The Hidden Queen

by Alma Alexander

  “The other thing…look at me, woman…the other thing I must know is the whereabouts of her daughter…what is it now?”

  Large round tears rolled out of Deira’s eyes at the mention of the princess. Sif shook her again. “I don’t have much time. What is it? Do you know something?”

  “She was my young lady…my lamb…she is gone…”

  That could have meant a number of things. Sif jerked his captive forward, desperately afraid Rima might yet cheat him of the information he wanted. He could not let her die before he got it out of her. Deira stumbled against the bed, making no effort to wipe her tears; Rima’s eyes opened again. Deira gasped at the sight, her hands, one still holding the document, flying to her mouth.

  “Ask!” said Sif violently. “The original! The princess!”

  Rima whispered something, very low. Deira’s breath hissed out again as Sif tightened his fingers on her arm; she bent over her to listen, and then, sobbing, murmured the questions Sif had put. Rima was silent then, for so long that Sif already tasted defeat, but then her lips, almost bloodless now, opened again. Sif almost pushed Deira into Rima’s face. The queen’s voice rustled faintly, like the sound of wind in dying leaves, and then she was simply…gone. Fodrun could see the instant of her going, her breath stopping, her head lolling sideways, lifeless. Her eyes had stayed open, though, and if Fodrun had been called upon to interpret the expression that remained on her face he would have had to call it triumph. The thought gave him an odd shiver of apprehension. What was it she thought she’d won?

  “She said,” Deira said slowly, without being prompted, although Sif’s fingers were possibly prompt enough, “the original is with Princess Anghara.”

  “And where,” said Sif, who couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice, “is the princess?”

  Deira looked up, her eyes clear and very candid. “She does not know, and she is speaking the truth. There is no memory of Princess Anghara in her mind, after the crowning.”

  Fodrun felt the temperature in the room drop. Sif took his fingers from the woman’s arm as though she were unclean. “Crowning?” he echoed, and his voice was glacial.

  “The council crowned her, and swore allegiance,” said Deira, recounting the memory she had just read. Fodrun watched Sif’s face change. Even if he had wanted to spare Anghara it was now too late. There was no room for two crowned sovereigns in Roisinan, and Sif had already staked everything on the gamble he had taken to win the crown for himself. Rima’s plan had doomed her daughter; if Sif’s searchers found the child-queen, she was dead.

  “Who knew of this?” Sif asked, his voice flat.

  “The council lords, who were there. And the queen’s guard,” said Deira.

  “None else?”

  “I did not know until this moment,” said Deira, suddenly gathering the tattered rags of dignity befitting a lady of the royal chamber, “and I was Princess Anghara’s own attendant.”

  “Go,” Sif said abruptly. “Leave us. Guard!”

  “Lord?”

  “Get the woman out of here.”

  Deira went with alacrity, stealing a tender look at the woman whose last memories she had stolen for Miranei’s new lord.

  One of Sif’s captains returned at this point to report no trace of Anghara Kir Hama could be found in the keep, living or dead.

  “Could she have spirited her away under my very nose? Where would she have sent her?” Sif said, speaking only partly to Fodrun, demanding answers from himself.

  “I could make enquiries, lord. Even in the chaos…someone might have noticed something,” Fodrun volunteered. Sif gave him a swift glance from beneath lowered eyelids.

  “Yes. Do so. But if…when…we run her to ground, it will be for me alone to know. As far as anyone else is concerned, she is dead, Fodrun. Anghara Kir Hama is dead, and will be buried with her mother. They cannot crown a dead queen; this way, even the damned document…where is that parchment, Fodrun?”

  Fodrun’s eyes widened. “The woman…the woman had it…you gave it into her hand…”

  Sif was already at the door. “Domar!” he called, and the man who had reported not finding the princess stood to attention. “The woman who was just here. She has in her possession a document. I want it back. Find her.”

  “Yes, lord!”

  Leaning against the doorway of Rima’s room, Sif laughed joylessly, his head bent, seeming to study with rapt attention the dust on his riding boots, so inappropriate for a royal lady’s bedchamber. Then he looked up, and his eyes glinted with a savage determination. “I’ve been careless,” he said. “It won’t happen again.”

