A Sharpened Axe

by Jill M Beene

  Samiris’ feet were too large for the slippers provided, and the dress too short for her height, so her old worn boots stuck out from beneath the hem. She looked like a youth cowering behind a manor curtain in a poorly played game of hide and seek. To cover the damage that Samiris had inflicted on her nails, the ragged edges had been sanded down so far that there were no longer pale slivers of white at the end of each one.

  Samiris was clean, and that was about the extent of her charm.

  Aster didn’t bother to hide her slight wince. “Smile,” she said. “Smile a lot.”

  Samiris frown set in deeper, like a stain on a white cloth that refused to be scrubbed out.

  “It will be better when the dressmaker fits you,” Aster said. “Just get through this morning with as much grace as you can manage.”

  Aster led her out of her chambers, down the hall and around a corner, heading the opposite direction from where Samiris had arrived the afternoon before. Samiris shuffled along behind, her head snapping this way and that to absorb her surroundings.

  The hallway they were in was at least two stories high, with massive crystal chandeliers overhead that cast twinkling shapes onto the thick carpet below. Arched, leaded glass doors to the left spanned from floor to ceiling, and each set of doors was flanked with burgundy curtains. Every door led out onto a huge balcony that spanned the length of the hall.

  “It’s called the mezzanine,” Aster said, noting her gaze. “In the summer, these doors are almost always open. Tournaments are held in the courtyard below, so guests can drink and mingle and have the best view.”

  Samiris nodded as if she understood, as if they had tournaments, guests, and mingling back home in Faro, too.

  Samiris heard the Chosen before they even opened the door. Laughter like bells tinkled over the murmuring brook of polite female conversation. Samiris froze as Aster opened the door. The conversation paused. Aster gestured her forward impatiently, and Samiris stepped into the room.

  Shallow as it may be, the first thing Samiris noticed were the dresses. It was no wonder that Aster had winced at Samiris’ somber appearance. There were well over twenty women in the room and they all wore different shades of pastel. Samiris felt as if she had somehow wandered into a box of life-size macarons.

  Unlike Samiris’ dress, which was high-necked and boxy, these dresses were scoop-necked or off the shoulder, showing great expanses of milk-white skin and shoulders as smooth as velvet. The dresses nipped in at the waist, with overskirts that were drawn up like a theater curtain with ribbons to reveal contrasting underskirts of elaborate lace, embroidered satin, or jeweled silk. The thick skirts were gathered in a high bustle at the small of each lady’s back, obscuring and padding their natural shape.

  Even worse, all the dresses came just shy of skimming the carpet, covering the delicate slippers whose tips were only visible when the ladies minced forward with small steps. Samiris looked down at the scarred toes of her well-worn leather boots and wrinkled her nose. She felt like a bran muffin in a sea of frosted cupcakes.

  Even if they all had been wearing the same outfit that Samiris was, she still would have stood out. The ladies all seemed to be slightly variant copies of each other. It was as if a master painter had been teaching a class and his students had all tried to copy his painting of a beautiful young woman but had made inadvertent mistakes along the way. Many of them had light brown hair, although here and there was a shocking blonde or a redhead. There were blue eyes of every shade, green eyes, and a few anomalies of hazel and brown.

  Most of the ladies were young, which must be the other Chosen, but here and there, a plump matriarch watched over a group of them like a protective hen with her chicks. Samiris thought of how her father had sent her to the capital so she could see more of the world. She scoffed internally. She had seen a broader cross-section of the world’s people sitting at the well-worn bar in Faro than she did in this atrium.

  After a moment of blatant appraisal, most of the ladies turned back to their conversations. Samiris spotted Narcise at the center of the room, surrounded by the same ladies as before, as if they were her personal guard. While Samiris watched, Narcise looked her up and down. Then her smile grew into something feline and genuine, as if someone had just given her a delightful gift that she couldn’t wait to tear to pieces. She turned to the nearest girl, whispered something in her ear, and the girl tittered behind a lace glove.

