Dangerous Crowns

by A K Fedeau

  Livia pulled Marcus back from the edge as Hector fell down the steps, and he crashed at the very bottom with a stomach-churning crack. Livia winced. Artemisia clamped her hands over her mouth. For a moment, Hector twitched, and took a frail, wheezing breath - and blood dripped out of his ear as his body finally went still.

  Marcus’ legs faltered as he let out a soft, pained noise, and Livia heaved him up before he could crumple to the ground. Artemisia stared at the gruesome scene, too frightened to react, and in the silence, Mother Clementia barged through the doorway.

  “Mira’s blood,” Clementia swore, and strode toward them. “What’s going on?”

  “I-I-we…” Artemisia stuttered - “it’s not how it looks.”

  A cohort of soldiers rushed in, then stumbled over each other. “Oh, gods.”

  A handful of courtiers followed. “Somebody get in here! Help!”

  A pair of maids hurried after their mistresses and shrieked at the sight, and what started as a trickle of people soon became a flood. The royal physician came. Then Ligari. Then more courtiers. Then a group of ash-streaked rioters and the 38th Phalanx. In the pandemonium, an old duchess spotted Artemisia, and pointed to her as she tugged a nearby soldier’s cloak.

  “Gods above us.” She gaped at her. “Is that Princess Sabina?”

  Artemisia called out to them in vain. “My name is Artemisia!”

  The entire throne room roiled and drowned out Artemisia’s voice, as the mass of bodies bumped into each other and cried helpless, panicked cries. Mother Clementia clutched Artemisia to her chest. Ligari and the royal physician pried Marcus out of Livia’s grasp. Courtiers gasped and fainted, and others lifted their skirts as the blood pool under Hector’s head spread across the floor.

  And amid them, Livia sank to her knees and closed her eyes, and eight years of sorrow spilled out of her with a great, exhausted sigh.

  EPILOGUE

  On a clear winter morning, Artemisia stood before her throne, with her head high and her gold laurel crown shining in the sun.

  Beside her, a pair of footmen held gifts on purple pillows - a folded white cape on her right, a gold cord on her left. Behind her, a choir of clerics from the Grand Temple sang a hymn to the rows of courtiers, dignitaries, and staff. And beside Livia in the front row sat Pontifex Clementia, with Florian’s old mantle draped over her new white robe.

  The choir finished their hymn, and along the left and right walls, young members of Marcus’ old unit barked, order arms! They presented their swords, then swept them down to their sides - and when Artemisia spoke, her voice echoed through the crowded room.

  “Marcus Incipio…”

  Marcus took a deep breath.

  “Please approach the throne.”

  Marcus climbed the stairs to the throne with stately, careful steps, and he knelt with his right knee up to make room for the sling on his left arm.

  “For your service to our armed forces and exemplary leadership, I hereby pronounce you high general of the province of Histria.”

  Marcus raised his head, and the leader of his unit came forth and took the cord off the footman’s pillow. He undid the round clasps on the shoulder straps of Marcus’ cuirass, and fastened the cord under each one so it draped across his chest.

  “I also bestow upon you the honorary rank of Severin-Jormund Peacekeeping Ambassador. In your new role, you will extend the hand of Histrian diplomacy, and be an emissary of contrition to the north.” Artemisia spoke slowly to avoid tripping over her words. “In three weeks, you will depart for a summit on the Severin-Jormund border with officials from both Severin and Jormunthal. You will negotiate an armistice and reparations to both provinces, and will hold this position until lasting peace is restored.”

  The soldier kept his feet together and his chest puffed out, and Marcus nodded to him to say, good, stay where you are.

  “Finally, for extreme valor above and beyond the call of duty, I hereby award you the Laurels of Grand Service to Histria. In your willingness to stand by your convictions and break unjust laws, you have saved lives - and you have my eternal gratitude.”

