A Sharpened Axe

by Jill M Beene

  Though the others kept riding, Samiris paused once again at the overlook. Artem paused behind her. The Sands were the same as they had been hours ago, the city just beyond it. It was Samiris that was different. From this vantage point, Samiris could see how the wall separated the Sands from the backyards of a row of townhouses. She compared the verdant emeralds of growth and elegant buildings on one side of the wall to the ramshackle buildings and pitiful gardens on the other. She noted the muck of the road through the Sands, the sad buildings leaning against each other as if for support, and the ever-present threat of flooding in the form of the river beside them. Then she flicked her reins and moved on.

  When they reached the castle, Samiris was content to be ignored by the ladies who clustered around the Crown Prince like chickens waiting for him to throw down some grain. She handed the reins of the mare off to Deems, who shot Samiris a sneaky smile. They had a shared secret of porridge and the breeches she wore down to breakfast every morning. Samiris realized that even if she had lost Cyra as a friend, perhaps there were others.

  “Thank you,” she said, grinning.

  He gave her a jaunty wink in return and led the mare away. Samiris looked up to see Artem frowning down at her from his impressive height atop Behemoth. Her smile halted and slid backwards into a frown as Artem’s eyes narrowed and followed Deems’ figure out of the courtyard. Artem’s expression looked like someone had waved a platter of dead rats beneath his nose. Samiris rolled her eyes, patted Behemoth’s neck affectionately, and retreated to the castle.

  She was exhausted when she reached her chambers. She had spent hours propped awkwardly in a sidesaddle, and had spent the rest of the day deep in thought, wrestling with her own pre-conceptions and mistakes. So she wasn’t as polite to Aster as she could have been when she saw the coins.

  “What,” she said, pointing to the small velvet pouch on the her dressing table, “is that?”

  Even from her position in the doorway, Samiris could see the faint glimmer of gold winking from the depths of the purse.

  Aster stiffened, and her eyes widened in fear. “I didn’t touch it, my lady. I swear it.”

  “It didn’t occur to me that you did,” Samiris said, looking at her servant quizzically. “I asked what it is. Specifically, how did it get here?”

  “Oh,” Aster said, her posture loosening in relief. “It’s your allowance. The master of coin brought it around an hour ago.”

  “My... allowance?” Samiris repeated, still looking confused. “Beyond the money for dresses, you mean?”

  “Of course.”

  “But what am I to spend it on?”

  Aster’s forehead wrinkled in concentration, and she leaned forward as if to listen closely to the rest of the question.

  “Well, whatever you want,” she finally said.

  “Whatever I want?” Samiris strode over to the dressing table, and up-ended the velvet pouch. Gold coins rained out over the polished surface, and several escaped to the floor, skittering away like frightened mice.

  Aster rushed forward to pick them up before Samiris had to stoop.

  “There are twelve gold hektes in here, Aster,” she said.

  “The same as when the master of coin left the purse,” she said quickly, depositing the gold coins on the tabletop as if they were hot coals.

  “I have enough food to get fat. I have a budget for stupid frippery and dresses I never want to wear. I have a safe roof over my head, a fire that appears in my grate every morning, and they send me an allowance?”

  “Er, yes.”

  “How often?” Samiris said, through clenched teeth. “How often will I get this allowance?”

  “The master of coin said weekly.”

  “Do you know,” Samiris said, holding up a single gold coin to catch the light, “how much one of these is worth?”

  “Yes. I’ve never had one myself, but I know how many silver therons go to a gold hekte, and I’ve had some of those.”

  Samiris was silent, flipping the same gold coin over and over in her fingers, watching the light glint over the impression of the face stamped into the gold, a face commissioned so many generations ago that it bore no resemblance to the ancestor who now sat the throne.

  “What on earth am I supposed to do with them?” she said, clenching her teeth. “How could I possibly buy something, anything, and enjoy it, when the thing that I want most, my father’s health, is now out of my grasp?”

