by Chrys Cymri
She marched angrily from the room, pausing only to jerk her boots from the floor.
<><><><><><>
Torches had been brought to the courtyard, and their flicking light added substance to the shadows. The executioner’s block was already in place, hay spread beneath to catch head and blood. Fianna glanced away, searching for Pealla’s tall form.
‘Your Majesty.’ Pealla’s voice seemed to come out of darkness. Fianna jumped in surprise. ‘The Duke requests a final audience.’
‘He does, does he?’ Fianna asked grimly.
‘It is his right.’ With just a slight touch of criticism, Pealla added, ‘He’s the one who’ll be losing his head.’
‘Yes, he is,’ Fianna acknowledged with ill grace. ‘Very well, Colonel. Lead me to him.’
Latham stood near the block, his hands fastened behind his back. The grizzled head was bowed, the harsh voice subdued. ‘I ask a boon of you, Your
Majesty.’
Fianna shifted uneasily. Death was an easy sentence to agree, harder to face when standing before the one to be killed. ‘I will consider it.’
‘Don’t hold my family accountable for my actions.’ The Duke glanced to his right. ‘Particularly my younger daughter. Allow her to remain at court, if that is her wish.’
Marissa came forward, her face hardened by held-back tears. Her overcoat was only hastily donned. Buttons were mismatched from holes, and it hung awkwardly across her chest. ‘I ask no favours, Your Majesty. But I can offer you an exchange for my father’s life.’
‘There is nothing you can offer me,’ Fianna said heavily.
‘But there is--’
‘No, daughter,’ Latham growled. ‘Never, particularly now.’ He looked back at Fianna. ‘Pardon my daughter, Your Majesty. She forgets herself.’
Fianna studied him for a moment, wondering what Marissa might have meant. Then she shrugged the thought away. Her step-mother owned nothing which a Queen could want. ‘You’re free to remain in Secondus,’ she told the older woman. ‘I believe your father when he says that he acted alone. Your family will not be blamed.’
Pealla joined them, and Fianna stepped back, relieved. ‘With what sword will you return to the Land?’ the Colonel asked, her voice firmed by the ancient words.
‘My own sword.’ The Duke smiled slightly. ‘It was promised to me at my birth, and saw me into knighthood and middle age. Seems only right that it should be with me at the end.’
Pealla nodded. She touched Fianna on the arm, and she let the Colonel guide her to their position near the block. The traditional drawing of lots had already taken place, and the young knight whose name had emerged from the helmet rubbed sleep and disbelief from his eyes as he came forward. He accepted the Duke’s sword, touched the sharp edge to first wipe his own blood down the blade. Then he hefted it, ready.
Latham stepped up to the block. His knightly escort dropped away as he knelt and bent his head.
Fianna forced herself to watch as the sword lifted into the night air. Yellow torchlight flickered along the steel. Despite his youth, the knight’s stroke was sure. With a sickening thud, the sword bit into the neck, halting against the bone. The knight raised his arms, dropped the blade twice more. The head rolled onto the hay, eyes opening sightlessly.
The young knight turned his head and was quietly sick. Fianna bit back her own sudden surge of nausea. For some reason she suddenly remembered the puppy she had buried, years ago. She wondered wearily if this were only the first death of many her reign would witness. Only last night I was celebrating, she thought. How quickly it all changes. How quickly.
<><><><><><>
Deian stood by the gates, waiting for the grumbling guard to start opening the smaller entrance. He had hoped that remaining, even at a distance, might change Fianna’s mind. But a man had still died. And he knew that, until Fianna calmed down, he was unwelcome here.
The courtyard was deserted and dark, the castle’s citizens avoiding the place of recent death. Alastair’s eyes gleamed slightly as he glanced back, and his quick intake of breath warned Deian of someone’s approach even before a stray hoof scraped across the cobblestones.
The Prancer lowered his muzzle to greet the hound first, exchanging information faster than Deian could follow. Then the unicorn raised his head. ‘You’re leaving?’
Deian shifted the pack slung across one shoulder. ‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Fianna doesn’t want me here.’
