Rima had always been very good at hiding her feelings. Her court face was a carefully cultivated mask, pleasant, pretty, interested, a little abstracted—people said a lot in the presence of someone who seemed not to be listening half the time, and not fully comprehending what she heard even when she did pay attention. They had always thought her weak, the council lords and those who jostled for favors at Dynan’s flanks. But here, in the presence of someone whom she trusted and who would not have been fooled for an instant with her court pretenses, Rima allowed her true feelings to percolate across her features. March, watching the play of emotion there, smiled, a little grimly. The court was about to learn how badly they had underestimated Dynan’s “little sparrow.”
“They have accepted Anghara as queen, in full council,” Rima was saying softly.
“And when they see Dynan’s own banners on the moors before Miranei?” said March.
Rima glanced up briefly, acknowledging the question as one she had pondered herself. “I must get them to seal their vows. In writing. Now, while I can still control the council. You say nobody knows of Sif’s coming as yet?”
“Nobody, my lady.”
“Good. Make sure the messenger is rewarded for his trouble—I am sure he is another whose interests do not lie with Sif—but don’t let him speak to anyone until I have done with the council. Where is he now?”
“I told him to wait in my chambers, my lady.”
They exchanged conspiratorial smiles. “Keep him there,” Rima said, “for the time being. And tell the stewards to convene the council. Now, within the hour.”
March made her a slight bow and turned to leave. Her voice stopped him even as he reached for the door. “March.”
“My lady?”
“Which of Anghara’s ladies do you think we can trust?”
March considered this. A little too long; Rima’s mouth thinned. Had it really come to this? That she couldn’t find one of her daughter’s ladies who would be loyal to the future Queen of Roisinan? But March met her eyes steadily enough. “I would think Lady Catlin, or Lady Nessa. I would keep Lady Deira as far from any secret plan as I could.”
Rima smiled despite herself. Deira was an elderly gossip, to whom one could entrust any rumor one wanted spread around Miranei and the surrounding countryside within the space of a single day. The warning was well-placed. There was an equal warning in March’s words, though, in the two names he had omitted to mention. Those who might sell Anghara, if they had the chance. Rima considered the two ladies March had named for a brief moment, while he waited patiently by the door for further instructions. “Catlin,” she decided finally. “Send Lady Catlin to me. And make sure Anghara is attended by Lady Nessa at all times, when Catlin or I are not with her.”
“Yes, my lady.” March took a moment to gaze at the queen with something like pity. There was desolation in Rima’s eyes. She had already suffered a sundering, one beyond repair; she was contemplating another at that very minute, one which could well be instrumental in saving her daughter’s life. For nine-year-old Anghara had never been as vulnerable as she was right now, with a stronger claimant than she on his way to tear her from the throne she held so precariously.
By the time the council was assembled, grumbling at the haste, Rima had set a great deal into motion. She swept into the room clad in royal robes of scarlet and ermine, glittering with gems. She knew very well that any direct order she gave this dangerously unbalanced council might all too easily be ignored—at worst, they could rise up against her, against Anghara, there and then. But she knew how to play them; the judicious show of a little royal splendor was never wasted. With a mixture of courtly deference and a delicate pulling of Dynan’s rank, Rima did not find it hard to lull them into believing they had been sweet-talked into adding their signatures and seals to the document she had already prepared—the least of things, merely a declaration of succession. They woke up abruptly at Rima’s rather grim chuckle as she picked up both the original document and the copy she had also given them to sign and proceeded to read to them what they had just agreed. They, the undersigned, council lords appointed by King Dynan of blessed memory of the Realm of Roisinan, lawful king in unbroken descent of the Kir Hama dynasty, undertook to preserve and protect the successor to King Dynan, his only heir and legitimate child of his marriage, against all comers. They agreed to accept her as their sovereign queen. It was more than a simple declaration, it was an oath of allegiance.
“Majesty, was this really necessary?” protested one of the lords, one Rima was far from sure of. She could see beads of sweat gathering on his forehead.
Yes. Yes! You have already chosen a different master. Let’s see where you go from here. “I believed so, my lords. None of you forget for a moment, I am sure, that the princess is still very young.” It was a sharp little gibe—of course they couldn’t put from their minds that, technically, they were ruled by a nine-year-old. One or two councillors had the grace to look abashed. “There is one more thing I would ask of you. Would you please follow me?”
They did so, not without grumbling, but she was still queen and Miranei was still her court. They stopped abruptly as they entered the Great Hall. Openly displayed on a purple cushion was the crown of Roisinan—and next to it, sitting very still in a chair only one step down from the dais on which stood the throne of Miranei, the princess they had just sworn to uphold. Anghara Kir Hama sat straight, not touching the back of the chair, her dignity almost frightening in one barely turned nine. She watched them enter with calm gray eyes, meeting no lord’s direct look but seeming to encompass them all with her still, royal gaze.
“What is this, majesty?” one of the lords asked. “The princess? The crown?”
