by Matthew Ward
And there, between the oak’s bulbous roots, her boots a poor match for her cotton nightrobes, and both of them thick with snow, Kaila Saranal stared back at her mother with a complete lack of concern.
“Madda? Have you come to play too?”
A sob of relief catching in her throat, Melanna gathered Kaila up and clutched her tight. There would be scolding to come, but not now. Let nothing intrude upon that one, perfect moment of relief, her daughter’s arms tight about her neck and the illusion that she could ever protect her thus unbroken.
“You’ve earned such trouble this night, essavim,” she breathed. “But it will come with the morning.”
Tears restrained so long flowed freely even as she pressed Kaila’s head to her own, the fears of kidnap and murder suddenly foolish. No intruder. No plot. No footprints in the snow beside Kaila’s own. The door had been left unbolted through failing memory. The lapse couldn’t be ignored, but it would wait. It would all wait.
Now the cold made its presence known. Holding Kaila tight, Melanna took her first faltering steps out of the glade. Beyond, the gardens were alive with lanterns and running feet.
Have you come to play too?
Melanna froze at the memory of her daughter’s words, the chill at the pit of her stomach little to do with merciless Wintertide. “Essavim, why did you leave your room?”
Kaila pulled back, her eyes earnest, but confused. “The green-eyed king said we were to play a game. But when I reached the tree, he wasn’t there.”
The chill in Melanna’s gut hardened to a lump of ice. She glanced at the oak, still and silent in the moonlight. Nothing about it was different, yet everything had changed.
Tearing free her gaze, she stumbled out of the glade to meet the approaching Immortals.
The cold lingered in Melanna’s bones long after, despite the hall’s roaring hearth and one of her father’s old cloaks wrapped tight over the ruined dress. Even a generous glass of fiery tarakeet – the perfumed notes of violet and sage that same father had sworn a remedy for all ills of the soul – had done little to chase it out. Comfort had become fleeting commodity that night, its only bastion the knowledge that Kaila was again in bed, seemingly none the worse for her adventure. Four Immortals stood guard on the terrace.
The green-eyed king. Melanna told herself Kaila had lied to spare herself a scolding. She knew it wasn’t so.
She knocked back the last of the tarakeet, and set her back to the fire. “First thing tomorrow, you’ll send a messenger to Mooncourt Temple. The lunassera will take charge of my daughter’s safety.”
Rasha’s cheek twitched. “The palace is the domain of the royal guard, savim. Your Immortals will protect your family, as we always have. It’s—”
“Tradition?” He’d never have spoken thus in public. He understood loyalty. But in the privacy of her chambers, where few were permitted to tread? “Tradition would have been Kaila’s death tonight.”
“Might I remind you, majesty, that I argued the princessa’s chambers be guarded long ago. You overruled me.”
Melanna set aside a flash of anger. One aimed at herself, more than Rasha. “I know, and tonight I paid a thousand times for that hubris. I can afford no more risks.”
“Then let your Immortals bear them, savim. We are glad to do so.”
She shook her head, wondering how much she should tell him. “There are some perils steel cannot abate. I wish it were otherwise.”
He tilted his head, brows beetling. “Is there something I should know, savim?”
Yes. No. She set her back to him once more and stared into the flames. Easier to find the words that way. “Kaila told me someone called to her. A green-eyed king within the trees.”
He chuckled. “Is that all?”
“Is that all?” She rounded, fury at last warming what liquor and fire had failed to touch. “I see nothing amusing in any of this.”
He held up a hand. “I meant no offence. It’s simply that… you used to play that game as a child.”
“I most certainly did not.”
Rasha clasped a hand to his chest. “On my life, savim. All the time before the Raven took your mother. You’d go to that same corner of the grounds and return from the old wood garlanded with black roses, all breathy with tales of a green-eyed king, who’d promised to make you his queen. I confess, your mother found it no more amusing then than you did just now.”
Uncertainty wormed its way into Melanna’s thoughts. “I… I don’t remember that. I mean, I recall playing among the trees. They were my fortress, and the old oak my keep. I played a hundred games of that sort, defending helpless bramble-fetches from Thrakkian pirates and Tressian knights. Singing with them. But the green-eyed king…?”