  He turned around and contemplated the dead woman in what had also been his father’s bed. He could let that specter drive him from this room, from this palace, but it would take more than the dead to keep him from the dreams he had clung to for so long. “Get someone to clear up this mess,” he ordered abruptly. “I want this room habitable again before tonight. For now…I need a drink. Come, Fodrun, kingmaker. Shall I show you a place where a would-be prince-in-waiting often used to go?”

  It came as something of a surprise to Fodrun to realize the last thing he wanted to do was walk into some Miranei tavern with the man who would be crowned king within days. When he had promised Sif Roisinan, Fodrun had been thinking only of the battle to come; he had wanted a prince who would be a war leader to his leaderless, all-but-crushed army. What he received was something far bigger than he had bargained for—Fodrun Kingmaker. For some reason it sat ill on Fodrun’s ears. But the king he had made was waiting, and his words had been less a request than an order thinly veiled in courtesy. Fodrun drew a deep breath and dredged up a smile from somewhere. “Lead on, my prince.”

  The guards found Deira almost two hours later. By then she no longer had the document they were seeking; her reputation, so well respected by March, had been richly deserved. When the matter was brought to him, Sif was intelligent enough to realize he had lost that particular battle. The contents of the damnable document must have been the stuff of tavern gossip even as he sat quaffing ale with his general, who would emerge from that particular outing as the Chancellor of Roisinan. Counselled by his newly appointed chancellor, now First Lord in Sif’s new council, he did not order the woman killed; after all, he himself had summoned her to Rima’s chamber, and if anyone had been to blame for her keeping hold of the parchment, it was him. He had merely asked his guards, in a laconic tone laced with steel, never to let her cross his path again, and by nightfall she was packed and gone, set on the road of exile under permanent ban from Miranei for as long as Sif Kir Hama reigned. She was followed, as an afterthought; it had been Fodrun’s idea, and one of his own men who had been charged with it. Deira could conceivably have played them all for fools, and headed directly for Anghara’s hiding place. But March’s words had been heeded; Deira knew nothing. Fodrun’s agent followed her to her brother’s house, and, on his return, reported to Fodrun that the lady looked likely to stay there for the rest of her days, intimidating her brother’s lady with grim tales of the Battle of Miranei.

  The army that took Miranei had been only a fragment of the force that fought at the Ronval. These men had ridden hard and fast, reaching the keep quickly, ready for battle. The remainder of the men, who travelled much more slowly, had been something of an honor guard, their task to escort Dynan’s body. Everything had waited upon them, for the return of the dead king. Sif merely held the reins of power, but could not be crowned until his father’s body had been properly laid to rest, and these arrangements had been the first order of business Sif attended to. Dynan was given a ceremonial state funeral, which he shared, although it galled Sif to enshrine that relationship even in death, with his queen—and with a casket devoid of a body, purported to contain the remains of his daughter. Sif himself attended the formalities with his mother on his arm, Lady Clera having suddenly become a person of some influence at court. Not a muscle on his face moved during the ceremony, but Fodrun, who was beginn
ing to read Sif’s moods by the subtle signals of his flashing eyes, saw how much it upset him to see the grief expressed by the people at the sight of that third, smallest casket. Even at her own “funeral,” his half-sister was successfully upstaging him.

  But that was the last time. With the past laid to rest, the next ceremony was wholly Sif’s. He was crowned in the full brilliance of a royal sacrament, every detail meticulously planned. He would stamp his right to rule in the memory of every man and woman who saw him take the crown. And if a heresy had already taken root, a story of another crowning, which should have been put to rest in an irrevocable manner with Anghara’s burial but which only seemed to have been inflamed by it, it would have been a foolhardy man indeed who showed he knew anything about it at Sif’s coronation.

  And the story did flower in Miranei, and spread beyond. There were those who may have bowed to circumstance and accepted Sif as the new king in Miranei who nevertheless flatly refused to believe Anghara was dead, and spoke of her return as if it was preordained. When Sif first heard the tale, he had merely laughed. When it surfaced to taunt him again and again, he ceased to find it funny.

