to allow anyone entrance.”

  “I’m his sister,” she protested.

  “I am sorry, Your Highness, his majesty-he specifically mentioned you.”

  “He-what?” She stood stunned for a moment then spun on the clerk, caught wiping his nose with a handkerchief. “Who’s in there with him? Who’s in this state meeting?”

  “What’s going on?” Julian Tempest, the Lord Chamberlain asked, as he rushed out of his office. His long black robe with gold hash marks on the sleeve trailed behind him like the train of a bride. Julian was an ancient man who had been Lord Chamberlain of Essendon Castle since before she was born, perhaps even before her father was born. Normally he wore a powdered wig that hung down past his shoulders like the floppy ears of an old dog, but she had caught him by surprise and all he had on was his skullcap-a few tuffs of white hair sticking out like seed silk from a milkweed pod.

  “I want to see my brother,” Arista demanded.

  “But-but, Your Highness, he’s in a state meeting, surely it can wait.”

  “Who is he meeting with?”

  “I believe Bishop Saldur, Chancellor Pickering, Lord Valin, and oh I’m not sure who else.” Julian glanced at Jacobs for support.

  “And what is this meeting about?”

  “Why, actually I think it has to do with,” he hesitated, “your future.”

  “My future? They are determining my life in there and I can’t go in?” She was livid now.“ Is Prince Rudolf in there? Lanis Ethelred, perhaps?”

  “Ah…I don’t know-I don’t think so,” again he glanced at the clerk who wanted no part of this. “Your Highness, please calm down. I suspect they can hear you.”

  “Good!” she shouted. “They should hear me. I want them to hear me. If they think I am going to just stand here and wait for the verdict, to see what they will decide my fate to be, I-”

  “Arista!”

  She turned to see the doors to the throne room open. Her brother Alric stood trapped behind the guards who quickly stood aside. He was wearing the white fur mantle Julian insisted he drape over his shoulders at all state functions and the heavy gold crown that he pushed to the back of his head. “What is your problem? You sound like a raving lunatic.”

  “I’ll tell you what my problem is. I’m not going to let you do this to me. You are not going to send m
e off to Alburn or Warric like some-some-state commodity.”

  “I’m not sending you to Warric or Alburn. We’ve already decided you are going to Dunmore.”

  “Dunmore?” The word hit her like a blow. “You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking.”

  “I was going to tell you tonight. Although, I thought you’d take it better. I figured you’d like it.”

  “Like it? Like it! Oh yeah, I love the idea of being used as a political pawn. What are they giving you in return? Is that what you were doing in there, auctioning me off?” She rose on her toes trying to get a look over her brother’s shoulders to see who he was hiding in the throne room. “Did you have them bidding on me like a prized cow?”

  “Prized cow? What are you talking about?” Alric glanced behind him self-consciously and closed the doors. He waved at Julian and Jacobs shooing them away. In a softer voice he said, “It will give you some respect. You’ll have genuine authority. You won’t be just the princess anymore and you’ll have something to do. Weren’t you the one that said you wanted to get out of your tower and contribute to the well-being of the kingdom?”

  “And-and this is what you thought of?” She was ready to scream. “Don’t do this to me Alric, I beg of you. I know I’ve been an embarrassment. I know what they say about me. You think I don’t hear them whispering witch under their breath? You think I don’t know what was said at the trial?”

  “Arista, those people were coerced. You know that.” He glanced briefly at Hilfred who stood beside her holding the lost shoe.

  “I’m just saying I know about it. I’m sure they complain to you all the time,” she gestured toward the closed door behind him. She did not know whom she meant by they and hoped he did not ask. “But I can’t help what people think. If you want, I will come to more events. I will attend the state dinners. I will take up needlepoint. I will make a damn tapestry. Something cute and inoffensive. How about a stag hunt? I don’t know how to make a tapestry, but I bet Bernice does-she knows all that crap.”

  “You’re going to make a tapestry?”

  “If that’s what it takes. I’ll be better-I will. I haven’t even put the lock on my door in the new tower. I haven’t done a thing since you were crowned, I swear. Please don’t sentence me to a life of servitude. I don’t mind being just a princess-I don’t.”

  He looked at her confused.

  “I mean it. I really do, Alric. Please, don’t do this.”

  He sighed, looking at her sadly. “Arista, what else can I do with you? I don’t want you living like a hermit in that tower for the rest of your life. I honestly think this is for the best. It will be good for you. You might not see it now but-don’t look at me like that! I am king and you’ll do as I tell you. I need you to do this for me. The kingdom needs you to do this.”

  She could not believe what she was hearing. Arista felt tears working their way forward. She locked her jaw, squeezing her teeth together breathing faster to stave them off. She felt feverish and a little light-headed. “And I suppose I am to be shipped off immediately. Is that why the carriages are outside?”

  “Yes,” he said firmly. “I was hoping you would be on your way in the morning.”

  “Tomorrow?” Arista felt her legs weaken, the air empty from her lungs.

  “Oh for Maribor’s sake, Arista-it’s not like I’m ordering you to marry some old coot.”

  “Oh-well! I am so pleased you are looking out for me,” she said. “Who is it then? One of King Roswort’s nephews? Dearest Maribor, Alric! Why Dunmore? Rudolf would have been misery enough, but at least I could understand an alliance with Alburn, but Dunmore? That’s just cruel. Do you hate me that much? Am I that horrible that you must marry me to some no account duke in a backwater kingdom? Even father wouldn’t have done that to me-why-why are you laughing? Stop laughing, you insensitive little hobgoblin!”

