A Princess of Sorts

by Wilma van Wyngaarden

  “Go away!”

  He hissed something at her. She tilted her head to hear more clearly. “Mmmm?”

  “You are in danger!” he hissed.

  “Oh?” Had she not been in danger for days? What was so novel about that?

  “Do not expose me! I am here to assissssst!” Agitated now, he hissed louder. One of the soldiers turned his head to glance at her and she cleared her throat and coughed.

  “Don’t worry,” she said in the barest whisper to the little monster clinging to her side. As he belonged in her dreams – or nightmares – she would not mention him to anyone. If she did, they would look strangely at her and think she was mad. She must stay calm and pretend to be the figurehead Rellant needed. Mako could – would! – take care of all the rest.

  How odd to live within a waking nightmare! She could feel the tiny movements as the fragile Keet seemed to nestle back down among the folds of her skirt, and there was a delicate warmth where he seemed to be. Nevertheless, she derived some comfort from it. The little creature had appeared to her three times already, having roused her from lassitude beneath the thicket, stopped her from going the wrong way on the forest road, and warned her of the danger of the attack along the road back to the castle. Imaginary or not, Keet was something that helped her to survive. Thanks to Keet – or at least her vision of him – she was still in the world, alive.

  The chair lurched. One of the soldiers had stumbled. “Sorry, Princess!”

  She gave him a regal nod. There had been a tiny, enraged shriek from beside her but Keet had been able to keep his position, apparently, because he was still there. Or so he seemed. She gave her head a little shake.

  The procession turned and went through a large stone archway and down a few wide steps into the Great Hall. It was packed with people. The heat from their bodies and breath hit her like a soggy slap. So many people! She cast a glance across the crowd and tried not to focus on anyone. But there were the various district lords and their retinues – she recognized many from previous court festivities. There were eleven districts, and representing each district was its lord and the entourage he had brought along. If each lord was accompanied by ten to fifteen in his train, that placed up to 150 people seated at the long tables along with other prominent citizens. More of those important enough to be admitted were crowding into the back of the hall and up the sides. A hundred or more candles flickered from the walls, adding to the light that fell from the high narrow windows.

  Now all eyes were on her, or so it seemed to Scylla. The excited hum rose to a roar while the soldiers lowered her chair to the floor of the raised throne platform. The chair her father had usually occupied had been moved back, and the heavily carved queen’s chair took its place. The soldiers moved back one step, two steps – out of her range of vision. Beside the chair on her right stood Mako, and to her left was Sorrell, pale but rigidly erect in the green gown. From the corner of her eye, Scylla could see Coltic, with Leon on his arm. Surrounding all of them were the soldiers of the Queen’s Guard, in full armor and on full alert. The Crown of Rellant, jeweled and glittering on a bed of cream wool fabric, had been placed on a podium in full view of all.

  Mako stepped forward, his arm raised for attention. The roar abated. The silence in the hall was instant and absolute – as if every person sucked in their breath and held it in anticipation.

  “The King is dead!” Mako thundered into the silence, his voice filling the hall with echoing splendor. “The King is dead! Long live the Queen!”

  The hall erupted in a new roar. “Long live the Queen!” came the shout from the sea of faces before her. From almost every throat, that is – except for the small group of priests that stood just down from the royal platform. They stood aloof, eyes raised, hands clasped before them. They wore court robes of red and yellow, with ceremonial daggers hanging at their waists. The high priest, Soler, was a graybeard in a white cap. He had graced the court for as many years as Scylla could remember. She could not recall that he had ever spoken to her, although at times his eyes had fallen upon her coldly. Now the priests’ eyes did not turn to her at all. What does that mean? she wondered, even as the deafening roar continued.

  Mako raised his hand for silence at long last. The echoes of the last “Long live the Queen!” faded away. Outside the castle, the roaring seemed to go on and on.