Yet the more she thought, the realer the idea became. Like the aftermath of a dream long forgotten, all tangled emotion and fleeting image. A hand about hers. Her mother fussing over a cut from a rose’s thorn. She’d died soon after that, broken beneath the hooves of a wayward horse. Long ago and yesterday all at once.
Rasha cleared his throat. Melanna blinked and looked up from a hearth whose dancing flames had sunk to unquiet smoulder, and wondered how long she’d stared at them without seeing.
“Forgive me, majesty, but if you’ve no recollection, why does it trouble you so?”
That she couldn’t tell him. She’d done enough that night to make him believe her mad. “A messenger to Mooncourt at dawn, jasaldar. That is all.”
She knew his expression even without seeing it. The frown of obedience fighting the slight levied against ability and honour. But unwelcome commands were an Empress’ privilege.
“Yes, majesty.”
The door creaked. Footsteps tracked away. Others drew closer, the unmistakeable tell-tale stutter of a man limping on a bindwork leg in place of the one with which he’d been born. Then hinges creaked, the warm currents of the hearth drawn into draught. Hands closed about Melanna’s upper arms.
“I came as soon as I heard,” murmured Aeldran, the warmth of his breath on her ear nothing to the concern in his voice. “Are you hurt?”
She nodded. “It looks worse than it is.”
“You look as though you’ve lost a fight with a thorn bush.”
An unfortunate comparison, but apt given her torn dress and scratched face. Decorum was a faded dream. She’d have to restore it before long. The Golden Court awaited.
“You’ll address your Empress with respect,” she said drily, “or not at all.”
“Yes, majesty.” For all the archness of the words, his tone was not without humour. Would that she could reply in kind.
“I needed you here tonight. Our daughter needed you.”
The hands slipped away, and Aeldran with them. “I’m her father, not her nursemaid. I’ve duties of my own. Duties you gave me, Melanna.”
Tradition laid no specific burden on the royal consort, and Melanna had availed herself of the opportunity to bestow as many upon Aeldran Andwar, Prince of Icansae and of Rhaled, as decency permitted. The Clan Council, the Veteran’s Lodges, the Chancellery of Guilds. Anything to keep the Kingdom of Rhaled functioning as it should, leaving her free to shoulder the burdens of Empire – and in no few cases dismantle the web of preferment and nepotism those same organisations treasured so dearly. For the first time in Melanna’s lifetime, worth was starting to be measured by more than the yardsticks of storied tradition and battlefield glories. A law of words, not swords, was taking root.
But Aeldran’s evening’ duties had been different. No one was more suited to welcoming Aelia Andwaral, Dotha Icansae, to Tregard’s splendour than her regal brother.
And in truth, Aeldran was no more a poor father than she a mother. It was simply the way of things. Indeed, for the first half of Melanna’s life, she’d seldom seen her own father for more than a few days at a time. He’d been ever on campaign, carrying steel against Rhaled’s enemies in places so many and so distant she’d struggled to learn them all, far less remember. Now sh
e had to govern such places. To hear their concerns of famine and disorder, to meet with their worthies and make polite reply to false adulation.
For all that Melanna had spent more time in the palace in six years than her father had his whole life, her thoughts were too often afield, and Kaila in danger of growing up never knowing her mother. But there was still time to change that. At least, she hoped so. As Kaila’s birthdays rushed past, Melanna dwelled more and more on the fact that her daughter’s grandmother hadn’t lived to see Melanna’s seventh.
She turned from the fire to find Aeldran regarding her, his lean, rugged features without expression, but his eyes full of quiet compassion. He always read her thoughts better than she liked, and too often better than she deserved. A friend? Certainly. An ally? Without question. But nothing more, and most nights passed away in separate chambers and empty beds.
For all that it was to be expected of a dynastic marriage, Melanna had always resented that. The poor example set by her father, she supposed, who’d wed far below himself and thus jeopardised his own succession. A freedom she never could have indulged, even had a commoner snared her heart. But maybe that was fair, for had not her whole life been given over to following in her father’s footsteps? Obsession was a jealous lover and tolerated no other.
