The Copper Crown

by Patricia Kennealy-Morrison

  "I am sorry we startled you," said Melangell. "But this is my cousin Slaine. Aeron's cousin too, of course; there are rather a lot of us. Slaine, Lieutenant Sarah O'Reilly."

  "Just O'Reilly," said that individual hastily.

  "Your name in our language would be Sorcha," said Slaine in a crisp pleasant voice. "The names are not translations, but the sound is close enough."

  "I should not presume," said O'Reilly with a certain diffidence, "but I do like the sound of it."

  Melangell laughed. "Enough, Slaine, you are embarrassing her... We have spoke but little together, you and I, since our time on Inishgall. How is it with you, truly?"

  "Oh--" O'Reilly's heart filled, and words failed. She spread her hands helplessly, and shook her head, and the face she turned to Melangell was one of shy and shining joy.

  The face told Melangell all she needed to know. The three sat for a while without speaking further, listening to the sea far below, the light wind in the oak-leaves, the sounds of early evening drifting up from the palace.

  O'Reilly stifled a string of violent sneezes; her damned allergies had tracked her even to Keltia, and she would have to see a medic about it. The quality of the silence was marvelous, and she did not wish to disturb it with sneezes. Then, from the open windows of a nearby tower, a sound so beautiful rose up that she instantly forgot both her sneezing and her self-consciousness. Someone was playing a clarsa, and the clear ringing loveliness floated out over the palace gardens and up the slope to where the women sat. Slow it was, and fair it was, and freighted with that long-familiar lonely longing that O'Reilly knew could never be explained to any who had not already felt it in their own hearts.

  So, she thought, they know that here too. I rather thought they might... "Tell me about Aeron," she said into the silence, when the music had died away at last into a final magical shimmer.

  "What would you wish to know?"

  "Anything. She is so--so different."

  "Certainly she is that. She was born to be Ard-rian, O'Reilly; ever since her earliest childhood, her education and her training have been geared to that knowledge. The real tragedy is that no one ever expected her to succeed her father so young. She should not, in the ordinary way, have become Queen until she was at least eighty years old. Our average lifespan is longer than you Terrans', and most monarchs are in mid-age, the full flower of their years, at their accessions. But Fionnbarr wed late, and Emer did not conceive for some years. She was exceptionally young when they married, and they delayed--some thought irresponsibly, some thought wisely--in ensuring the direct succession."

  "What kind of training did Aeron have?"

  "Everything Fionnbarr and his advisors thought she might someday stand in need of," said Slaine. "Though all those near to the throne are given such training as might befit a possible future monarch. But Aeron had some years first of all at the Ban-draoi schools; then the Fianna training academy, the Bardic Colleges and the Hill of Laws--the brehon school. Then back to the Ban-draoi to finish her magical schooling. Even for a Queen she is well-educated, though as a child she was naturally shy. A princess and future Ard-rian cannot be permitted shyness, so Emer pounded social graces into her. Now, Rioghnach and Kieran were pests of hell when small, and that is not permitted either." She and Melangell exchanged amused glances.

  "Who are--does she have many friends? I mean, not royal or noble, but--" Unaccountably, O'Reilly blushed deeply.

  Melangell heard the behind-thought. "She is already very fond of you and Theo both. I have noticed that before now, and I think it very good. Well, she has a great number of folk full eager to claim her as friend--as all rulers must have--but in truth, outside her own family and foster-kin and childhood companions, she is close to relatively few. And those few, you may well imagine, guard that friendship as a treasure and a trust. And nay, by no means are they all noble! Bar Morwen, her closest woman friend is Sabia ni Dalaigh, who met Aeron when they were students at the Ban-draoi school at Scartanore. Sabia's family have been horse-breeders on Erinna, farmers, for longer than the Aoibhells have ruled Keltia. Aeron's black mare, Bronach, was a coronation gift from Sabia, in fact--a magnificent creature, the O Dalaigh raise fine beasts. Aeron is great friends also with several other families, the Drummonds and the Camerons and the O Fortyn--old families, all of them, and courtiers for many generations, but none of them noble. True, most of her High Council is of titled rank, but that is plain politics. Look rather at the Privy Council; save for various Aoibhells and Kerrigans, it is all untitled."

