Queen Lyra is rumored to be holed up in her bedchamber, beside herself with grief. The young prince and princess, Corvi and Veyla have been admitted to the royal kitchens and have spent the day baking sweets with the cook to take their minds away from their father’s death. And Cygni, well the heir presumptive stalks the halls, leading the charge with the palace guards and scaring everyone he encounters to within an inch of their life.
Twilight becomes dusk which turns over to midnight. All should be quiet and still. But the search continues.
And in the tower of her bedchamber, Queen Lyra smiles to herself, raising a goblet of wine and toasting herself to a job well done. The first phase of her plan has been a success.
❖
Cygni
“Need some help, little man?” Cygni sweeps his little brother into his arms, giving him an affectionate squeeze before letting him go and kneeling to help him attach his royal sash to his ceremonial uniform. Corvi is too young to join the Royal Army, but for ceremonial events and state visits he is expected to wear the uniform of the royal Vacantian army.
“Thank you,” Corvi whispers. His eyes are red from the tears he has cried over the past week. Their father’s killer has not been found and eventually they had to reopen the palace gates to let the people of Vacantia inside to publicly mourn their sovereign.
Today they open the palace doors and let the people flood in to say their goodbyes and give their condolences. Cygni will stand for hours alongside his stepmother and half-siblings and shake the hand of every citizen who comes through the door and tomorrow they will lay his father to rest in a public ceremony.
Taking Corvi’s hand Cygni leads him to the throne room where their father has been laid out in a shallow velvet bed surrounded by more flowers than he can count.
“If you get scared all you have to do is squeeze my hand,” Cygni tells Corvi. “Do you understand? Just squeeze my hand and I’ll get you out of here.”
“I’ll be okay,” Corvi replies as he looks up at Cygni with his wide silver eyes. He sounds braver than his age allows, braver even than Cygni feels.
Lyra and Veyla are already in the throne room positioned next to Father’s coffin and Lyra is sobbing for all the mourners to see. So much for it being improper to show emotion. Cygni thinks bitter thoughts as he stares at his stepmother. If the mourners weren’t here she wouldn’t be shedding a tear; not for a man she hadn’t shared a bed with in years. Cygni doesn’t believe she ever really loved his father, and her actions over the past few days have confirmed his hunch. In private she has not acted like the grieving widow. Instead of wearing gray or black to show her mourning she’s been gliding through the corridors in colorful red, green, orange, and blue gowns. She’s been laughing easily at a joke told by a guard or one of her lady’s maids. Seeing her just yesterday, you would not know that her husband has just died.
Cygni turns his attention to the mourners as the palace guards begin to lead them through the procession. He plasters a sad smile on his face and prepares to stand in place for the next few hours. The crowd of mourners extends out the palace doors reminding Cygni of how beloved his father is. Was.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” A round woman Cygni has seen selling bread in the market places her arthritic hand in his and gives his hand a squeeze. “King Pavo was a just and kind ruler.”
“Thank you for your kind words,” Cygni bows his head.
The woman smiles at him before stepping back and bypassing his stepmother altogether to kneel before his father’s resting place. She crosses herself with the mark of Baster and kisses her fingers before lifting them toward the slab where Cygni’s father lies.
Cygni’s stomach churns and he wonders if he will last the whole day as the next person in line steps away from Veyla and in front of him, needing his attention.
❖
The mist rolls in off the sea as Cygni stands on the shoreline where the priests of Baster prepare his father’s body for his final journey. Despite being dead on his feet after the hours of shaking hands and receiving condolences, Cygni did not sleep at all last night. He tossed and turned, and though more than one wench had offered to come to his bedchamber and soothe his broken heart he had spent the night alone. It was something Cygni was wholly unaccustomed to.