  In a few short sentences, Mako reminded the crowd within the Great Hall of the murder of King Tobin and the other royal family members, of Princess Scylla’s escape due to the bravery of Lady Sorrell of the Hunt, of the search for the missing princess, and her recovery, of the identity and punishment of the murderers, including the traitor Prince Darwyn. Then he recounted the attack along the road, Lady Sorrell’s injuries while defending the princess, and the princess’s own killing strike against her attacker. “In the princess’s own words: ‘a blow from the House of Rellant!’ ” he finished. “I present your new Queen – Scylla, who sits in front of you in living proof that the House of Rellant thrives!”

  “The House of Rellant thrives!” The words were again taken up by the crowd in the hall, erupting in cheers accompanied by foot-stamping and clapping.

  The noise was bludgeoning. Scylla could only wish it was all over. She inclined her head and raised a hand, hoping that would diminish the roar. It didn’t. Her eyes traveled again to the group of priests. She counted them: six men of varying ages – the graybeard Soler in the white cap, three middle-aged or younger men, and two not out of their teens. They were standing silently as before, their hands clasped and eyes raised. What, she wondered again, did that mean?

  She glanced at Sorrell at her left. Sorrell had her eyes half-closed and her lower lip tucked under her front teeth.

  After some minutes, Mako again asked for silence. She had to admire his command of the large and enthusiastic crowd.

  He said, “Princess Scylla is the only surviving offspring of our king and his first wife, the Queen Clerryn, who died in childbirth along with their second child. As King Tobin, his second wife, Queen Maris, and their sons the princes Togin and Torin are now all lost, the right to rule falls to the direct line, Princess Scylla. She also proclaims protection for Prince Leon, the only other scion of the royal Rellant bloodline.” He signed to Coltic and the captain of the guard stepped forward, placing Leon on the floor next to the queen’s chair. Leon looked pathetically small standing there and he twisted his hands in his tunic in bewilderment.

  The crowd for the first time did not respond with fervor. Instead, there was a lower rumble.

  Several voices were raised. “... the son of the traitor Darwyn!?” Far too many people had seen the hacked bodies of their beloved King and his family. Bitterness and grief were still sharp in their minds.

  “Nominally... yes.”

  “Nominally...! Nominally?” The word echoed around the hall, and from there was heard to repeat outside the walls.

  “Prince Leon was born in wedlock to Princess Neyella and... indeed... her husband the traitor Prince Darwyn...” Mako raised his hand once more to quell the threatening rumble. “Although I myself was not at court at the time, as I had recently married my wife Lady Dara and we were residing at my family home...”

  There was a questioning silence. He continued, “Although I was not at court, I am told that prior to her marriage to Prince Darwyn the young Lady Neyella was a... a favorite of our king.” Scylla cast her eyes toward him. He did not return her glance. “Although it was not common knowledge, I have been informed that Lady Neyella found herself with child and the king...” He stopped momentarily, picking his words carefully. “I am told that the king gave Lady Neyella’s hand in marriage to his... favored cousin, Prince Darwyn. Thus, Prince Leon before you,” he indicated the small, thin child before the crowd, “...is by law the son of the traitor Prince Darwyn, but in actuality...” his voice stopped.

  Before the echoes had died away, Scylla heard Keet’s voice hissing at her.

  “... your father’s oth
er son!”

  She froze. Other son? ... Oh.

  The silence in the hall grew into muttering. People were turning to look at each other, at Leon, at Scylla. Keet hissed, “See how he looks like you!”

  Scylla felt the puppet string of her destiny pulling her upright in the chair. Slowly she drew herself upright, and the mere act of doing so drew all eyes. What power I have, she thought... and what a shame I do not want it!

  She spoke, and her words dropped like stones into the echoing pond of silence.

  “In actuality, before you stands the... other... son of my father the king! As such, and being the only other in the Rellant line, he is under my protection!”

  She looked at the child. He turned his head and looked up at her. Sure enough, his eyes were too close together, his face was too long and his mouth too big. Small and thin, even for his age...