All the more reason to reappraise her relationship with Kaila. What mistakes she’d made were hers alone, and should not be visited on a daughter. If the night was lesson of anything, it was that.
“Your sister is well?”
Aeldran’s mouth twitched, acknowledging the change of topic. “She offers her greetings, and stands ready to, ah, rebuke Thirava for his part in tonight’s excitement.”
Melanna shook her head. Though Aelia’s tongue was certainly sharp enough, swords were more often her method of expressing disfavour. “Thirava had no part in this.”
“She knows. But the offer stands.” For a moment, he looked as though he were about to say something else, but this time the thought was hidden so deep as to go undivined. “If there’s to be nothing else, I’ll leave you to prepare.”
Offering a brief bow of the head, Aeldran left the room, pace unevened by the rigidity of the bindwork leg hidden beneath his robes.
Melanna stared at the closed door a moment, regretting that she so rarely returned his kind words with her own. Then she retired to her bedchamber and set about undoing the evening’s damage. The torn golden gown she exchanged for one already laid out for her. Dirt, errant cosmetics and the aftermath of tears she scrubbed away. Eye shadow, she retouched – though this too could have been applied by other hands, she preferred to do it herself. There was nothing to be done about the scratches that would not draw greater attention, so those she resolved to bear without deceit.
With that done, the final part of the ritual beckoned. Pulling on her father’s old cloak once more, Melanna drew back the drapes and crossed onto the balcony of living birch that overlooked the city. Her city.
Tregard remained beautiful as ever, the silver branchwork painted across wall and rooftop glorious even beneath an elusive moon. Ghostfires danced at every street corner, and from distant temple rooftops.
Save for a few hardy holdouts, cold had emptied the streets beyond the palace grounds, but a thousand lights at window and canopied porchway spoke to simple joys practised beyond the darkness. Those joys would burn brighter tomorrow. Midwintertide was a time for family, mourning the death of the old year and looking ahead to the bounty of the new. Her people. Her responsibility. The men and women without whom the Imperial throne was nothing, and whose service Melanna strove to re-earn each day.
She’d known it would be difficult. She’d never dreamed she’d be so isolated. For all that she was surrounded by courtiers and crowds wherever she went, there was no one she could really talk to. No one from whom counsel could be sought. As a princessa, she’d had her father, and the guidance of the goddess Ashana. Now fate had placed both beyond her reach, and she was alone.
Or almost so.
“I know you’re there.” Some folk, all the guards and walls in the world could not keep at bay. “You’re growing predictable.”
A shadow detached itself from the wall and drew back its hood. A streak of white shone against night-darkened auburn hair. Wry smile twisted beneath. “Both of us, or I’d not be here, would I?” Apara let the folds of her woollen cloak fall open, and joined Melanna beneath the frost-withered birch. She seldom felt the cold. Seldom felt anything in the years since Ashana had transformed her into a deathless eternal. “We all have our habits. You’ve become one of mine.”
“Enough to make you abandon your others?”
“And leave so many beautiful things in the hands of an unappreciative few? I couldn’t live with myself.”
Melanna hung her head, marvelling once again at the peculiarities of friendship. Empress and Thief. Hadari and Tressian. High-born and low. They couldn’t have been further apart but… Perhaps that’s why she felt safe with her secrets in Apara’s care – a thief gave up nothing without cause. Or was it fate? Apara styled herself the Silver Owl, and the House of Saran had long ago embraced such a creature as its crest. Owls were sacred to Ashana, and the goddess had brought them together. Or perhaps it was simply that, alone of the world, Apara Rann expected nothing of her.
“Jack tried to take my daughter tonight.” The words, spoken aloud for the first time, occasioned fresh chill. One did not speak the Lord of Fellhallow’s name lightly. “He lured her into the woods. We were fortunate to find her before she froze, or…”
She left the thought unfinished, not yet ready to dwell on other fates.
Apara’s smile faded. “Why?”
“What else can it be?” She stared up at the moon. “Ashana has withdrawn from the world. She can protect me no longer. He wants to punish me for what I did.”
