by Chrys Cymri
The Prancer laughed again. ‘Only on account that I am less likely to eat you.’ Then he sobered. The mention of the strong-willed woman who had all but dominated the morning’s meeting reminded him of a question he wanted answering. ‘The Lady Sallah is sister to Fianna’s father?’
Pealla suddenly became busy with her chest armour, checking the strength of the buckles. ‘Yes.’
‘Is it customary for such a relation to command the direct heir?’
For a long moment the woman remained silent. The Prancer drew back slightly, wondering if he’d stumbled onto one of those taboo subjects the Teacher had warned could exist among humans. Then Pealla finally spoke. ‘The Lady Sallah was the elder of the two children born to Blaine, King of the Fourth Kingdom. She had to step aside for her younger brother, but she always desired the Throne for herself. There are those who say she now wishes to rule through her niece.’
‘And what do you say?’
Pealla shrugged. ‘I’m a mere soldier. It’s not my place to say.’
‘You are more than just a soldier,’ the Prancer retorted. ‘Colonel of the royal army and Princess’s counsel.’
‘The Princess must find her own way to face down her aunt. Perhaps once she is safely crowned and on the Dragon Throne, she’ll have the necessary strength.’ Pealla lifted the chest armour and buckled it back into place. ‘Now, Lord Unicorn, let’s test your strength against a light battle axe. It’ll take a very different approach to defeat than a broad sword.’
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The problem with formal clothes, Fianna decided, is that they’re all designed with winter occasions in mind. Her squire and his assisting pages were not even finished yet, and already she could feel sweat beginning to stick undergarments to skin. She forced herself to stand still as one lad polished her black boots for the fifth time, and another readjusted the golden spurs at her ankles. Not that she was yet a knight. Both Jerome and Pealla had impressed upon her the importance of being seen to earn the title. She would soon begin the normal training schedule for a squire, adjusted where necessary in view of her other duties.
Aye, but who will feel easy raising even a practice sword against their sovereign? Fianna wondered. For the first time, she found herself thinking what the end of today’s ceremony would mean. No longer just a princess, or heir to the Throne. She would be Queen, and everyone would start adjusting their approach to her accordingly. In the past, that thought had made her smile. Now she reflected on what it also lost her. No more water fights between squires and pages in the stables when the knights were away. No more friendly jostling to see who could be the first to assist a knight returning from a journey outside the city. Early mornings, when the sun was just beginning to lighten the stone walls and dogs and horses shifted eagerly for the first feedings, that task would never again be hers to share. Her position would take her forever away from such simple work.
But I should never have done them anyway, Fianna thought, remembering her aunt’s words. A member of the royal family is above such things.
Jeremy finally seemed satisfied with the lie of the sleeves of her crimson over tunic, slit to expose the gold of the under tunic. A page finished tucking the bottom of her scarlet trousers into the high boots, and fastened up the sides. Then Jeremy laid the heavy, fur lined cloak of the sovereign over her shoulders. Fianna felt a fresh burst of sweat line her forehead as he adjusted the flow to the ground. The musty scent of old wool made her fight against a sneeze.
Bernard bustled in, his movements crisp and concise on this, a day which was his joint responsibility with the Castellan to organise. He bowed to Fianna, and she held back a sigh at his pleased self-importance. ‘Yes, Recorder?’
‘Everything is in place, Your Highness.’ Precise to the last, even to refraining from the grander title until she had been crowned. ‘Except this. How is your Champion-elect to carry the Dragon Sword to the throne room?’
‘Colonel Pealla will stride beside him with the sword.’ At the man’s uncertain look, Fianna added, ‘Surely you don’t expect to drape it across the Lord Unicorn’s back? It would serve no good to either him or anyone else there.’
‘It is unusual.’
‘So is having a unicorn in Secondus.’ Fianna shrugged. ‘Was there anything else?’
‘Yes, Your Highness.’ Bernard licked his lips nervously. ‘The Lady Sallah sends word that, bearing in mind the ache of her joints, she expects you will excuse her from the oath taking.’