  “You will note,” she continued, “... that in fact, he does not resemble the traitor Darwyn at all. Instead, he resembles your late king and his sons Torin and Togin... and myself!”

  A new babble arose as their audience absorbed the words. After a few moments, Mako raised his hand again. “May I ask, is there anyone present who can confirm the truth as Princess Scylla has stated? ... I admit I was not privy to inside information at the time!”

  A few hands went up... a few voices were raised in assent. “Yes... yes... it was known to a few!”

  Mako spoke loudly, “So although there are those who would see this traitorous branch of the family... removed, shall we say... others have informed me that the king himself would not have pruned this particular twig!”

  “Hail the twig!” A funnyman broke the silence and laughter broke out around the hall. “Hail the twig! Hail the twig!” The cry was taken up and grew to a roar, which spread outside the castle.

  Prince Leon, frightened by the noise, shrank back. Mako reached down and picked him up, perching his small feet on the arm of Scylla’s chair. She reached up and took his sticky little hand in hers.

  “Hail the twig!” Mako roared back. “Your king – rogue that he could be! – has left you a legacy!”

  When the cheers began to die down he handed the small child back to Coltic, who turned with a wave and took him out. Back to Minda and the girl, Scylla surmised. She contemplated grimly that she would have a word with her chancellor later, as he had not prepared her for the revelation with so much as a hint. However, it was likely the danger to Prince Leon had lessened. As a son of King Tobin, even if illegitimate, his place in the court was more secure than it had been as the son of the king’s murderer.

  The cheering was replaced by excited babble. Mako met Scylla’s glance warily.

  As well he might, she thought acidly. Oh well, at least he had turned the mood from belligerence to acceptance. “Can we get on with the cursed coronation?” were the words she felt like throwing at him.

  From her left, she sensed motion and turned her head. Lady Sorrell had shuffled closer to the chair. She was pale and quivering.

  “Princess!” she said very quietly. Scylla felt guilty that she had insisted Sorrell attended the coronation. She opened her mouth to give her permission to withdraw.

  “Princess, I see a man who I believe was at the lodge!”

  Scylla’s mouth remained open. She followed the direction of Sorrell’s hooded glance.

  “Careful!” came a hiss from Keet, muffled in the fabric at her side. “Do not appear to stare!”

  “It is one of the priests,” Sorrell said, not moving her lips.

  “At the hunting lodge?” Scylla kept her glance as vague as possible.

  “One of the murderers...” Sorrell was swaying on her feet.

  “Do not faint,” Scylla warned her. “Which one?”

  “He who stands behind the high priest... he with the bandaged hand.”

  Scylla’s gaze skittered across the sea of faces, lighting for a fraction of a second on the priest Sorrell had identified. A moment later she took a second look.

  “Do not stare!” Keet squeaked urgently.

  “I do not stare!” Scylla breathed in his direction. “Is there danger from that man?”

  “From the priests! Danger!”

  “Pardon, Princess?” said Sorrell desperately.

  “I’m thinking, Sorrell. Thinking out loud.” Not talking to an imaginary, peculiar creature that had already saved her life three times. Certainly not that.

  Oblivious to this all but silent conversation, Mako was stepping forward again, commanding attention.

  “People of Rellant! Witness now the coronation of your new queen!” He was beckoning to... who?

  Scylla was not surprised that the group of priests now moved forward. Mako, after all, had said the high priest would be the one to crown her. It was Keet’s warning that now turned her blood cold. Despite her previous reluctance to accept her destiny as queen... a living queen... she found herself unwilling to surrender like a weakling to this sudden new threat.

  The priests’ voices rose in a chanting wail that raised the hair on her scalp. Where had this behavior come from? Her father had never paid much attention to the priests, and would never have allowed them to chant at celebrations. A short blessing was all they had ever contributed, at least in Scylla’s memory. King Tobin had been quick to dismiss what bored him with a laugh and a change of subject. If only he had been more interested in what had been going on in the priests’ own house, and to what extent Queen Maris had doted on them!

