Two Queens (Seven Heavens Book 1)

by Holden, Ryan

  And their horrible posture! He knew it would not be easy for him to return to his old world, to take on the graces long dropped. But he could still criticize it in the common folk he came across. All of them miserable creatures, all of them flawed.

  Except her.

  He mindlessly sorted through his goods. He was glad of the excuse, a reason to be outside on this early winter day. He dropped his eyes now and then to a particular article, ever again raising them to inquire after the black-haired woman.

  Was she the one? Could there be two in such a village? He tried not to gawk as she approached.

  “Peddler!” the blacksmith called. “Do you wish to trade today?” He jumped at the sound and stared blankly at the interruption.

  “Trade? Let us trade.” He walked into the smithy. Taking a last look over his shoulder he saw no woman, just large white flakes slowly falling. His chance wasted.

  He conducted his trades, making hardly any recompense for his travel east. He would lose money here, no doubt. Too far out of the way, no market really. And his timing was horrible—Neal was right. They had nothing to trade and were quite content, the fools.

  In a matter of minutes he found out the blacksmith was not looking to buy anything, just sell an unwanted contraption of some sort. He demonstrated its use but Paris, not paying much attention, was not improved by the exertion. Some stupid thing that tore wool into strips—now who would want that much stringy thread? What a waste. And to think the blacksmith thought he would lug that piece of junk all the way down the mountain for that price!

  The blacksmith was getting frustrated. Paris roused himself. With some hasty pledges for future travels he made his escape.

  He counted his money as he put it away. Not much at all—he remembered when he could spend treble this on a single round of drinks for his friends. Now, it was his sole stock, plus worthless unsold goods, to stave off becoming a villager himself. He cursed his bad luck.

  “May I trade?” A worn out voice said above him.

  He growled. “Day's over. You lot have had your pick of the goods.”

  “I do not wish to buy,” the voice said, “I wish to sell.”

  He awoke to the sound of the voice. He looked up, startled. The raven-tressed woman from before stood in front of him, her face pleading even after her lips had shut. He recovered quickly.

  “Sell what? Corn? I've had enough of your rotten stock, can't sell it down on the lowlands. Meat? Got more than I can handle, chances are half will spoil before I can find a buyer. None of you folk is selling your karja yet, so what do you have?” He took the offensive, downgrading her goods even before he saw them.

  “Kardja, yes, we rarely sell,” she gently added the 'd' backn into the word. “Perhaps, then, I might buy instead and save you from your predicament. Or borrow.” No change in her voice. No reaction to defend. And if she was in the market for food (who bought that of a peddler in a village like this?) he had just wiped out half his profits.

  “What do you want, then?”

  “Everything. All your food, all your money. Your horse and your cart. And your name. Everything.”

  He jumped up. “Are you out of your mind, lady?” Hardly had the last word left his mouth when inside him, like a bell tower, there chimed a note proclaiming that he had picked the right word. Not woman. Lady.

  “Peace, peace, or take it outside,” the blacksmith called out. Paris glared at him but the lady turned.

  “Kerdae!” she sang out. “I hope I'm not disturbing you.”

  Paris had never seen an overawed dog change tactics so fast. All aggression dropped from Kerdae's face.

  “Ramona?” He asked. “Enda, she's here! Come and say hello!” he called out behind him. “Come in out of the weather.”

  “Thank you, Kerdae, I will in a moment. I have some business I must trouble this gentleman for first.” She turned back to Paris.

  He saw a redheaded girl, perhaps early teens, rushing outside only to be herded back in by the blacksmith. What hair color would he see next? He heard something and turned back to look at the lady.

  “I am truly sorry for interrupting you this late,” she smiled a sad smile. Dragons fear that smile: it is the sort of thing that bring knights with sharp swords to their doorstep. “For what I have is a pressing matter, somewhat complex and somewhat private.”