  Emboldened by such candor, O'Reilly dared to press on to satisfy her consuming curiosity.

  "She seems to have more of a--personal life than I thought a Queen could manage to have."

  Slaine gave a delicate snort. "Very like! In nothing was that more clearly seen than in her marriage with Roderick."

  "How is that?"

  "Her parents pushed very hard--and gods, that Emer knew how to push--for a formal religious ceremony, so that Roderick would in the fullness of time become King-Consort. Aeron dug in her heels and refused to contract anything other than a brehon union for the traditional lunar year--perfectly honorable, and dissolvable upon either party's public declaration. Royal heirs often contract such marriages, chiefly for the protection of any issue born of the union. But kings-consort of Keltia are not wedded so, and her parents were ill pleased."

  "But she loved Roderick?"

  "That's an odd thing," said Melangell reflectively. "I for one believe she did, and very much. She hero-worshipped him, certainly; he was eight years older than she, and she had known him since her childhood."

  "What was he like?"

  "Rhodri? He was Morwen's eldest brother, the Prince of Scots and Chief of the Name of Douglas, a master-bard, a poet and a chaunter; he made songs and poems that will some of them be sung for a thousand years. But--how to say this--he lived almost entirely in the 'here'. He was neither Druid nor Dragon, and, save for that which all bards must learn, magic seemed to play but small part in his life. Aeron is made otherwise, and for that reason I and others have ever thought it was Gwydion who was her true soul's soul, and I think Aeron knew that also. Yet Gwydion and Rhodri were dear friends."

  "But Rhodri--Roderick--died."

  "And you have heard, I am sure, what eraic Aeron took as payment from those who wrought his death. But she never spoke his name again, not openly, once the state funerals were done; not unless she has done so to Morwen or Gwydion or Rohan. Certainly no one else has ever heard her speak of him." Melangell fell briefly silent. "Roderick, for all his virtues, was like the rest of us, or the most of us. Gwydion and Aeron, for all their faults, are two of a kind unlike nearly all of us. If they do choose to wed, and I think they shall... it will be either triumph or calamity, for the realm as well as for themselves. There is no middle ground for those two."

  Chapter Eleven

  Kynon had for two weeks been involved in the whirlwind courtship of Athenee Mikhailova. Arianeira had been correct in her assessment: Once coaxed past her initial reticence, Athenee had been eagerly, almost pathetically, grateful for Kynon's attentions, and had responded to the Kymro's overtures with a sort of half-disbelieving, half-astonished delight.

  So Kynon led her the sorry little dance, day after day, night after night. Not, he admitted, that it was in truth so great a hardship; Athwenna was young enough, certainly pretty enough, and hardly stupid or dour either. In fact, over the past fortnight, she had bloomed into real radiance, and had let down her guard to confide in him all sorts of fears and hopes and memories. In spite of himself, he had come to be genuinely fond of her, and at certain moments had felt true regret for the part she was being unwittingly groomed to play in his and Arianeira's schemes. And she came to trust him; so that when at last he touched upon the questions which were for him the object of the exercise, she did not at first understand what he meant.

  "Go aboard the Sword?" she repeated, as amused as she was amazed by the suggestion. "I'm afraid th
at's fairly impossible; the ship is in starharbor, even we don't go out to her. Why would you even want to?"

  "Only to see it," said Kynon smoothly, covering his annoyance. "After all, it is part of our history now; but more than that, it is part of your life. It is what brought you to Keltia, Athwenna--and to me." He kissed the hand he held, one part of his mind coldly noting her blush at the caress. "Any road, I know little about such matters," he went on. "Even about your own duties--what is it, now, that a technical officer does when she is away from her ship?"

  Mikhailova laughed. "Not very much, I'm sorry to say. My main job, as I think I've told you, is artificer--keeping the computers and the other machines aboard ship in good repair. I'm just a sort of fixer-general."