  “I could order the body taken from the vault and exhibited, and put the whole thing to rest,” he said to Fodrun one evening, in a particularly foul mood about the story that wouldn’t die. He was pacing back and forth in front of the stone fireplace in what had been Dynan and Rima’s bedchamber, which he had appropriated for his own use. “I should have thought of that before, however, and provided the body. Finding one now, one that looks sufficiently like her, at the right stage of decomposition—it might prove a little difficult. I laid her in the family vault, Fodrun, and she will not stay. Anghara is a restless ghost.”

  Sif had been king for almost two months, and only Fodrun and Clera knew just how vulnerable he still felt, part of the reason why the stories of Anghara bit so deep. People tended to forget all too easily, given Sif’s considerable abilities and the tenacity and ruthlessness with which he pursued his goals, that the new king was only a few weeks past his twenty-first birthday.

  “I wonder what would happen,” said Sif rather grimly, “if Anghara rode into the bailey and proclaimed herself queen, with that damned declaration in one hand and Dynan’s great seal in the other. I never did find that, Fodrun. If Rima had anything to do with hiding it, she knew Miranei better than any born here. We’ve been over every conceivable place with a fine-toothed comb.” If Anghara should choose to challenge Sif for her heritage, his possession of the throne would count for little, should she convince the people of the truth of her claims. He knew that. Anghara would know it, too.

  Fodrun, who knew he had been summoned that night to deal with his king’s fit of despondency, as he had done before on previous occasions, eyed a half-full decanter of red wine on a nearby table with longing, but the king had not offered. He swallowed, looked away. “I may have found something,” he said diffidently.

  Sif stopped pacing, whirled in mid stride. “Tell me!” he commanded.

  “There was a sudden flurry of departures in the wake of the first rumors of your coming, lord,” said Fodrun. “It’s hard to be sure. But I have heard some of those wagons and carts were heading toward sanctuary.”

  “The priests of Nual?”

  “Yes.”

  Sif rubbed his temples with his hands. “If she is there, the priests will never tell. And I cannot breach sanctuary with a raid. Roisinan may forgive Dynan’s son much, but not that.”

  “But there is another way to find out. Not all who go into sanctuary go there for good. Nual shelters many who go to him for a few weeks, a few days, even; sometimes merely a wife fleeing from her husband’s wrath, or a scoundrel evading the law.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “What if a man sought sanctuary, a man who could learn from within who else the priests were harboring? They do not ask to know a seeker’s sin if it is not freely told. The man could be in and out within a week. And we would at least know. Later…we have time. We could set a watch, if we were sure. She would never leave those walls.”

  Sif allowed himself a guarded smile. “Do it. And report to me.”

  “Yes, lord.” Fodrun had made it a habit to execute all Sif’s orders instantly. People who lagged tended to be remembered. He was already on his feet when Sif laughed.

  “Tomorrow will do.” There was amusement at Fodrun’s alacrity in Sif’s voice. Now, finally, he turned toward the decanter. “Wine?”

  Fodrun settled back into the chair into which he had been waved at his arrival. “Thank you, my lord.”

  Sif’s back was to him as he poured, and Fodrun studied him, safely unobserved for the moment. Even in the loose house robe, there was no disguising Sif’s dangerous build, the breadth of his shoulders, the smooth muscle in his back. This was a true warrior prince Fodrun had raised to power, wild in all warriors’ ways—a few words of prudent advice were all too often needed to calm his hot blood. Unpredictable, too; it was hard to gauge the sudden swing of Sif’s moods. With all his faults, however, this was where Fodrun’s fate had been cast. Why, then, did he sometimes find himself so reluctant to point out things Sif might have missed, especially on the subject of Anghara? Fodrun had thought on her intriguing disappearance, and the convenient amnesia of Rima’s deathbed. He had been on the point of discussing these thoughts with Sif many times, yet somehow he could not bring himself to speak. Why? Did he still think he could protect Anghara? Against the power Sif consolidated daily? And what did his wanting to protect his king’s only rival for the throne of Roisinan make of his loyalty to Sif?