  The soldier walked to the second footman and picked up the cape, and with his knees still locked, he stepped around to Marcus’ side. In one fell swoop, he unfolded it and draped it over Marcus’ shoulders, and it unfurled to reveal a gold-stitched wreath on the back.

  “Now, arise,” Artemisia said.

  Marcus rose to his feet, and he brushed the cape away from his sling as he stood up straight.

  “Do you swear to uphold your office with justice and grace,” Artemisia asked, “and always serve in the interest of the people of Histria?”

  “I will.”

  Artemisia smiled and held her fist to her chest. “For Histria.”

  Marcus saluted her, too, and yelled, “For Histria!”

  With that, the crowd applauded as Marcus lowered his hand, and the soldiers ushered him out with another show of their swords. Marcus strode down the steps and sat next to Livia, and she admired his new trappings as she made more room for him.

  “Now that that’s done…” Artemisia swallowed the lump in her throat - “I have something else to tell you.”

  The courtiers listened with bated breath.

  “Earlier this morning, I signed the White River Accord, a contract written by a council of a hundred representatives. These representatives come from all walks of Histrian life - a union of nobles, workers, clerics, scholars, and more.”

  The courtiers’ heads perked up, and some whispered amongst themselves.

  “Not only does it reinstate the position of judex, it binds me to a set of promises laid out in its text. As your queen, I’ll never be able to take away your right to speak, your right to a fair trial, or your right to organize.” Artemisia paused to catch her breath, then went on. “If I do, the council - the Consortium - will assemble again, and judge me for my crimes against the people of Histria. If my deeds are egregious enough, they can force me to step down. Instead of me choosing a successor, they’ll decide who takes my throne.”

  The courtiers’ eyes widened, and some leaned forward to listen to her.

  “I realize for many people, this won’t feel like a change. You had a king. You have a queen now. Why should I be any different?” Artemisia shrugged under her gold-embroidered purple cloak. “Because I’ve seen what happens when those in power don’t put their people first.” Her voice darkened. “And I’ve seen what happens when nobles look the other way.”

  With that, a few of the courtiers fidgeted in their seats.

  “So for those of you who think my good intentions make me weak - or complacent - or indulgent - think again.” Artemisia furrowed her brow. “I have no room in my court for those who would continue Hector’s work. My house is old and steadfast, and it remembers what you’ve done.”

  Livia shot Clementia a furtive look, and she shot it back.

  “I know Hector Portinari cast a long shadow over Histria. I know it will take years - if not decades - to undo the legacy he left.” Artemisia gazed at the expectant courtiers below. “But for all he did, I think there was one thing he couldn’t take from us - our spirit. We knew we could do better, and now we have the chance to try.”

  In the third row, Camilla reached over and held Demetrio’s arm.

  “I believe in you,” Artemisia said. “And I hope you believe in me. It’s time to look forward. Not to what Histria was, but to what it can - and will - be.”

  •••

  After the ceremony, the guests gathered in an open reception room, where Artemisia’s pale blue drapes fluttered in the breeze.

  The maids served ham and cheese and tiny goblets of white wine, and everyone stood up a little straighter and drank a little less. Camilla and Demetrio blushed as they roamed through the crowd. Noblemen gathered around Xenia’s unit and shook their hands. Artemisia stole away to a sunny anteroom, where Pontifex Clementia hugged her and adjusted her crown.

  And in the co
mmotion, Marcus and Livia snuck off, checking over their shoulders as they crept up to a second-floor walkway.

  Livia stifled a laugh. “I haven’t done that in a long time.”

  “Shh!” Marcus shushed her. “I don’t want anyone to hear us.”

  “Marcus, you’re high general. They’re not going to order you to go back.”

  Marcus leaned in toward her. “I mean I want them to leave us alone.”

  On the floor beneath them, a pair of stonemasons eased a damaged inlay of Hector out of the wall. They set it on the ground, then cleaned out the hollow space, and the dust scattered over his chipped cuirass and gouged-out head.