  "You are over-modest about it, I am sure. But during these enforced holidays, do you not keep your hand in at all? You might find our own computers of interest; they are living crystals, and some of them are capable of original thought processes."

  That caught her interest, and she began to speak enthusiastically of the capabilities of Terran computers in general and her own charges on the Sword in particular.

  "Well," said Kynon at last, "glad am I to know that Keltia is not behind the times, for all that she stands so far apart from the out-Wall worlds... Have you been in touch with your home, since you came here?"

  Mikhailova felt a small, though definite, tug of unease. He had never before paid such pointed attention to her work, had in fact given her instead the distinct impression that he was unversed in technological matters. But if he was, she mused, could it really matter if she answered...

  "I certainly have not, and I don't think the others have either; though I believe that your Queen has been in communication with our government." She took a long swallow of her drink. "Anyway, we'd need help to get through that Curtain Wall with any messages we sent from here."

  "So? But how if you sent them by way of your ship?"

  The fire of the usqueba shuddered down inside her. "Oh, that too, probably--do we have to talk about this?"

  "Nay, surely not, if you do not wish it. It is only that I know so little, and I am curious. You it is who interest me, Athwenna, you know that; your work only for that it is a part of you. You are weapons officer also, I hear."

  Her unease mushroomed into alarm, and she disengaged her hand from his, sitting forward, away from the arm that encircled her shoulders; suddenly it seemed more confining than comforting. But he was smiling into her eyes, and she felt herself melting, as happened every time...

  "Well, not officially, and only because we lost one of our crew in coldsleep." She leaned back again into his arm. "There isn't much call for a weapons officer on an exploratory, but you never know. Even the officer who died, Ensign Gro, had other duties; Tindal took on those--" Mikhailova held out her cup imperiously to be refilled, and Kynon attended to it at once. She knew perfectly well she was becoming dangerously tipsy, but all at once she did not care, and when he persisted in his questions about her work she allowed herself to react with angry annoyance.

  "Will you stop asking those things! I've told you before--"

  Kynon tilted her face up to his. "Do you not trust me?"

  "I--no--I don't know, damn you!" She pulled away from him, tears of panic beginning to glitter in the corners of her eyes. "You're just--different tonight."

  "I! Nay, anwyl, no different."

  "You are, you are!" She could not say how, exactly--the drink seemed to have made her hyperaware, had given her a sort of heightened telepathy, a psychic radar that was picking up all these nuances she really didn't want to know about... "You've never asked me questions like this before--"

  "What, because I ask a few questions, you lose all faith in my motives? Silly one, I ask about your work because it is important to you. I have no knowledge of my own concerning such things; all found knowledge is worth having. You first intrigued me for that you were a Terran, an out-worlder, that is true enough; but it has since come to be much more than that. Athwenna--say you not so?"

  The charm and force of personality Kynon exerted here was almost irresistible; but Mikhailova, whether it was indeed by grace of telepathy or simply because there was truth in whiskey as well as in wine, was suddenly certain of her disquiet's cause...

  "No," she said. "No, I do not say so."

  Even then he continued trying to persuade her, to gloze over the situation, but when it became plain that she would not, or could not, be placated, he stood up, his expression coldly contemptuous. There was obviously no point in prolonging the charade...

  "It is your right to say so, of course. But, Athwenna, it appears to me that it is you who have changed, not I. My sorrow that it should be so. But if you trust me so little, after having come so close--well, I will trouble you no more with my attentions. I had not thought you believed them so unfounded--or so unwelcome." He bowed with icy gallantry and was gone.

  Alone in the grianan, Mikhailova stared unhappily at the door. Could she really have been mistaken? It had certainly felt to her that she was being used, but--She had driven people away before with her own inner insufficiencies, imagining rebuffs and rejections where none was meant; perhaps she done the same thing here?

  After a while, stunned silence gave way to a dull wave of hurt and confusion and embarrassment. Her soul closed up like a clenched fist, and she turned her face away from the door; and presently, without any sound at all, Athenee began to weep.

  *

  Having left his grandfather feeding the gluttonous carp, Jaun Akhera passed once more between the guards and headed down the wide corridor that led to his own wing of the palace. As he passed a cloister arch that opened onto a fountain court, a glimpse of color caught his eye. He glanced aside to see Elathan, unattended.

