And just when my friend needed me the most, I was out playing lady of the court in a medieval land. I had visions of Shelly wandering the streets of Los Angeles without a dollar in her pocket, lost in the recesses of her mind and getting into god-knows-what trouble.
The guilt threatened to boil up and out of my throat, choking me.
Sounds of lords in angry conversation jerked me back into the present as I took the three steps up onto the royal platform at the end of the throne room. Said platform held a pair of curved oak tables extending out from either side of the throne in a shallow ‘C’ shape.
As soon as I stepped up the assembled nobles, each clad in a mélange of fur-trimmed robes or vividly colored mantles, turned to glare at me. I could swear that I heard a collective growl as I drew near. I heard my name said, in various degrees of anger, from up by the throne. That just made my morning. My stomach tied itself into yet another knot.
Ignoring the stares and glares I made my way up towards the front. Three men stood by the king’s empty seat, still engaged in heated conversation. I recognized the tallest, grimmest-looking one with the fringe of black beard as Lord Ivor. He was the only lord to wear armor, a sort of scaled-plate thing emblazoned with the sigil of a pale half-moon.
The muscular one, an older knight wearing gold-trimmed plate armor, was Commander Yervan of the Palace Guard. He’d been one of the few knights in my corner from practically the beginning, as he’d been present when I’d unmasked the Good King Benedict’s murderer.
As a matter of fact, he’d helped me take the last man of the group into custody. Lord Behnaz was still as red-faced and potbellied as ever. And he gave me a glare that was, if anything, a couple degrees colder than the collective court. If I’d been a piece of meat, I’d have been freezer burned by now.
“Ah, it is good of you to join us, Dame Chrissie,” Commander Yervan said smoothly. “We have been discussing you. And the matter of chairs.”
“Me. And…chairs?” I asked.
I cringed at how stupid that sounded. But I had absolutely no idea what was going on, and I’d entered this conversation around Act Two.
“It turns out that we are out of chairs, as every seat here is taken.” Yervan cast a hard look around the room as he added, “No one was willing to give up theirs. So, I went to the royal storeroom and was able to find a spare.”
He pointed at the chair he’d placed off in a corner. It was made in the same general design as the other chairs at the table, with flat, smooth arms and a vaguely trapezoidal shape that made the seat wider at the front than the back. It had the royal pattern resembling a fleur-de-lis carved on the back, and it was made of the same oak-y type of wood.
That was where the resemblance ended.
The wood itself had been treated or finished improperly, as if one side had been left to bleach in the sun. The fleur-de-lis on the back looked okay, but the chair’s other carvings had been defaced by someone with a pocket knife and a bad case of attention-deficit disorder. The seat cushion was ripped, lumpy, and splotched with a suspicious-looking set of brown and off-white stains. And to top it off, the damned thing tilted to one side.
This whole ‘attend the royal court’ thing was looking less glamorous by the minute.
“Well, I appreciate the gesture, Commander,” I said tightly. I walked over to the corner and tried to pick up the pathetic piece of furniture they’d assigned to me. The surface felt as sticky as a movie theatre floor in bad need of a mop. I did my best to ignore it.
The damned thing was heavy, but I would cut my own throat before I’d ask for help from anyone here. So, I went around to the back side and tilted the chair up on two legs. The legs made a fingernails-on-the-blackboard scraaaaaape, and every knight, lord, and lady in attendance made a face, cringed, or tried to cover their ears as I dragged the chair across the polished stone floor.
“What in all of Andeluvia is that ghastly noise?” King Fitzwilliam demanded, as he entered the room. A bunch of pages darted about him like a little school of tropical fish.
“Dame Chrissie has just located her chair, your Majesty,” Commander Yervan replied.
“That’s one thing taken care of, at least,” Fitzwilliam opined as he ascended the steps. Behnaz and Ivor took their seats and Yervan moved aside. The King took his royal seat, asking, “Are we ready to open the court for business, then?”
“Not yet, Sire. We have not determined where we can place her.”