Fianna felt the room fall silent, her dressers hardly daring to breathe. The request itself was an insult. To be entrusted to another to deliver it compounded the act. She rules my council meetings, Fianna thought, she gives me edicts she expects me to follow. Who is being crowned today, she or I? Yet, she took me in when I could no longer live here, and she taught me many things about castle politics I had never realised. ‘Tell the Lady Sallah,’ she said finally, ‘that in deference to her age and condition, we will permit her to take the oaths on her feet.’
Bernard’s eyes widened at the use of the royal plural. Then he bent his head and withdrew. Fianna allowed herself a grim smile as she pictured her aunt’s reaction to the news. But I’ll pay for it later, she told herself. She’ll not let me forget.
She dismissed the pages, first pressing into their hands the first coins of the new mintage, her profile crisp on the bright metal. Still following tradition, to her squire she presented a new dagger, the hilt bright with gold, a ruby etched with the royal dragon design set into the end. Jeremy bowed gravely, accepting the gift without a word. Then he stepped outside to guard the door until she was ready to start the journey to the throne room.
The adjoining door between her quarters and those of the Champion swung open. The Prancer pushed his way through, his lips twisted in disgust. The unicorn’s usually shiny coat was glowing, and whatever the pages had applied revealed a dappling of grey across his hindquarters and shoulders. His long tail had been trimmed to end straight, and the colours of his own house, blue and silver, were in the twists used to braid up his mane. New cords of the same combination had been used to restring the dragon claw and root whorl around his neck.
Fianna circled him, nodding in approval. ‘Very nice.’
The Prancer was not mollified. ‘What have they used on my coat? It smells terrible.’
‘It’s what we’ve used on horses for years.’
‘Horses,’ the Prancer said haughtily, ‘are unable to complain.’
Fianna laughed. She slapped him affectionately on the shoulder. ‘Once the ceremony’s over, you can visit the royal baths. Water will dissolve the solution.’
‘It had better,’ the unicorn grumbled. He shook his head, the braids flapping but staying wound. ‘When does the ceremony begin?’
Fianna shrugged. ‘The moment I’m ready, and step out that door.’
His ears flicked at the undercurrent in her voice. ‘Do you feel ready?’
‘I’ve been waiting for the moment all my life.’ Her tone sounded uneasy even to herself. Fianna ran a hand through her hair. ‘What about you? What sort of ceremony do you have when you become Dancer or Painter?’
‘If I am either, the awareness will come to me.’ The Prancer snorted. ‘So I’m told. The powers are born, not taught. The Land gives the knowledge to the sacred twins, and each draws from her wisdom to Dance the Judgement lines or Paint the Healing whorls. Necessity is usually the first prompting to use of the power.’
‘I’ve had lessons on the duties and politics of ruling.’ Fianna smiled ruefully. ‘Very different from your education. I can’t depend on the Land to give me the knowledge I need.’
‘Not so different. You too will discover the value of your teaching, when necessity prompts the first use of your own power.’
‘Let’s hope that teaching has been good enough,’ she muttered.
The unicorn stepped forward. He lowered his head, dark eyes looking into her own. ‘Remember. You will not be alone.’
&nb
sp; Fianna reached up a hand and touched his cheek. For a moment, they stood still. Then she took a deep breath and dropped her arm. ‘Well, time to start this ceremony. Ready, Queen’s Champion?’
He dipped his head. ‘Ready, Queen Fianna.’
Those waiting her in the hall snapped to attention as she opened the door. She examined their faces for a moment. Jeremy, still young enough to show his enthusiasm, grinning openly. Jerome and Pealla, their faces more carefully neutral. Bernard, hovering unobtrusively in the distance, intent on ensuring that everything went as planned.
Jerome and Pealla went down on one knee before her. ‘In the name of the knights of the Fourth Kingdom,’ Jerome intoned solemnly, ‘I proclaim you to be Fianna, Princess of the royal house, pledged to us at your eighth year. We now accept you as our Queen and ultimate commander, to follow through life and into death, to victory or to defeat. Our arms are yours.’
Fianna swallowed, making sure her voice was steady before she spoke the traditional words. ‘We will ever defend the honour which is yours, and which you have shown us.’