The Prancer snorted. ‘You said you came here to protect her.’
‘Against what? You provided that when she needed it.’ Deian halted, surprised by his bitterness.
‘Was it only physical protection that you meant?’
No, Deian thought. He turned his head away. ‘I’ll return. I still await her answer.’
A hoof rang out against stone. ‘Then stay here and press her for that answer, human! I would fight more for the youngest filly than you are for her.’
Deian smiled slightly. ‘I’m neither knight nor stallion. So I must find some other way of proving myself to her.’
The door finally opened, revealing the dark city streets beyond. The Prancer stepped back. He said quietly, ‘I will protect her for you.’
Deian reached up a hand and touched the warm neck. Then he strode from the castle, Alastair pacing at his side.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘He can’t mean it.’
Fianna glanced at her aunt, fighting back the urge to yawn. The events of last night had not made for a restful sleep. ‘I hardly think that King Anton would send his personal guard across two kingdoms in jest.’ Her gaze flicked up to the knight, his arms folded across the silk tunic, the unicorn badge bright on his chest. He was unarmed, but two of her own knights stood either side of him, hands resting on swords.
The faces of her counsellors met her gaze around the meeting table. Most of them, like Sallah, looked sceptical. ‘Sir knight,’ Fianna said to the impassive messenger. ‘Give me the words of your King once again.’
The man raised his head. ‘‘‘To Fianna, Queen of the Fourth Kingdom, Keeper of the Dragon Throne, from Anton, King of the Third Kingdom, Keeper of the Unicorn Throne, greetings. I send my congratulations on your recent ascension to the Dragon Throne. With new blood comes new hopes. Perhaps we two can end the enmity between our kingdoms, and usher in a new peace for the Land. I invite you to Primus, to meet with me here to discuss the plans for this new age.’’’
The discussions raged once again across the table. Fianna watched, knowing that, in the end, the decision would fall to her alone. And she already knew what it would be. She asked finally, ‘What say you, Queen’s Champion?’
The Prancer snorted in soft amusement. ‘The ale is better in Secondus. But I will accompany you.’
Fianna met Pealla’s eyes next. ‘Colonel?’
The knight looked away, meeting the gaze of the messenger. ‘What is your name, guard to the King?’
‘Gregson, King’s Champion.’
‘Then, Sir Gregson, speaking knight as to knight,’ Pealla asked evenly, ‘can you vouch for the honour of your King?’
‘His honour is as steadfast as my own,’ Gregson answered. ‘We are bound by the same guest law as protects me here. A hand extended in welcome will not be closed into a fist. And I swear this to you, in my own name, that your Queen will have safe passage both to and from Primus.’
Fianna nodded. ‘Perhaps you would be so good as to leave us, King’s Champion, so that we may discuss this matter with our trusted counsellors.’
Gregson bowed, then allowed himself to be escorted away. Once the door was closed behind him, Fianna said, ‘I am of a mind to accept this invitation.’
Sallah’s loud, ‘But you cannot!’ all but drowned out Pealla’s more quiet, ‘Your Majesty, may I ask why?’ It was to Pealla that Fianna turned, though she spoke loudly, for the benefit of the dozen counsellors. ‘We’ve all heard the tales of new, strange magics being practiced
by King Anton, and rumours that he is preparing for battle. We must know the truth. If a state visit can prevent a war, then it’s worth the risk.’
‘You should first leave behind an heir,’ Arwan muttered.
‘No, she must go now.’ The change in her aunt’s tone brought all eyes to her. ‘You and Anton are both close enough in age, and both unwed. Think of what a union between the kingdoms could bring.’
Fianna shifted uncomfortably, Deian’s face suddenly in her thoughts. ‘From all accounts Anton is actually ten years older than I, and no doubt has other plans for his kingdom. I’ll go to talk as sovereign to sovereign, not as potential bride to potential groom.’
‘And what will you tell your people?’ asked Bernard.