Lords Ivor and Behnaz glared again, this time at each other. I suddenly realized what the heated discussion about me had involved. Since the first of the kingdom’s monarchs, the wing to the king’s left held lords from the Eastern Reaches. Those from the Western Reaches sat to the right. The more senior or influential one was, the closer they sat to the king.
I wasn’t from the eastern or western geographic area. I didn’t have family ties anywhere, either. I’d asked for a palace tower as my ‘lands’, which was in the exact center of the kingdom.
On top of that, no one wanted to claim me.
King Fitzwilliam considered. “Then Dame Chrissie shall be seated…behind and off to the side of the throne.”
I wasn’t exactly thrilled by that prospect, but the King had spoken. So, I tilted the chair up and dragged it over with the same piercing scraaaaaape across the stone floor.
“Your Majesty,” Yervan said respectfully. “It has ever been that only the Palace Guard may sit anywhere to the rear of the monarch. It is we who must stand between the royal body and an assassin’s blade.”
“Surely we can make an exception?”
“It’s your choice, Sire. Speaking as your protector, I must ask you to consider the value you place upon your own life.”
Fitzwilliam chewed his lip for a moment in irritation. “Very well, then. Dame Chrissie, come sit to the right of my throne.”
I tilted the chair up a third time. This time the scraaaaaape echoed like a banshee’s scream off the vaulted stone walls. A couple of people muttered curses and shivered in their fur-trimmed finery.
“Your Majesty, this is an outrage!” Lord Behnaz protested.
Fitzwilliam rolled his eyes. “Lord Behnaz, this is a mere seat change.”
“I am the lord paramount of the Western Reaches!” Behnaz thundered. He pounded the table with one beefy fist. “I and my predecessors have always sat at your right. This is a demotion, and I shall not stand for it!”
“So be it, Lord Behnaz. Since you are ungracious and grasping, Dame Chrissie shall sit to the left of my throne.”
Once again, I began pulling my chair with a scraaaaaape around behind the throne and over to the left. People had begun plugging their ears with their fingers, and even Fitzwilliam looked like he was grinding his teeth.
“Now I must protest!” Lord Ivor declared, as he crossed his arms and jutted his bony chin out like a bratty two year old. “It is bad enough that one is demoted and treated like a commoner at court. But you are sullying the reputation of House Ivor, the only house which has remained steadfastly loyal to your father since–”
“Enough!” Fitzwilliam roared. “Do I command a group of Andeluvian lords or a gaggle of sulky children? Dame Chrissie is to remain at my side, for I shall be tasking her with matters that pertain directly to this court.”
He let out an irritated sigh as he went on. “A compromise is in order. Dame Chrissie, during your first session at this royal court, you shall sit on the right, between me and Lord Behnaz. For the second, you shall sit on the left, between me and Lord Ivor, alternating each time you attend from now on. Is that acceptable to you?”
“Quite acceptable, Sire,” I choked out. Right now I dearly wished there was a hole in the floor I could jump into and zip closed behind me.
“Well that it should, for apparently you are the only one here with more common sense than a cart full of turnips!” That comment earned me an extra crop of sour looks from everyone at both tables as the King went on. “And should anyone else object, speak
up now, for there are many empty rooms in the dungeon, and I hate wasted space.”
With that, for one final time, I dragged the chair back around with that same soul-sucking scraaaaaape and shoved it into the space between the throne and the right hand table. Again, people plugged their ears; Fitzwilliam closed his eyes in pain, and a lady at the far end of one table broke down in tears.
Yes, this was easily the worst first day on the job I’d ever had.
I sat down in my chair, which made an ominous squeal. One of the legs shifted, tilting me ten degrees further to the right, while a lump in the stained cushion pressed into the side of my butt, making me wince. As I shifted to try and get comfortable, the chair’s left hand arm gave a pop and came off in my hand.
Fitzwilliam stared at me with incredulity. I’d probably laugh this off later, but right now? There was absolutely, positively, no way this could get any worse.
“Sire!” came the call of one of the royal pages from the throne room’s antechamber. “Mistress Xandra of the Parliament seeks an audience immediately!”