  “I don’t know,” Aster murmured. “But the other ladies were talking about visiting the village tomorrow. Lady Yahir wants to find a chocolate shop, and Lady Narcise wants new long gloves with pearls up the side.”

  Samiris was silent for long moments, then said, “I’ll take a drink tonight.”

  After Samiris bathed and dressed for bed, Aster brought in a crystal decanter filled with a deep liquid brown the same shade as Samiris’ eyes. Samiris sat in front of the fire, late into the night, nursing the same glass that she started with, the gold hektes lined up beside her on the table, as orderly and regimented as an army battalion.

  Currency was simple. Ten copper fols to one silver theron. Thirty silver therons to one gold hekte. Samiris had played with a gold hekte once, when her father had bought a piece of land. She picked one up. The heavy gold piece grew warm in her hand as she studied it. She traced the strong jaw and nose of the handsome ruler engraved upon one side. Samiris tried to find something of Fitzhumphrey in the image, but she couldn’t.

  Before dawn’s light streaked the sky, she decided that just because she couldn’t purchase her father’s health, didn’t mean she couldn’t do something.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The Chosen gathered the next morning for breakfast in a small sitting room. This one was rather morbidly decorated with the paintings of the Chosen who had performed and failed the Questioning Ceremony. These paintings were considered a high honor, as they were displayed in the castle alongside paintings of Royalty. Samiris thought it was a little sick.

  “So beautiful,” one of the Chosen murmured up at the paintings. As if they could hear her, as if they would be gratified to know her opinion.

  “So dead,” Samiris snapped.

  The girl frowned at Samiris and turned away.

  Overhead, four large paintings hung, the corners of their carved and gilded frames touching. It was appropriate, Samiris thought, for these women were more connected by their death than they ever were in life. She wondered if one of these women had once stood in her place, gazing up at the others with no idea that her image would be pinned up next to theirs, like some fresh addition to a sick butterfly collector’s menagerie.

  The frames were carved with different themes, and a small brass plaque had a name and a year attached. Rosamund’s frame was carved with musical instruments, notes and sheet music. Calliope was edged in a woodland motif-- flowers, trees, birds and grasses. Morgana’s gilt container paid tribute to horses. The fourth girl was Beatrice.

  Samiris recognized the name. This was the prince’s one love. She looked at the portrait with new interest. Beatrice had been a plain, chubby girl, with eyes that were too small in her doughy face to be called beautiful. But the artist had captured the kindness in their blue depths. Her round cheeks were buoyed by the genuine smile on her face. Unlike many of the others who had looked at the painter as if he held a sword pointed in their direction, Beatrice met the viewer’s eyes with confidence.

  This was a woman sure of her love. This was a woman sure of her victory. Her posture was one of barely-contained energy. She looked like a bird before it took flight, as if she was ready to bolt, as if she could not wait to be asked the three questions, as if she could not wait to join her love on the raised dais of this kingdom. But she failed and the prince was heartbroken. The girl who came a year later didn’t even stand a chance.

  Samiris’ dark thoughts were in
terrupted by the arrival of the Empress’ ladies. Lady Elise, Lady Evanora and Lady Hendria swept in and took their seats, one at each of the three round tables. The Chosen hurried to sit nearest to them. Samiris hung back and smiled at the inevitable pecking order that had emerged.

  Narcise was seated to Lady Evanora’s right, and looked as proud as a stuffed peacock to have the honor. Ladonna was on Lady Evanora’s left, but didn’t seem to understand that she should feel gratified. Despite her choice in friends, Samiris couldn’t find it in herself to dislike Ladonna. She was the same as a pet--innocent in all things, even if the owner turned it mean.

  When all the Chosen had been seated, there was one surprising chair left at Lady Evanora’s table. Lady Evanora met Samiris’ gaze and nodded regally at the seat. Samiris took it, and her lips curled involuntarily at the look of irritation that spread over Narcise’s face.