  “I’m not marrying you off, Arista,” Alric managed to get out.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re not?”

  “God no! Is that what you thought? I wouldn’t do that. I’m familiar with the kind of people you know. I’d find myself floating down the Galewyr again.”

  “What then? Julian said you were deciding my fate in there.”

  “I have-I’ve officially appointed you Ambassador of Melengar.”

  She stood silent, staring at him for a long moment. Without turning her head, she shifted her eyes and grabbed her shoe from Hilfred. Leaning on his shoulder, she slipped it back on.

  “But Bernice said Sauly brought a list of eligible suitors,” she said tentatively, cautiously.

  “Oh yes, he did,” Alric said chuckling. “We all had a good laugh at that.”

  “We?”

  “Mauvin and Fanen are here,” he hooked his thumb at the door. “They’re going with you. Fanen plans to enter the contest the church is organizing up in Ervanon. You see it was supposed to be this big surprise, but you ruined everything as usual.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice quivering unexpectedly.

  “Oh now, don’t start crying.”

  “I can’t help it.” She threw her arms around her brother and hugged him tight. “Thank you.”

  ***

  The front wheels of the carriage bounced in a hole, followed abruptly by the rear ones. Arista nearly struck her head on the roof and lost her concentration, which was frustrating because she was certain she was on the verge of recalling the name of Dunmore’s Secretary of the Treasury. It started with a Bon, a Bonny or a Bobo-no, it could not be Bobo, could it? It was something like that. All these names, all these titles, the third Baron of Brodinia, the Earl of Nith-or was it the third Baron of Nith and the Earl of Brodinia? Arista looked at the palm of her hand wondering if she could write them there. If caught it would be an embarrassment not just for herself, but Alric, and all of Melengar as well. From now on everything she did, every mistake, every stumble would not just hurt her it would reflect poorly on her kingdom. She had to be perfect. The problem was she did not know how to be perfect. She wished her brother had given her more time to prepare.

  Dunmore was a new kingdom, only seventy years old. An overgrown fief reclaimed from the wilderness by ambitious nobles with only passing pedigrees. It had none of the traditions or refinement found in the rest of Avryn, but it did have a plethora of mind-numbing titled offices. She was convinced King Roswort created them the way a self-conscious man might over-decorate a modest house. He certainly had more ministers than Alric, with titles twice as long and uniquely vague, such as The Assistant Secretary of the Second Royal Avenue Inspection Quorum. What does that even mean? And then there was the simply unfathomable, since Dunmore was landlocked, Grandmaster of the Fleet! Nevertheless, Julian had provided her with a list and she was doing her best to memorize it, along with a tally sheet of their imports, exports, trade agreements, military treaties, and even the name of the king’s dog. She laid her head back on the velvet upholstery and sighed.

  “Something wrong, my dear?” Bishop Saldur inquired from his seat directly across from her where he sat pressing his fingers together. He stared at her with unwavering eyes that took in more than her face. She would have considered his looks rude if it had been anyone else. Saldur, or Sauly as she always called him, had taught her the art of blowing dandelions that had gone to seed when she was five. He had shown her how to play checkers and pretended not to notice when she climbed trees or rode her pony at a gallop. For commencement on her sixteenth birthday, Sauly had personally instructed her on the Tenements of the Faith of Nyphron. He was like a grandfather. He always stared at her. She had given up wondering why.

  “There’s too much to learn. I can’t keep it all straight. The bouncing doesn’t help either. It’s just that…” she flipped through the parchments on her lap, shaking her head, “I want to do a good job, but I don’t think I will.”

  The old man smiled at her, his eyebrows rising in sympathy. “You will do fine. Besides, it’s only Dunmore,” he gave her a
wink. “I think you will find his majesty, King Roswort, an unpleasant sort of man to deal with. Dunmore has been slow to gain the virtues that the rest of civilization has learned to enjoy. Just be patient and respectful. Remember that you will be standing in his court, not Melengar and there you are subject to his authority. Your best ally in any discussion is silence. Learn to develop that skill. Learn to listen instead of speaking and you will weather many storms. Also, avoid promising anything. Give the impression you are promising, but never actually say the words. That way Alric always has room to maneuver. It is a bad practice to tie the hands of your monarch.”

  “Would you like something to drink, milady?” Bernice asked, sitting beside Arista on the cushioned bench guarding a basket of travel treats. She sat straight, her knees together, hands clutching the basket, thumbs rubbing it gently. Bernice beamed at her, fanning deep lines from the corners of her eyes. Her round pudgy cheeks were forced too high by a smile too broad-a condescending smile, the sort displayed to a child who had scraped her knee. At times Arista wondered if the old woman was trying to be her mother.

  “What have you got in there, dear?” Saldur asked. “Anything with a bite to it?”

  “I brought a pint of brandy,” she said, hastily adding, “in case it got cold.”

  “Come to think of it, I feel a bit chilled,” Saldur said rubbing his hands up and down his arms pretending to shiver.

  Arista raised an eyebrow. “This carriage is like an oven,” she said while pulling on the high dress collar that ran to her chin. Alric emphasized that she needed to wear properly modest attire, as if she had made a habit of strolling about the castle in bosom-baring, scarlet tavern dresses. Bernice took this edict as carte blanche to imprison Arista in antiquated costumes of heavy material. The sole exception was the dress for her meeting with the King of Dunmore. Arista wanted all the help she could get to make a good impression and decided to wear the formal reception gown that once belonged to her mother. It was simply the most stunning dress Arista had ever seen. When her mother wore it, every head had turned. She had looked so impressive, so magnificent-every bit the queen.