“Any member of Parliament can damn well go through the usual channels, without using a page to summon me like a schoolboy!” Fitzwilliam grumped.
But even as he spoke, Xandra fluttered into the room. She beat her wings as she soared up towards the throne. Then she spread her feathers and came in for a landing atop the table next to Lord Ivor. She let out a breathless ‘hoo!’.
“One greets your Majesty with quick courtesy,” she said, in a voice that quivered with strong emotion. “Quick courtesy, as one gives upon momentous tidings. One hopes offense is not taken, yet the speed of a galloping horse is sometimes more prudent than that of a–”
“Mistress Xandra,” King Fitzwilliam said, cutting her off. “This has been a most difficult start of the day for my court. Tidings are ill-timed. Unless someone has died, then I want you to schedule a time to be heard.”
Xandra cocked her head at the King. “One wonders if the ruler of men can also see into the future. For this one does bring tidings of death.”
That made me sit up. In fact, it made everyone sit up and take note.
“What tidings are these, Parliamentarian?”
“One is sad, sad indeed, to be the bearer of shocking news,” Xandra said, her voice lowering in sorrow. “For our beloved Albess has been slain most terribly by a rogue wyvern, and one shall not see another of her wisdom and kindness again.”
Chapter Sixteen
King Fitzwilliam looked pale, as if someone had leeched all blood and breath from him.
“The Albess is…but how?” His voice rose to bounce off the throne room’s massive overhead beams. “In the name of all the Noctua hold sacred, I charge you, tell me how!”
Xandra’s beak clacked in distress, but the sounds of yet another commotion from the antechamber drowned her out as three more owls soared in and hovered before the throne. Fitzwilliam motioned curtly to one of the nearby pages, who lugged out a black T-bar and placed it where Raisah and her two thuggish companions could perch. The trio settled on the bar, their metal clad feet making audible clacks as they gripped the bar securely. The owl on the left, who I recognized as Nix, balanced on one foot as he gripped some small object in his claws.
“One sees that news has distressed the ruler of men,” Raisah intoned, in that same, eerily cool voice. “The Albess has flown beyond the sky to meet the ancestors, and she shall be missed by all. As much distress as men might feel, one can imagine the sorrow that courses through the veins of one’s own kin.”
“Yes, I can certainly tell how anguished you appear to be,” Fitzwilliam said, in a similarly cool tone. “Thus I charge thee to reaffirm the Oath of Fealty. The Oath that binds men and owls in fair exchange. Power to power, coin to purse, hand to mind, truth to truth. Tell my court exactly what happened.”
“One accepts the charge. The events show much as sunlight on meadow. The Albess is one whose rest is as turbulent as the muttering sea. As those of old, the Blessed One travels at a time drowned out by the rays of sun.”
Fitzwilliam sat back in his throne, his frown only deepening. Mutters of ‘what does this mean?’ and ‘damned owl-talk’ came from the people around me. However, I’d already spent time in Parliament deciphering the unique way that these raptors spoke. Sometimes it was pretty straightforward, but other times it felt like my synapses weren’t snapping quite right.
After taking the oath to tell the truth, Raisah had mentioned the Albess’ turbulent rest and fact that she traveled in daytime. At least that made sense to me. I was one of the few who knew that the Albess suffered from insomnia, and was as likely to be awake and out flying during the day as at night.
“Upon the last sunset, the Blessed One alit upon a branch near the flowery pool. There it was, at the place where flower and forest and water meet, that the wyvern struck. Naught remained of the Albess, save a single feather.”
With that, Nix extended his wings and made a sort of midair hop from his perch. The talons of one foot unclenched and a single horn feather drifted down into Fitzwilliam’s open hand. Nix settled back onto the bar next to Raisah, his eyes unreadable.
Fitzwilliam looked the feather over then handed it to his right without looking at me. I took it, cupping the object in my hands so I could get a better look. The nobles broke out in a new batch of whispers. Notes of alarm, sorrow and worry were sprinkled throughout the background, though all went quiet as the King put his hand up for silence.