  Servants brought out trays of pastries, silver carafes of coffee, crystal pitchers filled with foam-topped juice, platters of sausage and bacon, little bowls with poached eggs topped in caviar and cream. Samiris watched the ladies react to the gorgeous abundance of food. Not one of them, save perhaps Cyra, was as amazed as she was.

  It was like a choreographed dance, the way these ladies ate, the way they sat, and smiled, their tittering laughter, all the same, like a flock of trained birds. Samiris wondered when they had all started to conform. Was this a process that started at birth? And who picked the rules? Who decided that a lady’s pinky must be uplifted, that her hair must be just so, that her laugh had to be breathy and controlled? Who decided all this? And how did that person get all of them to agree?

  “I don’t eat bread,” Narcise stated, breaking Samiris’ train of thought.

  Narcise pushed an offending plate of rolls further from her plate, as if they would taint her food by proximity.

  “You don’t eat bread,” Cyra repeated, her brow wrinkled, her delicate head cocked to the side.

  “Not unless I won’t be seen in public for at least a week,” Narcise said, patting her tiny, corseted stomach. “I tell everyone I’m allergic. I want to be as thin as possible for Courting Season.” Then she smiled conspiratorially at Cyra, and laid a bony hand on her slight arm. “Well, you know what I’m saying.”

  Cyra turned her head away quickly, her small smile only visible to Samiris, who couldn’t muster enough amusement to smile at all. It was there again, that gulf between North and South. It nearly took her breath away, that Cyra was thin because there was no other option open to her, and Narcise and the others were thin because it was considered fashionable.

  “Has it ever occurred to you that you should be more concerned with what comes out of your mouth than by what goes into it?” Samiris said, then took an obscene bite of a cherry tart for emphasis.

  Narcise sniffed in disdain. “Some of us don’t eat everything we see. Not all of us have the metabolism of a field hand.”

  “Starving people don’t have the luxury of fake allergies,” Samiris said, her mouth still full.

  “Ladies,” Lady Evanora said, an amused smile on her lips. “Let’s discuss something more appropriate. I’m here to see if any of you have any questions about the Choosing process.”

  Samiris plowed through eggs and sausage while Narcise dominated the conversation. Narcise was determined to keep Lady Evanora’s attention solely on her, and the other ladies at the table seemed to be in silent agreement that they would let her.

  So it surprised everyone when Cyra said, “Can you tell us anything about the curse?”

  Samiris’ eyebrows raised. This was much more interesting than Narcise’s banal questions about etiquette and the royal court. This Samiris would like to hear.

  Lady Evanora turned her sharp green eyes to Cyra. Instead of the firm but polite rebuttal they all had been expecting, she said, “What would you like to know?”

  Cyra thought for a moment. “If the fae princess was so powerful, why did she include a way out in her spell? Why leave the possibility that the spell may one day be broken?”

  “Every lock must have a key,” Lady Evanora said. “It’s the law, and magic is dependent upon laws more than anything else.”

  “How can you say that, when magic defies all natural order, all natural laws?” Cyra asked.

  “Magic does not break natural laws. It bends them to its will. That’s what magic does. It bends the natural order, but it cannot recreate it entirely. Even in this case, you can see the limitations. For instance, magic can pull all the fertility from certain farmlands, but that power, that energy, it has to go somewhere. In this case, it is centered here, at the palace.”

  “Lady Evanora, why do you think the fae princess did it?” Narcise said, fluttering her eyelashes at Lady Evanora as if it were she, not the Crown Prince, who required wooing.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well,” Narcise dithered, her eyes downcast modestly. “I have heard rumors...”

  “Ladies,” Lady Evanora said, laying her white hand upon Narcise’s forearm. “It is just us here. If you have any questions about the curse, now is the time to ask.”

  Narcise blushed prettily at Lady Evanora’s display of familiarity and began again. It was so artfully done between the two of them, Samiris thought that it was difficult to ascertain who was playing whom.