Standing a few feet away, Lyra looks bright and fresh faced as the wind whips at her dark hair. Her yellow gown is like a beacon on this dreary morning, calling the people of Vacantia to the coast from all around. Between them, Corvi and Veyla stand stoically as pale tracts of tears slide down their faces. Cygni reaches over and puts a reassuring hand on Corvi’s shoulder and he smiles up at Cygni gratefully.
Once the mourners have swelled behind them, pushing forward to get the best view of the ceremony possible the priests of Baster push the boat for Cygni’s father’s funeral pyre away from the shore. They wade into the water up to their waists as their black robes mushroom out around them in the shallow water.
A chant and a prayer are shouted but still get partially lost on the wind as the priests bow their heads and toss offerings onto the pyre. Lyra’s exaggerated sobbing pierces the air as the priests set fire to the pyre and push it out to sea.
Cygni stands there watching it burn as the crowd begins to thin and the mourners head home, long past when Lyra realizes her audience is gone and packs it in dragging Veyla and Corvi along with her, and when the priests head back to their temple Cygni remains rooted to the spot even after his father’s pyre has burned to nothing.
Chapter 11
Lyra
“No, I want the citrine stones woven into my hair,” Lyra slaps the hand of her lady’s maid. “Gods, how stupid are you that you cannot tell citrine from amber?”
The petite woman standing behind Queen Lyra quivers under her scornful glare. “I am sorry, Your Majesty. I did not mean to grab the wrong ones. I’ll fix it.”
The lady’s maid quickly un-plaits the Queen’s hair and swaps the gemstones as Lyra glares at her reflection in the mirror. “You haven’t lost my dress as well, have you? You know how I feel about incompetence.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the woman swallows hard. “The dress is laid out on the bed, just as you asked.”
“Well, hurry up then,” Lyra taps her long fingernails onto her forearm. “I cannot be late for the coronation.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the woman replies close to tears.
After Lyra’s hair is re-plaited and the circlet is placed upon her brow she shoves away from the vanity and crosses over to the bed. Opening her robe and letting it pool at her feet she turns, standing solely in her silk chemise and sneers at her lady’s maid, “Well? What are you waiting for? A personal invitation? Get me dressed. Now.”
“Right away, Your Majesty,” the woman scurries forward and plucks the orange and black gown from the bed then helps the queen step into the gown without losing her balance. The thin netting of the skirt is tight as it slides up over the queen’s backside and the nipped-in bodice pushes the queen’s bosom over the top of the scoop neckline.
The lady’s maid is careful as she helps the queen into the fragile sleeves of the delicate gown, fearful that the smallest rip will cost her her life. She quickly laces up the corset of the gown, tightening when the queen insists and moves back to smooth down the skirts as the queen admires her reflection. The front of the skirt is embroidered with polished orange scales that shimmer in the candlelight and the bodice and sleeves of the gown are adorned with vibrant orange leaves harvested from trees in the mountains and preserved so they will never wither and crumble even beneath the roughest hands.
Yanking the skirts out of the maid’s hands, Lyra glides from her bedchamber without a word to the woman left kneeling in the center of her room.
❖
Standing at the edge of the dais, Lyra surveys the gathering crowd of nobles and foreign dignitaries. Her son, Corvi stands pressed against her side like the whiny child he’s growing up to be while her youngest daughter,
Veyla stands a few paces away fidgeting with her skirts.
“Stop that fidgeting this instant,” Lyra scolds. “You’re in public.”
“Yes, mother,” Veyla replies darkly as she drops the hem of her skirt.
Minstrels signal the entrance of Cygni and the high priest of Zarouk’s temple as they enter the spacious throne room and walk up the center aisle together. Cygni is dressed in his uniform from the Royal Army, his face as pensive as ever. The High Priest’s dress robes are the purest white of the finest silk from Shroudania. Lyra knows this because she bought the robes herself, a bribe for the next phase of her plan.
Cygni climbs onto the dais and takes his place before the throne as the High Priests begins his liturgy, going through the rights and responsibilities of the gods-favored sovereign. His speech is long and drawn out but finally he gets to the part Lyra has been impatiently waiting for.
