Dangerous Crowns

by A K Fedeau

  Copyright © 2019 by A.K. Fedeau

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover art and map illustration by A.K. Fedeau

  Nothing discloses real character like the use of power.

  - Robert G. Ingersoll

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  EPILOGUE

  APPENDIX

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  “Come closer, my dear. I have something I need to tell you.”

  In a quiet country cottage deep in the Histrian woods, a woman in a long red cloak sat by an old queen’s bed.

  In the garden outside, a pair of swans circled in the clear, deep pond, and sent ripples out to the wildflowers that grew along the edge. The dappled sun played on the roof tiles and the pebbles near the gate, and a mourning dove landed on the stone path before it flew away. But a gentle wind rustled in the trees, and an autumn chill crept through the grass - the end of summer loomed over them as they whiled away the afternoon hours.

  “You know what I liked about this place when I first came here?” The queen asked.

  “No. What?”

  “That things never seem to change.” The queen nodded to the tall tree by her window. “The weather’s never too cold or too humid. The tree outside is always in bloom. You know it’s an orange tree?”

  The woman blinked at its dainty white flowers. “I didn’t.”

  “Well, now you do.” The queen cleared her throat, and her covers rustled as she pulled them up to her chest. “It’s a shame. I guess some part of me hoped I’d stay the same, too.”

  “What is it you always used to say?” The woman asked.

  “Hmm?”

  “About the three things you’re never prepared for.”

  “Ahh.” The queen settled into her pillows and let out a feeble laugh. “Children, old age, and politics.”

  The woman grinned. “That’s right.”

  “You know, that’s how I deceive myself. My mind is still sharp as a knife. I still remember everything.” The queen tapped her head above her long white braid. “But my body’s decided it’s time to teach me a lesson in humility. I feel as old as I look now. I can’t hide from it anymore.”

  The woman chuckled. “Your Majesty, what am I supposed to do with that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Am I supposed to agree or disagree with you?”

  “Cheeky.” The queen chuckled with her, but swatted in front of her face. “Whatever you do, stop calling me ‘Your Majesty.’ You’ve always made it sound ridiculous.”

  “Sorry.” The woman smiled sheepishly. “Delphinia.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s a hard habit to break.”

  “I call you Livia, don’t I?”

  The woman planted her chin in her hand. “It’s really not the same.”

  “It is now,” Delphinia said. “Whether we want it to be or not.”

  They heard footsteps in the hallway, and Delphinia’s middle-aged maid came in, carrying a tray with two silver goblets and a jug of hot, spiced wine.

  “Your Majesty,” she announced. “Should I set it down by the bed?”

  “Yes, dear. That’d be nice.”

  The maid squeezed past Livia’s chair and did as Delphinia asked.

  “May I get you anything else?” She asked.

  “No. In fact, I’d like my privacy.”

  “Understood,” the maid answered, and bowed, walked out, and shut the door.

  “Now.” Livia perched her elbows on her knees. “You said you had something you need to tell me?”

  “I do.” Delphinia reached for the jug, and her hand shook as she filled Livia’s goblet, then her own. “I’m sorry I told you to come so quickly. I know you have to be back in a few hours.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll manage.”

  “Good.” The wrinkles on Delphinia’s face deepened. “Because this is not a social call.”

  Livia’s pale blue eyes searched back and forth as she picked up her wine, and she draped her black-sleeved arm on the nightstand.

  “What are we talking this time?”

  “When Hector Portinari killed my family, he thought he took everything from me.” Delphinia reached for her own wine and took a cautious sip. “My home. My family. My fortune. My seat on Histria’s throne. But he didn’t take my secrets. And that’s the thing he should have feared the most.”

  The steam from Livia’s wine licked her face as she waited for it to cool. “Go on.”

  “My days are getting shorter and harder. I don’t think I have much time.”

  Livia turned up her eyebrows. “Don’t say that.”

  “It’s all right. You get a sense about these things.” Delphinia scooted back to adjust the angle of her pillows. “The point is, there’s one secret I cannot let die with me. I’ve already waited too long to tell you. I’ll just have to do it now.”

  Livia nodded. “All right.”

  “I know I’ve asked too much of you, but I need this one thing more,” Delphinia said. “Because it’s too important. You’re the only one that I can trust.”

  Livia laid her forearm on the bed and held Delphinia’s bony hand. “Of course.”

  Delphinia paused and took a deep breath.

  “I want you to find someone.”

  Livia listened in rapt silence and sat completely still.

  “Her name is ‘Artemisia.’”

  “Who is she?”

  “I can’t tell you that. Just her name.” Delphinia lifted her frail back off her pillow and straightened up. “When you meet her, you’ll understand everything, but you can’t let people know you’re looking for her. No name - no whereabouts - nothing.”

  Livia cut in. “What about…?”

  “Only them.” Delphinia furrowed her eyebrows and answered in a somber voice. “The fate of Histria could depend on the choices you make.”

  “Delphinia, I want to help you, but you’re not giving me much to work with.”