  Paris couldn't suppress the shivers that ran up and down his spine. She withdrew her hand from her coat. In her palm lay a silver ring crowned with a single sparkling gem. The silver band flowed up to encircle the gemstone like two rushing rivers. Paris gasped.

  Diamond, most would think at first glance. Paris knew that's what he thought when in his youth he first beheld this ring. More accurately, when he first saw the painting of Artemis in the court of the king. He had never seen the ring itself.

  Until now. The delight of the artist handily destroyed the negotiating position of the merchant. “It is lovely, is it not? I fear it is old and out of fashion, a trifling bauble held on from poorer days.”

  “How—who are you?” He looked full into her face. She could be Artemis herself for all he knew. Older than the painting, with lines of care faintly visible on her brow. He felt now that the painting was a colossal fraud.

  She laughed lightly. “No, no. It was I who bartered for the name, not you.”

  “I am known as the merchant.”

  “I said name.” She put her hand back in her coat and with it the ring. His eyes followed it then fell back to her waiting black ones.

  “Paris.”

  Her eyebrows rose then settled again. “What would you lend with this as security? I could inform you of someone who wished this trinket of me and would repay the loan.” She took the coin purse from in front of him and felt its heft.

  He snatched his moneybag back from her. What carelessness! But who could blame him? “Perhaps five hundred shekels.” He was astounded at his audacity. “Truesilver, Kyrian issue, none of this mine-stamped roughage.”

  Her face fell, then she considered it. “I thought you said merchant, not almsman,” she said.

  Aha, enough of the intrigue. Play her a little more then settle in for the long game, he thought. “Eight hundred shekels, then?”

  She yawned. “Perhaps peddler, yes, that's what I should call you.”

  “I do apologize for tiring you,” he smiled, “you must be exhausted. Perhaps we should continue this tomorrow?” He stowed his bags into his cart. His nerves quivered more than when he had been pushed into an eel pond so many years ago. He bid her good night and walked to his horse, ears waiting, hoping, despairing for her comeback.

  Just then a man and a boy came around the corner. The lady hurriedly slipped the ring back into her sleeve. “Is the camp set up? Kerdae and Enda await us.”

  “Yes mother,” the boy answered, while the man looked from the lady to the merchant but said nothing.

  A dull ache settled on Paris. A long game it was to be—how frustrating! Why not forget the negotiations and just get it? He had the bargaining power, why quibble over shekels? He had found her, he had found it, and she wished to sell. What could be better?

  Something in the man's glance warned him off. Fear rose and by the time he had vanquished it the moment was gone. The lady was gone.

  He couldn't be too eager, he told himself. She might suspect him. Why did he say his real name? Foolish blunder! Whatever made her wish to sell would surely not dissipate overnight.

  Such thoughts did little in the face of the almost-purchase. He sighed and trudged out into the dusky twilight.

  Five

  That night Brian enjoyed himself more at Kerdae's dinner table than before. His mother had presented Enda with a large cheese, removing the feeling of begging at their doorstep completely. With his parents beside him there was no need to talk and eat at the same time. Brian happily chose the latter.

  Kerdae and Devlin likewise fell to their meal. It was a simple bean stew livened up with some green sprouts Br
ian couldn't name. Ramona and Enda, deciding to talk while they ate, though not without taste, soon covered the subject thoroughly. Brian missed most of the culinary discussion, busy eating, until his mother's voice changed.

  “What a delightful addition,” Ramona was saying, with the sound of summary judgment. “I know I've told you some of my favorites for bean stew, but really this is quite marvelous. How ever did you think of it?”

  Enda smiled. “There's a clump of it behind our house, just sprung up all by itself there, so I guess just seeing it made me wonder what it was good for.”

  “My smart Enda,—isn't this delicious?” she added, pointing her question at the men.

  Devlin grunted approval mid-swallow. Kerdae wiped his mouth. “That's my girl,” he said.

  “What do you think, Brian?” Ramona prodded.

  “I—I like it,” he said, and hid behind another spoonful.