“Is there anyone present who has just reason why this man should not ascend the throne?” The High Priest’s voice echoes around the room, bouncing off the walls and becoming trapped with nowhere to go.
“I do!” Lyra shouts as she steps forward.
“What are you doing?” Cygni demands as he takes a menacing step toward her.
“What is your reasoning, Queen Lyra?” the High Priest recites his practiced words.
“I have proof that Cygni is not a legitimate child of my late husband, King Pavo of the House Golongai.” Lyra pretends to look distraught.
“What?” Cygni roars. Turning to the high priest he says, “That is simply not true. My parents were married, in the palace chapel by the high priestess of the goddess, Nalley.”
“Ah, but that is where you are wrong,” Lyra smirks. “I proclaim that any child born before my marriage to Pavo, his one true marriage, to be illegitimate on the grounds that Cygni’s mother was a slave from Lostero and no more than a concubine. This woman and my dear Pavo could not be legally wed because by Vacantian law, slaves are seen as property, not people making their marriage and Cygni’s right to the throne null and void. I hereby name my only son, Corvi, the rightful king of Vacantia and offer to stay upon the throne as Queen Regent until Corvi is of age.”
“This is outrageous!” Cygni gets whiplash turning between his snake of a stepmother and the high priest. “My mother was Losteroan, sure, but she was of the Losteroan royal bloodline. Her marriage to my father was arranged to create an alliance between our two kingdoms.”
“An alliance where one people are slaves and the other people their masters?” Lyra laughs, “I don’t believe that, do you?” She waves her hands out to those gathered for the coronation demanding their opinions.
Murmurs and fierce whispers drone through the crowd like the buzzing of a bee hive. The high priest raises his hands to silence the crowd, “Quiet! I said I want silence now!”
Obediently as if all the sound has been sucked from the throne room the gathered nobles fall silent as one. Cygni’s fists curl and uncurl at his sides. Lyra watches him triumphantly as the high priest clears his throat, “As this matter has been unsubstantiated by the high council, there will be no coronation until the council can look into the validity of these claims further to see who is the true heir to the throne.”
❖
Cygni
A week. The High Council has been pondering the fate of Vacantia for a whole week. Instead of dismissing Lyra’s claim, instead it is Cygni who is looked upon with skepticism. He’s had to produce documents drawn up between his father and his maternal grandfather arranging the marriage between his parents and the proposed treaty between Lostero and Vacantia. Cygni has had to dig up witnesses to the actual ceremony and the high priestess who officiated the union. But with every shred of evidence he produces Lyra comes back with something to discredit or invalidate it; a ruling by the high council of the Kingdom of Shroudania declaring all Losteroan citizens as slaves, stripping their nobles of their titles and status.
Cygni paces outside the council room, pausing to stand at a window and watch as rain floods the courtyard just beyond the stone walls. It has not stopped raining since his father died, a sure sign that the Raining Season is in full swing and that the Teardrop Festival - an annual festival where nobles and peasants alike gather in the streets of Vanyia and drink and dance all night to give thanks for the return of the rain and the end of the Dark Season - is fast approaching.
Heeled shoes click against the stone floor and Cygni looks up then looks away quickly in disgust as Lyra sidles up next to the door to the council chamber. A sly smile appears on her lips as she examines the state of her blade-sharp fingernails. Cygni pointedly ignores her until the most senior member of the high council hobbles to the doorway and calls them forth.
Dismissing chivalry, Cygni stalks into the room ahead of Lyra and seats himself in the high backed chair across the polished mahogany table from the members of the high council. Cygni realizes his mistake a minute later as Lyra struts into the room, immediately garnering the attention of every male on the council. They watch every step she takes, mesmerized by the rising and falling of her chest in the low cut rose colored gown molded to her body. She smiles at them seductively and they smile back and Cygni knows, without them even uttering a word that he has lost.