“Yes,” said Rima, and cold steel rang in her voice. The lords looked at her, surprised. This was not the gentle queen they had learned to know. This was a she-lynx from the mountains, and on the dais was her young. The time was past for preening and purring. The claws were out. “We must wait for her crowning, her formal crowning. But today you, the council of lords, have all set your names to a document naming Anghara as Queen of Roisinan. And today the council of lords will witness her first crowning. You, the council, will crown her. Once bestowed in this way, we all know the crown cannot be taken except by a usurper. And if it is so taken, you will all bear witness that it is worn by a false claimant. Lord Egan, Lord Garig, if you will.”
One or two of the lords had glanced back at the door through which they had entered, but it had been quietly closed behind them. So were all the other doors. Rima noticed their furtive glances and smiled. “All doors are barred from the outside at my command,” she said, “until this ceremony is over, and until I give the word. My lords, your queen waits.”
There were those who still contemplated some sort of escape, but the two lords Rima had named glanced warily at one another and began walking toward the dais where Anghara sat. She had turned her head slightly to look at them, and their spirits quailed at the piercing power in her eyes. So unexpected in a child—eyes which seemed to see past the lords’ council robes, expensive jin’aaz silk from Kheldrin, and into the sins festering beneath in their souls. Lord Egan was the first to look away. Lord Garig had declared openly for Anghara; that was partly why Rima had named him. He looked at the child with love and loyalty. But even he could not bear her direct gaze for long. Her eyes, the same gray as Rima’s, were all Dynan’s in that moment—the blood in her veins was royal, by the Gods, and it showed.
Rima shepherded the remaining four lords closer, so they might miss nothing. Lord Egan picked up the crown and could not prevent a scowl as he turned to hand the jewelled treasure into Lord Garig’s waiting hands. He did so in silence; but Garig suddenly felt moved to say a few words, to legitimize what ought to have been a rite of royal pomp and panoply with a few phrases of ceremony. He lifted the crown he held high over Anghara’s head.
“With this,” he said formally, lapsing into the high tongue of all ritu
al, “we accept thee as our queen, Anghara Kir Hama, daughter of Dynan. We hold thy life and safety above our own, and we pledge our lives to thee in this place today. May the Gods bless and protect you.”
The crown touched Anghara’s bright hair and rested there for a few moments—then Garig lifted it away, with something like reluctance. It was not his place to crown her properly; but it was written in his face how much he wished Anghara could walk from this room his queen in more than just his dreams and wishes. Rima could see his expression, and also the daggers Egan’s eyes cast at him over the crown as he received it back. She suddenly wondered if this little charade of hers would cost Garig his life.
None of this had been rehearsed; there had been no time, and Rima had to rely on Anghara’s natural awareness of what was going on. The girl now startled them by suddenly rising from her chair. She might have been small-boned, like her mother, and still a child, but at that moment she had the presence Red Dynan had commanded.
“Thank you,” she said to the two lords who had leaned their hand to her “crowning.” She included them both in her thanks, but the smile hovering in her eyes was for Garig alone. Garig suddenly saw the means to cement the ceremony he had just performed in terms that would bind the lords irrevocably, far more so than Rima’s document. He dropped to one knee before the child-queen, lifting up his hands to hers, palms together. He caught her eye, this time fearlessly, and she read there his intent and raised her own small hands to cover his.
“I, Lord Garig, do swear fealty and allegiance and do take thee as my liege lady and my queen…”
This Rima had not planned, and the blood rushed to her face as she realized what Garig had done. Now he had sworn, they would all have to, or be instantly proclaimed traitors. The ancient oath might not mean much if Sif knocked on the doors of Miranei, but it was honor-binding. Rima blessed Garig for thinking of it, wondering how she ought to reward this most loyal of lords, while it was still in her power to do so.
She focused once more on the dais, where Garig had completed his oath and been raised by Anghara. Egan’s color was also high, but not from joy. His face was thunderous. Still, under the challenging gaze of Lord Garig and Anghara’s serenely expectant smile, he stumbled onto his knees and forced out the words of the oath of allegiance as though through clenched teeth. All the same, he had done it. When he rose, the next lord was already stepping onto the dais to take his place. Rima sought Garig’s eyes, and he met her look across the heads of the file of lords waiting for their turn at the oath taking. He gave her a barely perceptible nod, approval of what she had done, acknowledgment of her gratitude, which must have blazed from her eyes like a beacon. He looked away again, at Anghara, who stood less than half the height of the burly men who bowed before her but seemed to tower over them as they approached. Yes, thought Rima, she would do. She had it in her, the queenship; only why, in the name of all the Gods, did Dynan have to die before his daughter had turned fifteen? They would have accepted her then, even with Sif hovering in the background like a bad dream. But she was still a child, especially now, in the afterglow of Sif’s martial exploits. They would look for confirmation of the right to rule Roisinan in Sif’s abilities on the battlefield, not in the quiet qualities of a girl-child who had never lifted a sword…
“Majesty?”
Egan’s voice beside her woke Rima from what had almost been a dream. She glanced up at the dais, where Anghara now stood alone, and then around the faces of the lords who had rejoined her in the hall. Egan looked as if he might well break every court protocol he had ever known, and go so far as to demand to be released from the room. But Garig forestalled him, stepping forward in the instant of silence following Egan’s challenge, and bowed to her.