“Where is this place you speak of?” he asked. “The place where flower and forest and water meet? I do not recognize it.”
Raisah returned Fitzwilliam’s inquisitive gaze. Her masklike markings hid her emotions better than a black veil. Her beak snapped, annoyed, before she spoke again.
“Those of the Hoohan see it plain as moonlight on snow,” she repeated. “One might travel a half turn of the sun upon the back of a horse north and west to see it. Orbs of sun upon stalks there are, shining without burning.”
I bit my lip. Orbs of sun upon stalks there are, shining without burning…
“Pardon, Sire,” I said. “But…are there any lords or knights of the Western Reaches who cultivate sunflowers on their land?”
Fitzwilliam raised an eyebrow. “I have no idea. Lord Behnaz, would you know?”
Behnaz thought for a moment. The effort made his already reddish complexion turn the color of a freshly picked beet. “Yes. One of my knights, Sir Talish, grows them on his estate.”
“Would that estate lie to the north and west of here?”
“It does, your Majesty. His demesne does lie at the edge of some pockets of forest. And his lands contain a large fishpond.”
“Very well. I shall have a royal detachment visit Sir Talish’s demesnes as soon as possible.”
Now it was Raisah’s turn to blink in surprise. “One wonders why this must be done.”
“Men and owls are united, as always,” Fitzwilliam said, showing a toothy smile. “I wish only to send a detail of my people to the place the Albess died to show respect for her. To learn about and see how she ‘flew beyond the sky’. Surely, one would have no objection to that.”
Raisah quickly smoothed out her feathers. “One sees no objection, none at all. Wings and watchers there shall be at the place of death, as soon as your men arrive. The watchers shall bring those whose eyes saw all that happened to our Blessed One.”
I listened to the exchange between Raisah and Fitzwilliam with half my attention, if that. I had brought my nose down into the bowl created by my cupped hands. I sniffed, and came up with the barest trace of an acrid, foul odor, like cabbage that had gone off.
Something I didn’t expect at all, but smelled very familiar.
Sulfur.
“Very well,” King Fitzwilliam said. “Though the Albess’ death is so fresh as to be painful, I must ask: how will this affect the Hoohan, and in turn, my kingdom’s lifeblood?”
That brought my head back up. I paid rapt at
tention, as did all the surrounding nobles.
“We of the Hoohan shall mourn. In time, the new Albess shall be born, one who shall be Anointed and beyond Anointed. One who shall bring worthiness to all the Hoohan.”
Xandra, who had shifted her perch over to a nearby serving table, bobbed her head violently at that. I watched her out of the corner of my eye, so as to not attract attention to her, but she seemed to be in distress. Her beak opened and closed soundlessly, and she shifted on her perch as if her talons hurt her.
“Until the new Albess is born and ready to serve, who leads the Hoohan? Who runs your Parliament?”
“One asks so rudely, do they not?” Raisah puffed her chest up so that she appeared to grow in size. “Yet one shall be tolerant, for this humble servant shall act as Holy Steward for the Order of the Noctua until the day of glory approaches.”
Fitzwilliam drummed his fingers on the arm of his throne. “I’m glad that your holy order has guidance. But I must ask: what of my kingdom’s budget? We have been kept in suspense for far too long since the Albess vanished from sight.”
“A Holy Steward is one who holds the pen, and that pen may not be rushed. Especially when a kingdom of men has made such rash, unwise decisions.” A gleam came into the owl’s cold eye as she shifted her gaze ever so slightly in my direction. “While that time passes, surely the royal coffers are awash in golden coin.”
“Coin exists,” Fitzwilliam gritted. “But the coffers are hardly, as you put it, ‘awash’.”
Raisah and her pair of sidekicks spread their wings. Xandra followed suit a moment later. The Holy Steward’s beak made a ‘hoo!’ that sounded like a dismissive laugh before she spoke one last time.
“It seems that one must tighten their belt for the lean times. And hope that loyalty is upheld by sworn oath and not a full purse.”
A Perjury of Owls Page 9