At her gesture, the two knights rose. As she led the way to the throne room, they fell into place behind the Prancer, who was directly behind her as Champion. Jeremy and Bernard took up the rear, the latter scuttling away to a side corridor to take a short cut to the throne room.
The castle seemed almost oppressively silent. The only sound was that of the spurs jangling on her heels, the Prancer’s hooves against the tiled floor, the creak of the knights’ armour. Fianna forced her breathing to remain steady, her shoulders straight.
She halted outside the large mahogany doors to the throne room. The dragon design was carved and gilded gold against the red wood. She touched the ruby eye, and the figure split in half as the doors swung open.
The long room was lined with the nobles and knights of rank. Fianna paused for a moment. Their faces turned towards her, even Marissa’s face impassive. Then she stepped inside. Jerome and Pealla took their places either side of the doors, leaving her to march up the room with only the Prancer accompanying her.
Nobles and knights rose as she passed, silks rustling against silk, armour plate sliding against armour plate. Fianna kept her eyes forward, fixed on the ancient throne awaiting her on the dais. Behind the high-backed chair hung the emblem of her house, the dragon with wings raised, mirroring the undifferenced badge she now wore. At the left of the throne stood the Chief Mage, the heavy golden chain of his office bright against his robes of sombre black. On the right, one step down, waited the eldest child and heir to the Duke of Cassern. Fianna held back a frown as she noted that Latham had given over the traditional place of crown bearer to his daughter, Carola. But you did expect it, she reminded herself. You know he will challenge you, and he could not do so if he were holding the crown to your hand.
The Prancer took up his place at the foot of the dais, turning to look back the way they had come. Fianna continued up to the throne, then faced her audience. Taking a quick, deep breath, she nodded to the mage.
‘You are recognised as Fianna, daughter of Stannard, lately King of the Fourth Kingdom,’ the man intoned. ‘Do you consider yourself ready and able to give your vows to the people, and carry on the same service he provided to the kingdom?’
‘I am ready and able,’ she answered steadily.
Carola moved forward, holding out the state crown. The gold sparkled against the cushion of red velvet, and Fianna laid her left hand on the cold metal. ‘Before I give the oaths,’ Fianna continued, pleased that her voice was remaining under control, ‘is there anyone here who believes that I am not ready and able to rule in my own right? If so, let him step forward now.’
For a moment, all was silent. Then the Duke of Cassern moved from his seat. His armour was that of a warrior, the thick leather nicked and grazed from many a sword fight, and his gloved hand rested on a broad sword. ‘I, Latham, Duke of Cassern, challenge you, Fianna of the royal house.’
‘I accept your challenge,’ Fianna replied. ‘Will you accept my Champion in my place, for a fight to first blood? If he should be so defeated, your voice shall guide all my judgements, and my rule will be under your command.’
‘I accept your Champion.’ The grizzled head lifted. ‘Name him to me.’
Fianna removed her hand from the crown. ‘I name Lord Unicorn the Prancer, son of the Dancer, born to the People of the Trees.’ She drew a red-gold cord from around her neck, the Champion’s Ring swinging free. Taking a step down the dais, she retied the ends around the Prancer’s neck, the gold shining against silver, and the darker wood. ‘Defend me well, my Champion.’
‘With all my honour and strength,’ the unicorn responded solemnly. As he had been coached, he turned to the challenger. ‘Duke of Cassern, what weapons do you choose?’
Latham’s hand tightened on the hilt of sword. ‘The broad sword.’
‘I decline to match you.’ The unicorn’s hind hoof struck the tiles, and Fianna wondered the reason for his agitation. ‘I will enter the battle even as I was born, with the weapons and armour of that station. Be you ready?’
The Duke studied him for a moment, then shook his head. ‘Nay. Sword against horn, aye. But not armour ‘gainst hide. I will match you.’ He laid his sword carefully on the ground. Then, straddling the blade with his legs, he pulled off leathers, tunic, and undergarments. ‘Now I am ready.’
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The Prancer swallowed his protests, turning them into a quick mutter in his own language instead. The human had just made his dilemma worse. The match had been unfair enough already. I must ensure, the Prancer told himself, that I draw first blood long before he comes near me. Then my immunity against steel will not have mattered.