The senior member of the high council takes his seat in the middle of the other council members and steeples his fingers atop the table. “We have gone over all of the documentation and witnesses presented and we have come to a decision. Before I announce our findings, I want you both to know that this was not a quick or easy decision. That being said, we have come to the realization that King Pavo’s marriage to the Losteroan woman, Sapphira is invalid as Losteroan citizens are ineligible to marry therefore any children born to Sapphira allegedly fathered by Pavo are hereby illegitimate. Prince Cygni, you are no longer eligible to take the throne and your title is forthwith stripped. You will forevermore be known solely as Cygni as your mother did not have a surname of record and slaves were often stripped of them when they were sold to their masters.”
Cygni bangs his fist on the table causing the councilmen to startle and jump back. “I want to appeal this decision.”
“You are free to do so,” the old, bald, wrinkly head of the council stares at Cygni over the top of his spectacles, “but it would not do any good. Our decision is final.”
Dismissing Cygni, he turns to Lyra, “As for the matter of the true heir of Vacantia, only children born within your union with Pavo will be recognized as potential heirs. Your two daughters from your previous marriage will not be recognized as part of the royal family and therefore cannot claim the throne.”
“I understand,” Lyra nods vigorously.
“That being said,” the councilman continues, “though your daughter, Princess Veyla, is older than her brother, she is ineligible to ascend the throne due to the current Vacantian law regarding female heirs therefore young Prince Corvi is the true heir as decided by this council. As he has not attained the age of sixteen this council finds that it is in the best interest of the kingdom and given your experience as Queen consort during King Pavo’s reign and his declining health, that you, Lyra, remain on the throne as Queen Regent until such time as your son is old enough to ascend the throne.”
“If she doesn’t kill him first just like she killed my father,” Cygni sneers at the council.
“I could have you executed for those treasonous accusations,” Lyra glares at him. “But since I am so kind-hearted I will give you until nightfall to collect your belongings and remove yourself from Vanyia. I hereby banish you, Cygni of Nowhere, from the city of Vanyia and all other royal holdings. A guard will escort you to your chambers and oversee your packing.”
❖
In the short time it takes Cygni to pack the things that matter most to him, Lyra has replaced the guards that have been loyal to him to men he has never seen before. The two stationed in the doorway to his bedchamber tasked with watching him pack his belongings and escorting him fr
om the city are perhaps ten years his senior, both dark haired and fair skinned with the same silver-gray eyes. They could be brothers, they probably are.
They don’t bother trying to make conversation as Cygni gathers his belongings and every time his eyes stray in their direction they stare stoically back.
Cygni tosses as many clothes as he can fit into a burlap rucksack and adds in a few small books and mementos that remind him of his parents. Two small daggers and a set of throwing stars are slid into his bag while the guards aren’t looking. Cygni laces his boots tight, sheaths his sword at his waist, swings his cloak over his shoulders and follows it up with the pelt of a black wolf to keep him warm.
“Is that all?” The guard leaning against the left side of the door raises his eyebrow at Cygni’s solitary bag.
“That’s it,” Cygni replies shortly.
“Very well,” the chattier guard replies as he and his comrade approach Cygni and each grabs him under the arm and begins to drag him toward the door.
“Stop that,” Cygni wiggles in their grip trying to free himself. “This is ridiculous. I can walk on my own.”
“It’s the Queen’s orders,” the guard replies tonelessly.
Cygni’s face reddens with shame and fury as the guards drag him through the palace. It seems to him that Lyra made sure to invite everyone in the palace to linger in the halls and watch him be dragged from the palace. Cygni feels like a prisoner being hauled off to the hangman’s noose with all of their eyes on him watching his exit. Cygni struggles and kicks and fights but the guards’ grip never loosens on his biceps. If anything their hands tighten around him as they lug Cygni through the palace gates and into the city.
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