  “You should. It is both tasty and healthy. Enda,”—here Brian relaxed, attention diverted away once more—“did you know helleboros helps prevent madness in particular?”

  “No, ma'am, I did not know that,” Enda answered.

  Brian kept on eating, slightly annoyed. Who cared? And why did she have to say “No, I did not know that,” when “No, ma'am” by itself worked? Or “didn't.” He looked up at her across the table. Somehow she seemed taller.

  “Unfortunately, it does not aid one's common sense,” Ramona added, “if so I would chop it up so fine and fill the stream with it.”

  Enda laughed. “That would be a useful plant indeed.” For a few moments there was no sound but the click-clack of pewter against the wooden bowls. “Ramona,” Enda said.

  “Yes, dear?” she answered.

  “May I ask you something? I mean, oh I don't know, it feels so rude.”

  This caught even the men's attention. Kerdae stirred, looking between the two women.

  “Not at all, please,” Ramona said. “Perhaps it may not be the most comfortable of subjects, but I am sure with you it will not be rude.”

  Enda glanced at her father, who motioned for her to go on. “I've noticed that you seem to know a lot about plants. I mean, an awful lot.” She gulped.

  Ramona nodded gently, and a small smile drifted on to her face.

  “I mean, half the plants that we call weeds I've seen you mindlessly gather and stow in your bag. I can't remember,” here Enda smiled, “ever eating anything of yours that I didn't know half of what was in it before you told me and—” Enda's racing voice now slowed and she blushed “—you smell different. I mean, nice and beautiful, like a garden when it blooms but softer. Somehow. Like after a rain.” She came to a full stop, guiltily looking at her hands with a few quick glances at Ramona.

  Brian's annoyance changed to bewilderment. He would never understand girls.

  Ramona's smile broadened on her face like the sun coaxing the rain clouds away. “Enda, that was very sweet of you. Now I must know your question.” The sun smile relaxed from high noon to early sunset and the red from Enda's face cooled.

  “Living in the village, you hear things. People tell stories. About how we came here, about the sun and the moon playing tag and hide-and-seek, about each other,” Enda slowly said. “And some stories perhaps shouldn't be told. Or heard.”

  By this time Devlin and Kerdae had set down their spoons. Devlin's hand was curled into a fist on the table.

  “You heard a story about me?” Ramona asked when Enda didn't continue.

  “Yes. I mean, I'm sorry to ask, I know it can't be true.”

  Brian's interest surged through his spine and made him feel a little lightheaded. He tingled to think the answer might be mere seconds away... while part of him screamed that he was a coward. That Enda felt the same way he did, that she could even think of simply asking it...

  She took a deep breath. “They say you're a witch.”

  Brian's jaw hit the floor. Devlin relaxed his grip. Kerdae half rose from his chair, “Daughter mine...”

  “It's okay,” Ramona said. Her hands went out and clasped Enda's. “You poor thing,” she stroked the back of Enda's hands. “Thank you for asking, because now you will know the truth. Well, you already knew it for you know me. But maybe you'll know a little more now.”

  Witch? Who had said anything about that? No wonder Enda dared speak. Courtesan, he thought. Fear welled up in him—to even say the word aloud? It was torturous, especially where one's mother was concerned. You're a coward compared to Enda, he thought. With an effort Brian shut up his thoughts enough to hear Ramona's answer.

  “Just a moment.” She leaned over and whispered into Devlin's ear. His face grew pale. “It may all be known soon enough, so I feel now is the time to tell our friends before they hear-” she laughed “-stories.” No one else laughed.

  “Tell what you will,” Devlin said with an effort.

  “Remember when we lived in Darach, Enda? Brian? That was before our kardja were quite so numerous. Those were happy years. Stories of the sort you hear were told then too, though they hadn't become their worst yet. Well, Enda, you and Brian couldn't keep up with your fathers nor look after yourselves so you were often with me and the baby.