Several knights moved forward to remove the Duke’s discarded clothes. Latham took a few steps back down the wide aisle. As the Prancer waited for him to launch the first attack, he had time to study the naked man. Not very aesthetically pleasing, he decided. No wonder humans are only minor kingdoms.
The Duke lifted his head. The Prancer moved slightly, placing himself squarely in front of the throne and the woman he was defending. With a roar, the man threw himself forward, sword up and ready. The heavy blade swung down, aiming for the Prancer’s chest. He side-steeped, lowered his head. The practice sessions with Pealla had taught him to expect the juddering impact of blade on horn, but the sensation still made him huff heavily against the pain.
Latham’s grunt sounded above his ears. Then sword and man were gone. The Prancer saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. With a move more instinctual than planned, he reared and slashed, knocking the blade away from his shoulder. Naked, and therefore not slowed by heavy armour, the man was quicker than Pealla had been. He would have to remember that.
The Duke rocked slowly on his feet, his eyes intent on the Prancer, the sword tight in his still-gloved hands. The Prancer watched the muscles ripple across the hairy chest, tense and loosen in the thick arms. The man was beginning to sweat. The harsh scent of labour, untouched by the sour stench of fear.
Latham shouted. He dived forward, the sword almost a live thing in his hands. From one side to the other the blade flicked and sang, searching relentlessly for an opening to the Prancer’s white shoulders, long forelegs. The Prancer swirled and twisted, meeting each sweep with the clang of horn. The man’s tactics were very different from those Pealla had used, and the Prancer was intrigued. It was almost a dance, the rhythm of attack and defence, hooves cracking against tile, the man’s footfalls a soft counterpoint.
Suddenly a hind hoof thudded against wood. The Prancer flung his head up, glanced back. He was at the edge of the dais, Fianna only a few steps above and behind him. Her face was white, set, awaiting the outcome of the battle between challenger and Queen’s Champion.
Queen’s Champion. The Prancer took a deep breath through his nostrils, drawing energy down into his chest. Then he reared, releasing the challenge whistle of a unicorn stallion. His horn slashed
at the man’s chest, averted only inches from the greying hairs by a desperate swipe of steel. Remembering almost instinctively the moves from the play-battles of his childhood, the Prancer dropped his horn down and around the blade, lifting the tip upwards. Latham jumped back, struggling to raise the sword.
The Prancer straightened, allowed the man to regain his balance. He noted that the Duke seemed to be finding breathing difficult. Not a young man, the Prancer told himself. I will end this now.
He feinted a charge to the left, then ducked and brought his horn around to the right. Latham tried to change the direction of his sword in mid-sweep, the joints of his hands cracking as his grip tightened around the hilt. But the Prancer’s horn tip broke the skin of the man’s chest, drawing a thin line of red across the belly.
The blade clattered to the floor. As his horn touched the human skin, he had felt a spark of power go from him. Latham sank to his knees. Brown eyes bright with tears lifted to the unicorn, heedless of the watching court. ‘She didn’t kill him?’ he whispered.
‘No.’ The Prancer’s hoof rang out against the tiles as he struck the ground. ‘She did not.’
The Duke drew bitterness from deep within himself. ‘You lie,’ he managed to say.
‘I am a unicorn. I do not lie.’ The Prancer spoke sadly, the moment already passing. Latham was already denying the truth that a touch of silver horn had brought to him.
The Duke rose stiffly and retrieved his sword. ‘I give over the battle and my challenge to you, Queen’s Champion,’ he said gruffly. The blade was laid at the Prancer’s hooves.
The Prancer lowered his head in a quick nod. He turned on his hind hooves, and trotted back to the dais. ‘Does any other challenge the right of Princess Fianna to rule?’
Silence met his ringing tones. Fianna gave him a quick smile. Then, placing her hand firmly on the crown, she said steadily, ‘In the name of my blood and on my life, I swear that I will bear faith to all my people. To be the first into battle, and the last in retreat, to feed and shelter the weak and friendless in peace. To never turn my back on a foe, nor hold my hands closed to the least of those in my kingdom. And so say I, Fianna, daughter of Stannard the son of Blaine, blood-kin to the Family.’