  Samiris felt the color rise in her cheeks, as inexorable as the tide. Aster abandoned her to stand in line with the other maids against the far wall, becoming part of the backdrop. Samiris wished that she could go with her. She scanned the room with the same desperation as a sailor searching for safe harbor in a storm. Seeing Cyra standing at the edge of the social whirlpool, she fled to her.

  Cyra’s dress was considerably more fashionable than Samiris’. It was the same light blue as a robin’s egg, with a plain white underskirt. Cyra’s pale shoulders were on display, and although the dress was cotton, not silk, she blended in better than Samiris did, a cheaper version of the same item instead of something else altogether. Cyra nodded at her, but said nothing as Samiris stood by and wrung her fingers like they were a wet rag.

  A servant in black breeches, crisp white shirt and black jacket rang a small bell and stepped back. It was only a small, single ding, as unobtrusive as the chirp of a cricket, but it meant something to the other ladies, who as one, turned toward the buffet table and served themselves.

  Samiris followed Cyra in line for the food, marveling at the abundance of different dishes. Samiris wrinkled her nose at the silver platter of butter tarts, but helped herself to quiches, steaming hot sausages, fruit, and jam biscuits. Her plate was mounded by the time she took a seat across from Cyra at the far end of the last table. No one sat next to them, and Samiris was grateful, even if Cyra remained silent as the dense floral arrangement between them.

  “Ladies, ladies,” a woman said, stepping onto the platform at the front of the room. She was tall and thin and rosy-cheeked, her two alabaster hands fluttering in the air like frightened doves.

  “The Lady Hendria Viado,” Cyra murmured to Samiris.

  Samiris wondered if Cyra had actually taken the time to read the Notable Persons section of the Chosen Handbook, but she nodded her polite thanks.

  Lady Hendria’s hands came to roost together over her more-than-ample bosom.

  “Ladies,” she repeated, in an airy voice, “we know that you are all honored to be here.”

  Thankfully, Samiris’ unladylike snort was covered by the appreciative murmuring of the other ladies in attendance.

  “And we are further honored to be attended today by none other than Her Imperial and Royal Excellency, Ilisbeta Brandice Moraan Monterosso, Empress Dowager of Leiria.”

  Small gasps of surprise echoed around the gallery as Lady Hendria gestured to the balcony above, where two ladies were now seated. Artem and four other guards, wearing the crisp red uniform and black feather plumage of the royal guard, encircled them. Samiris noticed the stiff lines of Artem’s shoulders under his red coat, the strained muscles in his neck. He looked tense.

  The women in the atrium rose and then curtsied toward the figure who was in the largest, highest seat in the balcony. Samiris followed suit, but her curtsy was not quite as graceful or as deep as the other ladies.

  Samiris sat back down upon her cushioned seat, and proceeded, along with every other newcomer, to inspect the Empress. Though Samiris had heard gossip of the Crown Prince, she was not at all prepared for the Empress Dowager.

  Empress Ilisbeta was short, plump, ruddy-faced, and smiling broadly, genuinely happy to see them all. Were it not for the diamonds and pearls encrusted over the woman’s entire person like precious barnacles on the side of a golden ship, Samiris could have mistaken the Empress Dowager for a sun-burned milk-maid. She was a stark contrast to the lovely woman beside her,
who frowned as if someone had just delivered grave news.

  “Hallooo,” Empress Ilisbeta called out in a coarse voice, as she bounced up and down on her throne, while waving a large hand in the ladies’ direction. “Welcome, welcome! I hope you are all settling in,” she said, righting her crown, which had slipped a little during her effusions. “I am so very happy you are here. This is an exciting time for us all...”

  The woman to the right of the Empress Dowager leaned forward slightly. The movement caught Samiris’ eye. The lady was stunning. Her red hair was the color of an oak leaf in autumn, and in sharp contrast to the current fashion, it hung loose around her shoulders in thick, curling waves. Her skin was as dewy and flawless as a spring morning. Her nose was straight and pert, her lips full and the color of a newly-budded rose. Perfect brows arched over intelligent brown eyes.