  “Some say that the reason the fae princess was so angered was because she truly loved the prince. Others say that it was his denial to bed her that caused the rift, when the prince’s prowess for lovemaking was so legendary.”

  Here, many of the group tittered and were shushed by others. Samiris tamped down a smile of her own. The thought of blubberous Prince Fitzhumphrey doing anything more than bestowing a clumsy, overly-wet kiss was enough to make anyone scoff.

  Narcise ignored her companions and soldiered on. “There are others who say that the fae princess would have cursed the kingdom no matter what the prince did, that she was angry and could not be placated.”

  Lady Evanora gazed off into the fading light of the gardens, her full lips pursed, her expression distant. “I can’t say I agree with any of those theories. If the prince had agreed to bed her, she would have had complete control of him, and would not have cursed the kingdom. However, she didn’t love him, and as a member of the fairy royal family, she had her choice of consorts.”

  “Then why?” Samiris was surprised to hear herself protesting.

  Lady Evanora’s eyes lighted on Samiris. “I think it was a far more logical reason that drew her here. Leiria was the crowning achievement of the world, and Teymara was the glittering diamond in that crown. Even with all their magic, the land of the fae could not compare in size or brilliance. And modern! At the time, Leiria was much more forward-thinking than the land of the fae. It was this backwardness that caused them to shut themselves off from the realm of humans, permanently.”

  Lady Evanora’s lips pressed together firmly for a long moment, then she continued, “I believe that she wanted to be in the most beautiful city in the world. Being who she was, she also wanted power. Her overtures to the Crown Prince were just a means to an end. When he refused, she took what she wanted, anyways.”

  “Do you really think it was that simple?” Narcise asked eagerly, turning her back toward Samiris.

  Narcise had recovered from her temporary stupor, and was determined to regain control of Lady Evanora’s attention through conversation. Samiris smirked.

  “I do,” Lady Evanora said. “Who wouldn’t want to live here, in the midst of all this beauty, forever?”

  Cyra said, “Then why didn’t she cast a love spell and make the Crown Prince wed her for love?”

  “A love spell is a myth,” Lady Evanora replied with a regal smile. “Love is the most tangled, the most complicated emotion in existence. It is completely different for every person, and therefore, impossible to replicate in a spell. That is pa
rt of what makes the curse so genius. It can only be broken by love, not infatuation, not lust, not pity or duty. Were the fae still in contact with the human world, even they could not help.”

  They sat in silence, digesting what Lady Evanora had said.

  “Of course,” Lady Evanora said, “the curse should have been broken by the fae princess’ death. We can only hope that there is someone who can truly love the Crown Prince and that the spell will be broken soon. And of course, that lady will be Empress someday.”

  Narcise simpered when Lady Evanora’s eyes landed on her.

  Lady Evanora continued, “But for most of you, the Choosing is nothing more than a way to get wonderful exposure to the other male options that the royal court has to offer. So tell me, ladies, and speak freely. Has anyone special caught your eye?”

  There were many twittering laughs and several blushes at this statement. Samiris was surprised to see that Lady Evanora’s eyes were on her, a questioning expression on her face.

  “Me?” Samiris said, surprised.

  Lady Evanora nodded regally. “Has anyone caught your eye?”

  Samiris laughed, a deep, honest sound that surprised even her. Narcise’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, and she looked back and forth between Lady Evanora and Samiris with jealousy.

  “No,” Samiris said, flatly, when she recovered from her shocked amusement. “I have no interest in marriage or men.”

  “I’ve heard a rumor that you will be required to marry in order to secure your father’s estate.”

  Samiris jolted a little with shock, then thought better of the emotion. Of course the Empress had compiled background information on each of the Chosen. It only made sense, if one of them was the potential future spouse of her son. But Samiris was not used to being a topic of conversation, was not used to anyone knowing her business if she had not been the one to tell them.