  “The more details I give you, the more likely you are to expose yourself. I can’t risk it.” Delphinia shook her head, then drank more of her wine. “But you’re fast and clever enough to be the woman for the job. There’s no mystery too great for you, I know it. Not even this one.”

  Another rustle blew through the orange tree outside the window, and a handful of green leaves scattered against the beveled panes. Livia raised her goblet and took another drink - but over the silver rim she still stared at Delphinia, waiting for more.

  “Now, I want you to hurry home and go to Hector’s dinner tonight. He’ll expect everyone to be there. He’ll be suspicious if he doesn’t see you.” Delphinia gazed at Livia with dark, determined eyes. “You know nothing. You heard nothing. You didn’t visit me. Go, I’m begging you. Find the girl with that name - and guard her with your life.”

  CHAPTER 1

  As night fell over the capital city of Histria, th
e pillars of the white marble palace came alive with noise and light.

  In the dining hall, the musicians plucked at their citharas and harps, and they tilted their ears back and forth as they twisted their tuning knobs. The maids smoothed out the deep red tablecloths and laid out plates and bowls, and their feet scurried under their white skirts as they counted knives and spoons and forks.

  In the kitchens, the cooks sweated over boiling pots of soup, and boned chicken and quail and chopped vegetables and shoved them into pans. The oil sizzled. The sausage snapped. The firewood crackled below, and the tomato sauce bubbled with basil, rosemary, and thyme. They brushed butter and garlic over braids of bread and shoved them on oven racks, and their skin shone and they wiped their brows as the heat seared their arms.

  At the edge of the grounds, horses pulled gilded, tasseled carriages down the road, and guests of every shape streamed past the pillars and through the halls. Counts and countesses, foreign ambassadors, earls, duchesses, and dukes laughed and bowed to each other and snickered behind their sleeves. And on their heels came the entourage of King Hector’s newly rich - merchant barons and castle-creepers in silks, sandals, silver, and gold.

  And up in one of the courtiers’ rooms, Livia sat at her dresser and brushed her eyebrows, and her maid Hermia hovered over her and brushed her cropped black hair.

  “You’re sure you don’t want me to do your makeup?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.” Livia stretched her cheek and added some more kohl under her eyes, and then glanced down to see if she’d gotten any on the short, soft stays on her chest. “It’s easier to do it on yourself than other people, anyway.”

  “If you say so.” Hermia opened Livia’s cherry-stained armoire. “Have you seen the decorations downstairs?”

  “I have. I don’t know how Hector affords all that.”

  “To tell you the truth, neither do I.” Hermia picked up Livia’s day dress by the waist and hung it on the ribbons strung over the bar inside the armoire. “When you took me on, I was starstruck at how grand his dinner parties were.”

  Livia evened out her kohl on her left eye. “And that was three years ago.”

  “I know. Every year, he outdoes himself.” Hermia knotted the ribbons into double bows. “It’s like a coronation, and I’m not even sure what it’s for.”

  “It’s about the war. We pushed the Severins back at Fort Svanhild.” Livia dunked her brush in her rouge pot and painted her mouth deep wine-red. “It doesn’t mean anything. It’s a land grab in some Jormund snowfield. They’ll take it back in a month, but it’s an excuse for Hector to show off.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t speak like that, my lady.”

  The hair on Livia’s neck stood up. “Maybe not.”

  “I don’t mean to be out-of-turn. I’m just saying.”

  “No.” Livia blotted the spare rouge off. “You’re right.”

  Livia pulled a pair of gold slippers from under her dressing chair, and stuck her left foot in, then her right, and flexed her ankles and wiggled her toes. Hermia reached into the armoire and pulled out a sleeveless crimson gown, and brushed off the gold shoulder brooches before she laid it on the floor.

  “Speaking of, I heard something,” Hermia said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t hold me to it, it may not be true.”

  Livia stepped into the middle of the billowing skirt. “All right.”

  “I heard General Incipio may come back tonight.”

  Livia’s face glowed in the warm lamplight. “Are you sure?”

  “The footmen said it depends on when the ship comes in.” Hermia paced around Livia’s sides, dragging the layers of silk and chiffon up. “But they definitely told me he was headed back from the Northern Front. If they didn’t have to take the long way, he’s probably almost home.”

  “Thank the gods.” Livia wriggled her arms through the holes as Hermia wrestled with the clasps. “I’ve been worried about him. He hasn’t been writing.”

  “He hasn’t?”

  “Not as much as usual.”

  “That’s strange. I thought he was good about letters.”

  “He’s always been before.” Livia hiked the draped neckline over her décolletage. “He gets bored and lonely out there, and I answer quickly, so he writes.”

  Hermia tried to look cheerful. “I’m sure after nine years, it’s more than that.”

  “Has it really been that long?”

  Hermia stretched the last clasp into place. “It has.”

  “Mira’s grace. I’m feeling my age.”

  “You’re only thirty-five.”