  “I ask if you remember, Enda, because you loved to play with her”—Ramona's voice broke—“her black ringlets. When she was asleep in her crib, you'd curl up in my arms—Oh, I was so blessed: to have two daughters, it seemed, and my son happily playing nearby!”

  Brian fought a lump in his throat. He hadn't thought of her for a long time. He felt guilty. The empty chair in the corner flooded his mind.

  “Anyways, you would weave your hands through my hair as you babbled or sang. You loved my black hair. You would touch it and stroke it for hours. I had come to hate my black hair. It set me apart. Made me look like an outcast. Each market day or when walking through town I would draw a hood over it so as to avoid the stares. But with you I didn't have to hide.

  “I have grown older and hopefully wiser. Or maybe I don't care anymore, and I no longer hide who I am. Like a child, who doesn't know that little things mean big things, like the color of my hair marking me as Her.

  “Her—who was this her? The black-haired woman. She no one knew until she showed up, full grown, in love with a young man.” She smiled at Devlin. “She who spoke strangely. In short, the foreigner. For it is true—I was born far away in the city of Avallonë. One of the foolish Lowlanders.”

  Most of this Brian expected. Avallonë itself her home—interesting, but not surprising, considering how much she knew of it. Enda got the look on her face a girl will get when she first sees a squirming puppy.

  “In that city, the knowledge of herblore is highly esteemed. Many of our wisest are remembered, not for their mighty deeds of war nor words in flowing script, but for new uses found or new plants discovered. It is many years since that time: the more the seasons pass and the longer one walks from Avallonë the less honor is given it. I was taught some of the ancient art and once or twice a rapid recovery has drawn attention. But really, all my stumblings in the art are but the decayed leaves of a past century's full flower.”

  “Save one,” Devlin said. He took her hand and slowly pressed his lips to it. Brian had never felt so embarrassed in his life, right there at the table with Enda's eyes glowing right at them.

  Ramona returned Devlin's gaze for a moment. Then she continued, “That is why I am not surprised to hear 'witch' once more, Enda. A habit of scurrying about with odd bits of bric-a-brac and an insatiable desire to cook things explains most in this stolid village.”

  Enda laughed.

  Brian wondered why she'd never spoken this plain before. Why now? And with Kerdae and Enda in audience, too?

  The evening soon passed. The next day's work on their mind, a short twilight, and full stomachs conspired to make it so. Kerdae again offered them shelter which Devlin again refused, stating that it was not very wet and they could continue their work that much sooner by sleeping at the camp.

 
Wet indeed it was not. Brian wondered at what the work was his father had in mind. The three of them walked towards their current home of sorts, the dilapidated cabin Devlin had grown up in. Brian remembered using it for a night or two in years past: perhaps now with a longer stay they would be fixing it.

  Brian's parents had fallen behind, speaking in hushed tones. Brian, part of him regretting the roof left behind, looked up at the stars. He knew them all, and it comforted him to know that they were still there. Some things don't change. Or so he hoped.

  “Brian,” Ramona said as they caught up with him, “did it please you tonight? What I said, I mean?” He started. “You seemed a bit tense. Is anything wrong?”

  “No, I'm fine,” he answered without thinking.

  Ramona just stood there. Brian couldn't see her face, just her shadow self.

  “Have you heard stories too?” Ramona asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Why'd you tell Enda?” he blurted out. “You never speak of your life from long ago, never tell me about Avallonë or growing up or who you were.”

  “Brian, I tell you lots of stories. Remember Selene, and Apollo, and all the others?”

  “Yes, stories. Of what happened to some random person hundreds of years ago. It's—” here Brian had to search for the right word “-school, like you wanting me to speak nice or have good manners. But they're not your stories.” He wondered if she would say “speak nicely” or “speak well” or whatever it was in correction. Try it, he thought.

  Ramona laid a hand on Devlin, keeping him from speaking. She stood there for what felt like a long time, making no answer. Brian felt exposed, like his back was bare in a mountain breeze.