Fianna shrugged. ‘I ride out to greet them after my coronation. They need not know that I’ll continue past the border to the Third Kingdom. With us,’ she paused, waited for them to note the formal pronoun, ‘with us, we will take our Champion, and the second of our armies. The General will remain to guard the castle, should there be treachery afoot. We will depart in two days’ time. Castellan, see to the arrangements.’
Sensing the dismissal, her council rose. She could see from the looks on their faces that the discussions would continue outside the room. Let them talk all they wanted, she had made her decision. Finally only Jerome was left. He left his seat to close the door, remaining inside. ‘Your Majesty, I would speak with you.’
‘All right.’ Fianna instantly regretted her ill grace. ‘That is your prerogative, General.’
He leaned forward, grasping the back of a chair with his broad hands. ‘You must name an heir.’
‘I thought I already had one,’ Fianna said sharply. ‘Lady Sallah was sister to the previous King.’
‘Lady Sallah,’ Jerome said, slowly and deliberately, ‘is past child-bearing age.’
Fianna kept her gaze steady. ‘Yes, General, I do know. But I must accept Anton’s invitation.’
‘I don’t challenge your decision.’ He smiled grimly. ‘I only wish to know for whom I am defending Secondus, should it come to that.’
‘You’ll be defending city and castle for me,’ Fianna said with more firmness than she felt. ‘And it won’t come to that.’
<><><><><><>
It was actually three days before they left Secondus, the Castellan politely insisting that all must be perfect for the Queen’s first journey through her kingdom. When Fianna rode past the ranks of two dozen of the castle’s best knights, their new silks dazzling in the sun, banners whipping from bright spears, she had to admit that the man was right. Now she was ready to appear before her people.
Pealla joined her at the head of the procession, taking the place of standard bearer at her left. At her right, the Prancer struck the ground, his mane tossing in the wind. Jeremy waited quietly behind, unsuccessfully fighting a pleased grin to be included in the group. Fianna took a deep breath, drinking in the familiar smells of her home. The crisp scent of wood burning in hearths, overlaid with the higher smell of hay laid out in the nearby stables. In the distance, a dog barked, and she found herself thinking of Alastair, and Deian. She shook the memory away.
‘Are we ready, Colonel?’ she asked Pealla.
The woman nodded. ‘Aye, Your Majesty. We wait upon your word.’
Fianna smiled. ‘Then the word is given.’
She pressed heels to her gelding’s flanks. He strutted forward, well aware of his august place at the head of the line. The Prancer followed a step later, his silver hooves a higher ring against the cobblestones. Pealla dropped back to command the knights riding two by two through the city streets.
City people awake in the early morning turned their faces away as they passed, busied themselves with their tasks. The Prancer finally broke the silence, asking in a low voice, ‘Why do the people ignore you?’
Fianna laughed. ‘The departure of the monarch is an occasion for mourning. When I return, there will be much celebration. You wouldn’t expect them to be happy to see me leave, would you?’
‘No.’ The Prancer snorted. ‘I have left message with the Castellan for Deian.’
At the sound of the name, Fianna’s hands tightened on the reins. Her gelding played with the bit, protesting, and she forced her fingers to ease. ‘Whatever for?’
‘He will return.’
‘He might.’ She shrugged. ‘He might not.’
‘He will return.’ The unicorn spoke softly, as if looking at something in the distance. ‘Whatever you release will one day return to you.’
The horn hidden under her silks was suddenly heavy against her chest. Fianna turned abruptly in her saddle, the new leather squeaking under the pressure. ‘Colonel, what will be our first stop?’
Pealla trotted her mare forward. ‘Symphon, a short distance away from Secondus.’
‘Tell us something about Symphon, then,’ Fianna commanded.
Bemused, but obedient, Pealla started to describe the gardens for which the town was famous. Fianna nodded at the appropriate points in the monologue, avoiding the gaze of the puzzled unicorn nearby.