“For what we did.” Another would have questioned. Even Aeldran. But not Apara. She understood. She’d been a part of Jack’s humiliation before the other gods. A bargain broken by a princessa and a thief in order to save a world. “Why now? It’s been years.”
“Divine habits run deep. I think he attempted the same with me when I was Kaila’s age.” There. She’d said it. The suspicion hung heavier than ever, especially in light of forgotten memories Rasha had roused.
“What can I do?”
“For now, nothing. The Golden Court meets tonight, and I can spare no thought for anything else. The lunassera will keep Kaila safe, but…” She paused, unhappy at making a request that might bring Apara to Jack’s attention. “… but if you could spare an eye, now and then, you’d have my gratitude.”
“Of course.” Apara chewed her lip. “And the other matter?”
The other matter. With all that had happened, she’d quite forgotten. “We’ll see how things go tonight. Sleeplessness shouldn’t be shared without cause.”
“I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.”
Melanna found Aeldran’s chambers empty of all save servants, and none could say for certain what had become of him. The discovery provoked a flash of anger that seared away the fragile peace brought by Apara’s visit, and Melanna’s resolve to make amends for earlier curtness. While she hardly expected Aeldran to live like a hermit, for him to so swiftly depart the palace after all that had occurred…? That he’d more likely sought out his sister’s company anew than carousal did little to abate annoyance.
That ill temper fouled the long walk between Aeldran’s chambers and Kaila’s. The princessa, at least, was where she should have been, unruly hair spilled dark across the pillows.
But the room was otherwise not as expected. A large padded chair was set with its back against the drapes, its sleeping occupant all but invisible beneath swathed blankets. A serpent-hilted sword set across his knees rose and fell in time to gentle snores. A welling heart softened anger to chagrin.
Careful to wake neither occupant, Melanna kissed her daughter on the cheek and, after briefest hesitation, her husban
d on the brow. That first step back towards the door was the hardest of the night. So easy to linger in the dark, and leave the world to its own devices. But for all that the prince had chosen to be a father, the mother remained an Empress.
Setting the door closed, she went to be so.
Eight
The staff’s strike echoed beneath the vaulted ceiling. The dull thump of brass on stone that called for quiet. An unseen usher uttered the expected words.
“In the name of the Goddess Ashana… her Imperial Majesty, Melanna Saranal, Dotha Rhaled offers audience to the Gwyraya Hadar.”
Trumpets blared, and a young messenger, not yet old enough to wear armour, but arrayed proudly in emerald silks and Rhaled’s silver owl, drew on the rope. The golden curtain shimmered aside, and Melanna began the long descent into the throne room.
As a girl, Melanna had thought it a place apart from the rest of the palace – a foothold of the divine. Only when her father was away on campaign, and her grandfather in one of his more paternal moods, had she been permitted to wander beneath the high, vaulted ceiling – to peer up through the gilded hole in the roof and glimpse the burgeoning moon. She’d sat at the throne’s foot while Emperor Ceredic Saran, ruler of a realm beset upon every border, had regaled her with stories of ancestors past and battles won. It was where she’d first heard how Ceredic’s own grandfather Alfric had survived the razing of Baranagar and repaid the Tressians a thousandfold for its loss, seizing Tregard and setting his own fire-blackened and storm-smote throne atop the ruins as challenge.
Decades later, the gods beheld that very same throne – golden statues thrice the height of a man, bearing buttressed archways atop their shoulders. The Raven and the bellicose forge god Astor flanked the main door, the former with eyes of a watchful predator, the latter a brooding, bearded presence. Proud Astarra – whom the Tressians named Lumestra – and sombre Endala made up the next pairing, one with a spill of sculpted fire for hair, the other with gentle locks cresting like flowing waves. Ashana stood behind the throne, the north star upon her brow, and a crescent moon in her outstretched hand. Hunched Jack faced her, his expression unknowable beneath a smooth mask. Of the seven divinities Melanna had been raised to acknowledge – though not necessarily revere – only cruel Tzal was absent, for no Hadari willingly bent knee to his forlorn and wicked majesty.