  Next, the priests began to hum reverently, while the gray-bearded high priest’s voice drowned them out with loud but mostly indistinguishable words of prayer. Scylla, wishing it were over, turned her attention from the drama of the priests to the faces of the lords, their families, and other prominent citizens watching from the floor of the great hall. Light from the high narrow windows lit their faces, while the many flickering candles added a warm glow. Their expressions ranged from surprise to awe, with some even appearing hypnotized by the priests’ swaying robes.

  As if playing to their audience, the priests began a ritual sort of dance – stepping forward and backward in synchronized movements. Soler, the high priest, now began to hum and sway, his eyes closed, while the other priests’ voices rose again in a new chant that was even more ominous.

  “Curses! Stop it!” Scylla said violently aloud, although her voice was drowned out. Sorrell gave her a startled glance. Keet shrieked at her side.

  Scylla found her heart racing and her breathing tense. Mako’s attention was on the priests, showing polite but baffled interest. The soldiers seemed to be alert and on the lookout for danger, performing their duty as guards ought to. But they weren’t watching the priests with the intensity Scylla wanted to see.

  Keet, against her hip, was quivering with excitement.

  “Do not let them near the chair!” he warned her, his voice as tiny as a mouse’s squeak.

  The ceremony progressed with tortuous rambling. At last the high priest turned and with impressive grandeur picked up the jeweled and glittering crown from its nest of fine cream wool. He turned and began to approach Scylla’s makeshift throne, the five other priests moving slowly in his wake. Their robes swayed in time with their rhythmic singing.

  Scylla struggled against the hypnotic effect.

  “Skkeeeeeeee!” Keet shrieked again. It was just loud enough that Scylla saw some of the soldiers surrounding her – and Sorrell – take note of it. Their heads turned slightly towards the chair, with a sudden alert.

  The high priest’s eyes were boring into Scylla’s. His eyebrows and eyelids were lifted, the pupils of his eyes dark and wide. She felt as if she were about to faint – as if her heart were stopping and her lungs compressed.

  “Dangerrrrr!” squealed Keet at her side.

  Scylla drew herself upright in desperation. She raised her hand. “Stop!”

  Mako’s head jerked around.

  “Step back!” she told the priests, who were still surging forward. “Sold
iers! Do not allow the priests to approach!” What ought she to do? The soldiers near her took a step forward but then hesitated, their glances going to Mako.

  The priests stopped, with the two youngest colliding in confusion. Soler held the crown high.

  “This is not the time for girlish banter... for foolishness – or is it madness?” he thundered. “This is destiny! The queen takes her place in the royal monarchy... this is her moment of glory... or is it?” He turned his head towards the watching crowd. They were silent, puzzled, gaping. “I ask you, people of Rellant! Should this not be the queen’s moment of glory?” His voice – deep and loud – filled the hall and echoed from end to end. What was he implying?

  “There is a vial in his hand! Danger!” Keet warned her in his shrill squeak.

  “Chancellor!” Scylla raised her voice with as much breath as she could muster. “I am warned of danger!”

  Over her words, drowning her out, the high priest thundered again. “The queen takes her place in history... for the glory of Rellant!” He turned back towards her and took one step closer, the crown raised high. In the next moment, he would place it upon her head.

  Scylla pressed herself to the back of the chair. She was barely able to breathe, much less recall Minda’s advice to sit up straight – like the puppet whose strings extended from the fingers of her ancestors.

  “Danger!” Keet chirped. “His hand... Look at his hand!”

  Curses! What was the creature squeaking about?

  | Chapter 10 |

  Scylla could not move – the terror she felt for Soler held her rigid as his eyes drilled into hers.

  Mako was staring at her, puzzled. His expression was changing to... what? Disappointment? The crowd, as one person, sucked in its collective breath in anticipation of the moment of coronation.

  “The priest has a vial in his hand!” Sorrell exclaimed into the echoing silence. She snatched the princess’s swordstick from her limp fingers and struck a snake-like blow at the high priest’s right hand.