<><><><><><>
Progress across the Fourth Kingdom was slow, but steady. Fianna found herself enjoying the days immensely. Townspeople lined their streets to cheer the royal party, scattering flowers under the hooves of their mounts. The sight of the Prancer at her side had the satisfying effect of inducing further awe in the powers of their new Queen. The evenings were spent in the mansion or house of the local official of highest rank, and Fianna’s after dinner speech became ever more polished with practice.
The nights she found difficult. After the eating and drinking and laughter was over, she would lie in the latest strange bed, awake for hours, unable to say why. Without meaning to, she thought often about Deian, wondering where he was now.
One night, halfway across the kingdom, she finally had enough of useless musings. She angrily jerked clothes over her sleep garments, tucking the nightshirt into her trousers. Perhaps some fresh air would help.
A large form turned as the door creaked open. Fianna paused in the doorway, stared up at the faintly glowing body. ‘What’re you doing here?’
The Prancer lowered his head. ‘I’m your Champion. Where else would I be?’
‘You’ve been standing guard outside my room every night?’
‘Yes.’ His exhalation was a soft sigh. ‘The only time I didn’t, when I stayed at the College for a fruitless discussion with mages, I returned too late to prevent one attack. I won’t fail again.’
She shoved suddenly cold hands into trouser pockets. ‘But you didn’t fail. You stopped him.’
‘Not in time. Not before he forfeited his life.’
Fianna leaned back against the wall. ‘What, so you would have simply told him not to be so silly and go back to his room? He would only have tried again.’
‘I could have done much more.’ The unicorn’s voice was soft. ‘I touched him with my horn during our bout, and that was almost enough to convince him of your innocence. If only I’d had longer, he might have believed me.’
Fianna nodded, remembering her own contact with the Prancer’s horn. Then she drew back, scowling. ‘So you think I should have let him live? One more touch of a unicorn and everything would have been understood?’
‘I would have been willing to try.’ A hoof struck at the floor. ‘To save another’s life, I would have been willing to try.’
‘So you think I did the wrong thing.’
The Prancer snorted. ‘Fianna, I may not agree with all your decisions. But that doesn’t change the fact that I am your friend.’
A hard lump suddenly pressed in her throat. She swallowed, touched him briefly on the neck. Then she turned and went back inside her room, closing the door behind her. For some reason, she quickly fell asleep.
<><><><><><>
A few days later they passed the stones marking the border to the Third Kingdom. The Prancer watched as Fianna halted with her gelding’s
hooves just past one marker. The formation changed around her. Gone were the distinctive silks of the Queen’s colours. Mail gleamed instead on chests and helmets. Ceremonial spears were slung away, and swords were polished, made ready. Pealla and the next senior knight took their places in front of Fianna, and the Prancer came to her side. Two pairs of knights fanned out, before and behind the main party, alert for any treachery.
They avoided towns and people, sleeping in grey tents at night. Guards were posted around Fianna’s tent. The Prancer kept his place at the entrance, sleeping lightly on the hoof, ready to awaken at the slightest unusual sound.
Unexpected footsteps brought him alert one misty night. He lifted his head, drank in the scent of the man approaching him. Then he relaxed. It was only Gregson, his own guard not far behind. ‘I have no ale to offer you,’ the Prancer said.
‘I would not drink with you,’ Gregson retorted. ‘You’ve betrayed the King.’
‘I don’t see how,’ the Prancer said, puzzled.
‘Don’t you?’ The man pointed at the ring resting against the unicorn’s chest. ‘You’ve taken her gold, when your loyalty should be to the Keeper of the Unicorn Throne.’
‘I am Fianna’s Champion,’ the Prancer acknowledged. ‘The King already has a worthy Champion. I’ve not betrayed Anton. I’m not accompanying the Queen into war against him.’
‘And if war does come?’ Gregson challenged. ‘Whom will you side with then?’
The Prancer drew himself up straight. ‘Surely this visit is to prevent war. Or do you know more than you’ve told us?’
The man’s mouth twisted, and he looked away. For a moment, it appeared as if he would answer the Prancer. Then he shrugged. ‘Even with me, the King shares very little. He wishes to speak to the Queen, that much I do know. And he won’t be pleased to find you at her side. That I also know.’