“Our duty is accomplished,” he said smoothly, “and the young queen has given us leave to go. Have we yours?”
“Yes, and my blessing,” she said impulsively. She held his eyes for one last instant and then turned to walk to the nearest door and knock on it. “Open,” she called, “in the name of the queen!”
The doors swung open at this invocation, and the lords, with a sketchy obeisance in Rima’s direction, filed out. When the last had left, Rima turned to her daughter. Anghara had descended the steps of the dais and stood, gray eyes wide and questioning, looking more delicate and fragile than ever. “Mama?”
Rima held out a hand, and Anghara ran to hug her mother around her slender waist. “Oh, my little queen, you did beautifully. They will not forget this. They might try, but this day will never leave their memory. You may not have been crowned yet, but they saw the crown upon your head, and it looked as if it belonged there. They will not forget.”
March popped his head around the door he had been guarding. “My lady?”
Rima, her arm around her daughter’s shoulders, looked up.
“I have released the messenger,” he said, cryptically.
“Good,” said Rima. The news would greet the lords as they came from Anghara’s crowning. Only now would they realize what they had done. “Catlin?”
“She is ready, majesty,” said March, a little more slowly. Rima’s eyes were distant, looking inward, sifting through the memories. Then she roused herself, allowing a small moment of triumph to sweeten what had to follow, and hugged Anghara closer.
“Come,” she said, “there are still a lot of things to be done, and we have little time. Come, Anghara.”
Lady Catlin of Anghara’s suite waited in Rima’s private quarters with two small travelling trunks. One was already corded and sealed; the other still open. Catlin had finished with it, however; the final space above the layer of fine silk-paper covering the meticulously packed clothing was left for another’s hand.
Anghara had been told nothing of travel plans. Yet the trunks were hers, and Catlin was a familar attendant, and Anghara’s eyes widened as she saw them secreted away in her mother’s rooms. March led Catlin out into the anteroom for the moment, giving mother and daughter a few moments alone together.
“My darling,” said Rima, in a voice which was steady enough to an untutored ear, “you must go away for a while. Things could get a little dangerous for you here, and I’d have you well away from Miranei until you can come back to the court and be properly crowned.”
“And you, Mama?” Anghara had no need to hide her feelings. The tremble in her own voice was all too apparent, and threatened to completely undo Rima’s hard-won composure.
“I will stay here,” she said. “Someone needs to hold the castle for you.”
“But March could…”
“March is going with you. And Catlin. They will take care of you while we are parted.”
Anghara was a child, but she was a child born to duty. She lifted her chin. “How long must I stay away?”
“I don’t know, my darling. I will send for you when it is safe. Now listen to me. This I will give to you.” She wrapped Anghara’s small hands around the document the lords had signed. “Don’t ever lose it. The other one, the copy, I shall hide in a safe place, if you should ever need it.”
“Where, Mama?”
“March will know. Keep him close. And one more thing I will give you.”
She rose and went to a casket by her bed, taking from it a massive gold ring, a man’s ring, set with a great red stone carved with the crest of Roisinan. A fine gold chain had been looped through the ring. Rima stood looking at it for a few breathless seconds as the unhealed wounds in her heart began to bleed anew at the sight of Dynan’s seal. And then she turned and placed the ring in Anghara’s small palm, pouring the chain after it. “This was your father’s,” she said, and her voice was husky. “It is the seal of the kingdom. While it is yours, you are the Queen of Roisinan. Do not let it out of your sight.”
Anghara bit her lip and then took the treasure, looping the chain over her head until the great seal hung dull red against the bodice of her dress. Rima smiled, and reached to tuck it inside. “Do not let it out of your sight, but do not
reveal it to that of others. Not until you are ready to claim it again here in Miranei.”
Anghara accepted this in silence. Her eyes strayed toward the half-packed trunk. Rima noticed. “I asked Catlin to pack for you,” she said, “but that space is for you, if there is something you want to take, something she did not know about. She’s waiting for you now, and there is nobody in your chambers. Go quickly and quietly, and bring whatever you might want. And then…”
“There is nothing,” said Anghara. “What she chose to bring, I will take. I am content.”
Rima gazed at her child for a long moment, with a mixture of pride and sheer incomprehension. “Are you sure?” she murmured. “It might be awhile. Is there some special treasure…”
“I will be back,” said Anghara, with a certainty that dragged Rima’s sleeping Sight into full wakefulness. Looking down at her daughter, she saw curiously double, the face of a young woman superimposed on the child’s—a face that was no stranger to suffering. “Yes,” Rima said slowly, recognizing the abyss of pain-filled years lying between the two images. “You will.”
She bent to kiss Anghara on the brow, then turned away to open the door of her chambers. “Lady Catlin, the princess needs to change into her travelling costume, and then you will take her down to the north courtyard. There is a wagon waiting. March will be there presently, he will be your escort on your journey. Make sure…nobody sees where you go.”
“Yes, majesty,” murmured Catlin, her voice a pleasant smoky alto. “Come, princess.”
The Hidden Queen Page 2