  Her dress was simpler than that of the Empress Dowager, but the quality was just as fine. She studied each girl in turn with slightly parted lips, and as Samiris watched, the lady’s brown eyes landed on hers. Her flawless eyebrow rose, and a flicker of amusement played over her full lips as she returned Samiris’ gaze. Then her attention passed on to Cyra, then the next girl at the table. Samiris noticed that the lady’s gaze lingered on the blondes the longest, and she momentarily wondered why.

  Samiris’ attention was diverted by the polite applause that had sprung up around her, surprising her like a rogue wave at the beach. The Empress Dowager must have said something at least somewhat worthy of acknowledgment. Samiris offered a few half-hearted claps so she didn’t stand out from the crowd, but her eyes lingered on the redheaded lady next to the Empress Dowager.

  “That’s Lady Evanora Zanash,” Cyra murmured as the Empress began speaking again, noting Samiris’ gaze. “She is rumored to be the most powerful woman in the castle, apart from the Empress Dowager herself. They say that if you cross her, you disappear.”

  As Cyra spoke, Lady Evanora’s eyes flickered to Cyra, as if she had heard the near-silent words from her lips. Then they flicked away again as quickly as they had landed, like indecisive birds. Samiris wondered how Cyra, a girl from lands more Southern than her own, knew details about the Northern court.

  “Tonight,” the Empress Dowager was saying, “there is a formal dinner to celebrate your arrival to our court. Tomorrow, Lady Evanora, Lady Elise, Lady Hendria and I will meet with you all to get to know you better.”

  Samiris glanced at Lady Elise, who was seated at the far end of the room. Lady Elise seemed to inflate like a puff pastry in the oven at being acknowledged by the Empress.

  “But before all that, I thought you might like to see the reason you are all here...” the Empress paused, and the tension in the room heightened as if they were a pot of water set over a roaring flame. “May I present my son, the future Emperor of Leiria, His Imperial and Royal Excellency, Crown Prince Fitzhumphrey Augustus Monterosso, forever may he reign.”

  The Empress Dowager’s face split into a wide, genuine grin as a hulking figure in the background shuffled forward. Samiris was so entranced by the look of pure motherly love on the Empress Dowager’s face that for a moment, she didn’t look at the person now standing in the forefront.

  Samiris instantly felt sorry for him. His pale skin was flushed with a blush, his dark brown eyes downcast, his pudgy fingers tangled together in front of his protruding belly. He wasn’t as bald as Samiris had heard, but that was the only redeeming factor. Although nearly as tall as Artem, Fitzhumphrey was twice as wide, and his shoulders were the narrowest part of his torso.

  Samiris thought, with some sympathy, that he was the shape of a poorly made clay pot by an apprentice. Narrow at the top and at the feet, with a distended, squat belly that hung in an ill-concealed fold over a belt desperately cinched to keep his pants from absconding their difficult task and retreating to the floor. His cheeks hung full and low on his face like two half-filled water-skins. Scraggly brown hair lay limp across his head.

  It was hard for Samiris to imagine that he had once been the object of a fae princess’ affections. She wondered if Fitzhumphrey could remember what it felt like to be strong, confident and desired. She wondered, as she curtseyed low with the others, if those memories would make his current state more or less bearable.

  “Well, say something, dearest,” the Empress Dowager prodded, kindly.

  “Hullo,” Fitzhumphrey dutifully replied, giving a half-hearted wave to the sea of glittering women assembled below.

  “Tell them a little about yourself, darling,” his mother encouraged, smiling. “They’ve come all this way to meet you.”

  “Er... I like inventing things,” he said, more to his mother than to the ladies. It was only because the room was so silent that Samiris was able to hear him.

  “What kinds of things?” the Empress asked, nodding and smiling as if Fitzhumphrey were a very small child.

  “I invented the boiler system in the castle,” he said, looking in the direction of his boots. Though he wouldn’t likely be able to glimpse them, with that large expanse of stomach in the way. “And I invented a self-winding well and figured out how to make carriages not bounce as much when they go over bumps.”

  Samiris frowned and looked around the room. Without fail, every face was upturned like flowers toward the sun, the expressions ranging from raptured delight to pure, mercenary interest. Even Cyra’s face showed how attentive she was, although she, at least, was not smiling.