  The Prince of Fomor sat in one of the cloister's broad open arches, his back against the curve of the carved spandrel and his attention fixed on the fountain. Plainly he had neither seen nor heard anyone pass by.

  Jaun Akhera paused in the cloister entrance, strangely drawn and also strangely diffident. He had few friends, was closest of all to his brother Sanchoniathon, and here was one who was not only his own age but an equal in rank and expectations as well. Still he hesitated to approach, to intrude upon the other's obvious desire for solitude. Perhaps Sancho would be a more welcome visitor?

  He was spared the decision, for Elathan, growing aware of the covert scrutiny, had twisted in the window and was now looking straight at him. The Fomori's face was polite, but no more.

  "Were you seeking me, lord?" he asked.

  Jaun Akhera came forward. "No," he said honestly, "I was not, but I am glad to have found you here." He nodded toward a stone seat in the courtyard, and Elathan, with some reluctance, slid from his seat and followed.

  "We had no chance to speak privily in the Painted Chamber," said Jaun Akhera when they were sitting side by side on the bench. A blossoming pear arched its snowy boughs above their heads. "What is Fomor's true thought about this war?"

  Elathan shrugged. "You heard the words of Fomor's King."

  "I heard Bres's opinion," corrected Jaun Akhera. "I have heard neither what yours is nor what your people's is likely to be."

  "My people will do as my father bids them. In any event, they are not over-fond of Keltia, and my father is not the only one in whom the memory of Bellator rankles. I am his heir, and so I support his decision. No more to it than that. Did Strephon send you?" he asked suddenly, turning to fix his companion with unexpectedly direct dark brown eyes.

  Jaun Akhera shook his head, spoke with shyness. "No--I only thought... perhaps you and I should be better acquainted, for the future if for no other reason."

  Elathan's laugh was mirthless. "The future! What is the future your grandfather and my father will bring about between them but more of the past?" He rose, and Jaun Akhera rose with him. "I do not know what protocol obtains between two princes of the blood, but I am a guest here, and very weary and I would withdraw. Until l
ater, then." He gave Jaun Akhera the nod customarily exchanged between royal equals and left the cloister.

  Jaun Akhera sat down again, losing himself in thought and the music of the fountain. Silks stirred behind him like soft wind, and a shower of pear blossoms fell into his lap. He reached out a hand without looking around, and after a moment a slim honey-colored hand slid into his, wrapping long thin jewelled fingers around his own.

  "I grow jealous of this Aeron Aoibhell," said Tinao. "Of late she is more in your thoughts than I." Her voice was cool and melodious, with just a touch of reproach, and, far below, annoyance.

  He laughed, brushing her hand with his lips, and leaned his head back against her waist as she stood behind the bench.

  "Even you, my leopardess, must give place a time now to the She-wolf. But I shall tame her presently."

  The beautiful almond eyes grew narrower. "I misdoubt that one will ever make a lapdog. She bites, does she not?"

  His smile vanished. "She does indeed," he said shortly. "But I shall blunt her fangs soon enough. Perhaps you would then care to have her as your personal slave?"

  She leaned over him, smiling, the blue-black hair rippling as she moved, swinging forward to veil him in two smooth dark wings.

  "Whyfor? I have you, do I not?"

  He twined his fingers in the thick glossy hair, pulling her head down to him, and did not trouble to answer.

  *

  "Is that all you have to tell me?"

  "I have said ten times over that the woman will not suit our purposes! Hu mawr! How many times more must I say so?" Kynon, pacing back and forth between windows and fireplace in Arianeira's grianan, ran his hand through his hair and threw the room's owner a glance of purest venom. How dared she sit there and look at him so--"Well, I have tried. We were wrong. Now it is your turn, lady."

  Arianeira's expression of smiling scorn grew deeper. "And now you shall see how it is that puppets are to be handled... I hope for all our sakes, Kynon, that Athwenna speaks not of your wooing--and your questions--to her Captain... or to anyone else, for that matter."