  Some of those thoughts, concealed so carefully for so long, must have showed on his face. Sif paused as he turned, two full wine goblets in hand. The king’s eyes narrowed suddenly. “You have something else to tell me.” It was a flat statement, not a question. More, it was an order; Sif’s silence was expectant.

  Cornered, Fodrun grasped the nettle. “I was thinking about Anghara,” he said. “She vanished too quickly, too well. They simply did not have time to plan this, my lord; King Dynan’s death and your being at hand for the battle at Ronval was not something anyone could have foreseen long enough in advance to produce an entire contingency plan, not one this flawless.”

  “What are you telling me?” said Sif, stepping forward, offering a goblet. Fodrun accepted it, and took a convulsive swallow. Sif would not like what he was about to hear.

  Fodrun said carefully, “Rima must have had help. Anghara did not merely disappear, she was actively hidden from you; and yet there was the document, which implied she had already claimed the crown. I believe she is alive, she holds the original, and she was hidden from you by something more than clever planning. By Sight.”

  Sif was frowning. “Sight,” he repeated hollowly.

  “None in Miranei ever saw her use it,” said Fodrun, even more carefully, “but it was an open secret that Rima had it.”

  “Yes,” said Sif flatly. “I know.” The hand that was closed around the stem of Sif’s goblet whitened. Fodrun tensed, waiting for the wineglass to shatter against the wall at any minute. But Sif thought the better of it, and took a large swallow instead, forcing himself to relax into a chair. He looked faintly revolted; he had never liked to traffic with Sight. Sometimes he used it, ruthlessly, if he saw no other way past some obstacle toward a goal—as he had wielded it to wring true memories from the dying Rima in this very room. But Fodrun had seen Sif shy from it several times so far during their short partnership. It seemed to frighten him sometimes; it repulsed him always. He clearly saw it as something dreadful, inhuman.

  “Then Anghara could have it too,” said Sif, after a pause. “She may well be alive, but she’s out there somewhere biding her time, waiting until she comes into her power. If she doesn’t want to be found, I’ll never find her.”

  “She is too young, Sight comes into its own only with adolescence,” Fodrun said. “In her own right, I don’t think she can be a threat, or ev
en a factor in her own concealment. Not yet. That still had to be done for her, by others, with mature powers. But yes, if she has inherited the gift, she will be able to use it, sooner rather than later. And one day she might well turn it against you. But if she has been hidden with Sight, lord, then she may be found with Sight. Perhaps.”

  “What do you mean?” The query was sharp, intense.

  “There are still Sighted women in Miranei. Set some of them looking.”

  Sif rose violently to his feet and crossed to the window, staring outside into the thin winter twilight. “I never liked dealing with those witches.” It sounded as though he spat the words.

  “They may succeed, where all else has failed,” said Fodrun with delicacy. He wished he could get rid of the foul taste the words left in his own mouth—he could not seem to rid them of the guilt of betrayal which clung to them like a skin. If Anghara was ever discovered, Fodrun knew he would go to his grave feeling like a murderer. And yet…not helping Sif’s search was unthinkable.

  Sif seemed to have come to terms with his own qualms. “I’ll do it,” he said, but his voice was heavy. “If it will help, I will do it. But I swear I do not like it. Why is just being human never quite enough in Roisinan?”

  With a sudden flash of insight, Fodrun realized part of the reason Sif harbored such an implacable hostility toward Sight. When both Rima and Clera, Sif’s mother, had come to Miranei there had been little to choose between them. Both daughters of country gentry, lords of distant manors who laid claim to neither great wealth nor power, all they brought with them had been their youth and beauty. If Dynan had been an ordinary man it might have been different—but he was more than a man, he was a king. Clera had borne Dynan a son, but it was Rima whom Dynan had married, and crowned; Rima, whose single advantage and addition to Dynan’s treasury had been Sight—something that Clera, for all the proof of her devotion, could never offer.