  No one was bothered by his answer. No one thought it was amiss that the leader of their floundering nation was spending time making those who could afford to keep carriages even more comfortable. Most of his people went to bed hungry every single night, and he was working on bump-less carriages?

  Samiris’ frown deepened into a scowl. She looked up again, and met Artem’s eyes. He had been watching her. His eyes bored into hers. He was standing near the Crown Prince, his posture protective, his expression defiant.

  “What else, dear?” the Empress Dowager said, enthralled with her son’s words.

  “Right now I’m working on a better way to trap bats and also a self-emptying chamber pot.”

  Samiris held Artem’s gaze and raised her eyebrow at Fitzhumphrey’s words. Artem clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes in response.

  “How wonderful,” the Empress said. “Now, I think we’ve delayed these ladies’ breakfast long enough. Say goodbye, dearest.”

  Fitzhumphrey gave another limp wave. “Bye.”

  Applause broke out as the Empress Dowager, Fitzhumphrey, and their retinue moved off the balcony, out of sight. Artem was the last to leave. Noting Samiris’ sarcastic slow clap and her sullen frown, he scowled at her one last time before following the Crown Prince out.

  The ladies sat and conversation billowed once more. Samiris stuffed herself on the food, not caring that others had stopped eating long before she pushed her empty plate back. Her stomach ached and felt as taut as a ripe melon, but she had not eaten until she was truly full in years.

  The chaperones dispersed quickly, Lady Elise exclaiming in a carrying voice how much she had to do before dinner, and how much the Empress Dowager needed her. Samiris felt rather than saw, a grouping of ladies move to the end of the table where she and Cyra were seated.

  “There they are,” Narcise sneered. “Coffee and milk.”

  Samiris did her best to ignore the cruel words, and Narcise smirked as if she could see her effort. Samiris looked the grouping over. Narcise was in the center, flanked by four other girls who were all just a little less beautiful than she, except the blonde girl to Narcise’s right, who outshone them all. That was saying something--Narcise had skin like the finest silk, a pert nose, big brown eyes fringed with thick lashes that reminded Samiris of an innocent deer, and a thick mane of chestnut waves. Samiris could tell that underneath that heavenly visage was the cunning of a red fox, the pride of a peacock, and the kill in
stinct of a Northern wolf.

  “Hello,” the blonde girl to the right of Narcise fairly yelled. She gave an energetic wave and a guileless smile. “How. Are. You? My. Name. Is. Ladonna.” She pointed to herself. “Ladonna.”

  Each word was enunciated, loud and slow. Ladonna’s smile was wide, her expression vacant, and Samiris looked between her innocent eyes and Narcise’s pinched face and a slow smile spread across Samiris’ face.

  “Lovely to meet you, Ladonna,” Samiris said.

  “Oh, you speak our language quite well, actually,” Ladonna said. “Good for you. You ladies are from the South, right? What an exciting journey that must have been.”

  “Shut up, Ladonna,” Narcise said.

  “Alright, then,” Ladonna said, smiling.

  “What did you do?” Narcise gasped, as she peered down at Samiris’ plate. “Did you spit out the seeds?” Her tone was one of fascinated disgust, as if she were a scientist who had just discovered a new, repulsive species.

  Samiris looked down at her porcelain plate, where she had carefully spit out and sorted several small piles of seeds. She hadn’t even thought about what she was doing, had been so concerned with eating quickly and not engaging that she hadn’t been careful enough, hadn’t paid attention...

  “I...” Samiris started, her cheeks flushing.

  “My word,” Narcise said, wicked delight alighting on her face. “Are you saving those seeds? Going to take them home and plant them, farmer?”

  Samiris blushed to the roots of her hair. Because she had indeed been saving the seeds. It was habit, at home, to spit out any seeds for replanting. They were carefully dried and sorted, preserved until next spring in their pantry.

  Samiris gritted her teeth, twisted her fingers into the brown silk brocade she wore, and focused her attention into her lap. She hated this dress, hated how it blended with her skin. She hated Narcise. She hated being Chosen.