Ashes of Dearen: Book 1
Page 54
*
By the next afternoon, Eleanor had tied up all loose ends.
She sat in the square of Yamair City surrounded by solemn gatherers, awaiting King Byron’s appearance. Drums beat steadily in the distance, matching the ticks and tocks of the clock-towers. Thousands of people filled the streets of Yamair, but they stood unmoving, awaiting the moment of action. Tables of food lined the square, though not with the extravagance originally planned. Eleanor had realized that such excess was far from wise. She should demonstrate to her husband that the kingdom still produced adequate victuals, but not more than salubrity demanded. Her original ideas of a grand feast had—like so many other things—been misguided. Once she accepted this, fixing the celebration had been easy.
As she listened to the drone of the clocks, her fingers fidgeted. She realized her patience wore thin. Hastily, she pulled out more Discipline and swallowed it down. Logical people did not feel impatience. Rational thinkers did not feel regret for decisions they knew to be right.
And yet when the silence grew too heavy, or the pause between drum beats too long, she could still hear the echoes of Rebeka’s screaming.
Why are you doing this, Eleanor? We can still fix everything. We can do it together, you and I, in perfect harmony! You don’t have to do this! Please, King-wife. Have mercy on me. Don’t do this to me. Please, Eleanor. ELEANOR!
The bitter taste of Discipline slid smoothly down her tongue now. She knew she had made the reasonable decision. And thus she regretted nothing.
Send her far from Yamair, Eleanor had told the guardsmen. She poses a dire threat to this kingdom’s stability. If she resists or if she ever tries to return, dispose of her permanently.
“Congratulations on your new Prime Synergist, King-wife.”
Eleanor turned to see a man walk into the open area of the courtyard. People moved out of his way though he walked slowly and unobtrusively. His appearance managed to startle her, if only for a moment, for Deragon had pulled back the hood of his robe, revealing his half-burned face to all. The skin drooped grotesquely around his blue eye, and his lip seemed to curl with a permanent scowl.
Eleanor felt the trembling of the newly elected Prime Synergist, a young man named Ronald, just next to her. He was the only one sitting with her at the royal table, as the king had not yet arrived, and the Scholar and not yet been replaced.
“Congratulations, that is, if you made the right decision.” Deragon stopped in front of her, looming cruelly over the table, sneering down at their untouched food.
“I know that I did,” said Eleanor. Discipline assured her of as much. It allayed her anxiety and confirmed to her that Deragon should not remain Prime Synergist at all: not after he had defied her by staying overlong in Dearen, and especially not after implying a threat of blackmail. For that reason, Eleanor had not even allowed his name to be among the candidates this morning. She had made an executive decision that his days as a Prime Synergist—as a Synergist at all—were over. She had demoted him to cogman, which was little more than an honored citizen. The only lower statuses were the pinions and scraps of society.
“It must be nice,” said Deragon, “believing without any sense of doubt that what you’ve done is the right thing. Although I wonder, King-wife, if doubt is as precious a gift to us from the Earth Mechanic as logic itself. For you see, I happen to know that your hasty replacement of me is going to come at a very high price: a price much higher than if you had let me remain in my post, which in fact would have been to your benefit.”
“Your perspective is appreciated,” said Eleanor, “though no longer of consequence, Cogman Deragon.”
“My perspective will have consequence, King-wife.” He bowed low, but his eyes held no humility as he fixed her with them. “Of that, I can assure you.”
The roar of applause exploded from the edge of the city and rolled inward. The drums boomed. The bells chimed. Gears shifted and wheels turned on their spokes as ropes pulled the king’s trolley into the city. The claps of the people shifted to match the beating of drums and create a complex, but perfectly synchronized, rhythm.
King Byron returned to Yamair.
18
Engagement