  “You know what I mean.” Livia smoothed out the gold chevron-shaped band below her bust. “I remember when I met him, I thought, ‘Marcus Incipio. Who’s that? He’s probably some brat who bought his way to the top of the ranks.’” Livia gave the band a good tug, then left it alone. “I used to think I knew everything about everyone back then. I only had to talk to him once to realize how wrong I was.”

  “You must respect him a great deal, my lady.”

  “I do.” Livia lowered her arms. “I mean, the chin doesn’t hurt, but he has more character than half the army combined. I keep having to remind him how much his troops look up to him.”

  Hermia knelt by Livia’s hem. “I’m sure he’d make a good father, then.”

  Livia gave her a warning look. “Well, we’d rather not find out.”

  “I’m sorry, my lady.” Hermia stood up. “Of course.”

  A short, uncomfortable silence fell over the room, and Hermia fastened the sack back of the dress to the hooks on the neckline.

  “Hermia?”

  “Yes?”

  “Be honest with me. Have you been feeling all right?”

  Hermia crossed the room to Livia’s bedside table. “Why do you ask, my lady?”

  “I don’t know. You just seem kind of down tonight.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Go on. Tell me.”

  Hermia slid the dresser drawer open and took out a jewelry box. “Sometimes I wish I could go to dinner parties like you.”

  Livia shrugged. “There’s no reason to think you never will.”

  Hermia shut the drawer and brought the box over. “Yes there is. I’m a servant.”

  “No there’s not.” Livia frowned and popped open the box’s latch. “You could go to Kaditha and study at the Grand Gallery. You could go to sea, or explore north of Jormunthal. Or you could marry rich, I guess, but that’s boring. I’d rather be a self-made girl.”

  “Is that what you are?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Well, you’re clever. Not like me.”

  “Hermia, success in life is like alchemy.” Livia took her laurel wreath headband out of the box, and watched herself in the mirror as she perched it on the back of her head. “It may be one part talent, but it’s another ten parts luck, and a pinch of being crass enough to think you can get away with it.”

  Hermia made a discontented face, but didn’t say anything.

  “If I can pull myself up from the place that I came from…” Livia checked her teeth for smudges - “trust me, there’s nothing you can’t do.”

  •••

  Down in the great hall, the musicians played a spritely song, and Hector’s guests squeezed past each other and tried not to step on their toes.

  Their goblets gleamed as their gossip echoed up to the coffered ceiling, and the warm light played on their clothes - scarlet, sapphire, and forest green. The servants wove their way through in their dove-gray tunics and skirts, balancing their silver trays of sausages and finger tarts.

  “Have you seen His Majesty?” An old duke murmured. “I think he’s already getting drunk.”

  “Who cares? So am I.” His husband swilled from his goblet. “It’s the only way to make these bearable.”

  “You know, I’m kicking myself,” a lady told her friend across the room. “I thought owning forges was going to be du
ll. I should’ve started years ago.”

  “What’s your profit now?”

  “Eight thousand per unit.”

  “You could do anything with that.”

  “That’s the point.” The lady grinned. “I could live for three lifetimes on what I’ve made off this war.”

  “Goodness. What are you going to do with it?”

  “I don’t know. Do I need a fourth house?”

  “Of course you do.”

  The lady simpered. “This is why we’re friends.”

  Beside the musicians, Livia sweated under a brass oil lamp, sandwiched between a countess and a busty lady in a blue silk gown. The countess jangled her jewelry and dabbed at her pancake makeup, and the lady in blue twirled a lock of her teased chestnut hair.

  “Camilla, have you seen my husband?” The countess asked.

  Camilla rolled her eyes. “How should I know where he is?”

  “You always did two years ago.”

  “I told you, I’ve moved on. You can have him back.” Camilla gave the countess a sour look and sipped her drink. “Go look for him in the throne room.”

  Livia cut in, “Be careful.”

  “Why?”

  “I saw the maids working on the floor this afternoon.” Livia nodded to the veined ivory marble beneath their skirts. “They’ve polished it like new. I can practically see my face in it.”

  The countess raised her eyebrow. “And?”

  “Three people have already slipped on it.”

  The countess wrinkled her nose. “You don’t think His Majesty should throw a dinner party with an unpolished floor.”

  Livia held her goblet to her mouth. “No. But they did it yesterday, too.”

  Camilla folded her arms and took a defensive tone of voice. “Maybe that’s how the Morias did it. Hector has standards like the rest of us.”

  “Exactly,” the countess snipped, clearly to shut Livia up.

  “All right.” Livia didn’t lower her goblet. “If you say so.”

  Before Camilla could answer, a bell clanged across the room, and Camilla and the countess’ eyes lit up as Livia’s went dull.

  The whole hall fell silent as a man in a gold laurel crown strode out, with a violet sash across his chest and short, curly black hair. His purple cloak fluttered behind him as everyone curtsied and bowed. His tasseled boots shone as bright as his over-polished floor. He took long, measured steps to drink the adulation in, and a chorus of King Hector! Your Majesty! rumbled through the crowd.