  “You look nice.” Livia gave Marcus a go-over. “Did you cut your hair?”

  “I did.” Marcus glanced up at it. “First time I’ve had to since the incident.”

  “Speaking of, how’s your shoulder?”

  “Oh, it’ll be fine.” Marcus fidgeted in his sling. “It’s almost healed. The sling is just a formality at this point.”

  Livia held her elbow out. “In which case…”

  Marcus looped his good arm around it. “Of course.”

  They strolled on, and the sounds of the reception echoed from below.

  “You know, I feel terrible,” Marcus chimed in.

  Livia frowned. “Why?”

  “All that pomp and ceremony for me, and nothing for you.” Marcus stared down at the view of their breakfast courtyard. “I mean, the whole thing was your idea.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Why not?”

  “Everything has a public and private face. I know which side I’m on.”

  “You mean…?”

  Livia smirked. “I mean she made me spymaster weeks ago.”

  Marcus shook his head. “I should’ve seen that one coming.”

  “I’m not slowing down, Marcus.” Livia poked him with her elbow. “You’re going to have to keep up.”

  In a nearby service hall, Hermia walked through an arch, in a plain brown traveling dress instead of her uniform. A middle-aged country couple waited for her on the other side, with tanned skin, gray-streaked hair, and sturdy, callused hands. When she reached them, they took her bag and swept her into their arms, and as she burrowed into their chests, they murmured, come on, dear. Let’s go.

  Marcus’ face fell. “Well, save some of it for when I get back.”

  “It’s only a few more months.”

  “I know. I’m just going to miss you.”

  “You always do. And I always write.”

  “And I write back, but still.”

  “It’s all right.” Livia squeezed his arm. “This time, it’s worth it to me.”

  The stonemasons unpacked a new mosaic of a seashell, and they heaved it higher and higher until it clicked into place. Marcus and Livia turned the corner and passed a moonflower bush, freshly-trimmed and repotted in a tall, goblet-shaped urn.

  “Am I imagining things,” Marcus asked, “or were you talking to Lady Camilla?”

  “You’re not. She didn’t even insult my hair or anything.”

  “Is she…” Marcus hushed - “you know - all right?”

  “Better than all right. Demetrio proposed to her. The wedding’s in Fragrant Month.”

  Marcus blinked. “You’re kidding.”

  “I wouldn’t joke about something like that. She’s already neck-deep in gowns and flowers for her hair.”

  Marcus set his mouth in thought. “Camilla Cavarossi. Huh.”

  “Demetrio Rossetti, actually. His parents are glad he’s marrying up.” Livia let go of Marcus’ arm, then tapped him on the shoulder. “Stay still.”

  Marcus watched as Livia swished over to the potted bush, and examined the white, funnel-shaped blossoms amid the bright green leaves. When she found the perfect one, she plucked it off its stem, then stuck it in the crook of Marcus’ ear and admired her handiwork.

  Marcus flushed. “What are you doing?”

  “I think it looks dashing on you.”

  “Here.” Marcus moved the flower to one of his cuirass clasps. “Anyway, if she can stay out of trouble, she’ll make a good officer’s wife.”

  “And he’ll look good on her arm.”

  Marcus snorted. “That’s all he has to do.”

  For a minute, they fell silent, comfortable in each other’s space - and as the masons tidied up, Marcus raised his eyebrow.

  “You don’t,” he began…

  “I don’t what?”

  “Do you?”

  “Of course not.” Livia smiled, but rolled her eyes. “Why? Do you?”

  “If I were what husbands are made of, I would’ve asked you years ago.”

  With a clamor downstairs, a couple of flushed workmen dragged one of Hector’s gold-leaf couches through a doorway. A third followed soon after with a matching gold end table, and Marcus watched them dump the furniture in the courtyard.

  “I do have something else to ask you, though.”

  Livia nodded. “Of course.”

  “I’ve been wondering about something you said.”

  Livia prompted him again. “All right.”

  “In that house, you told me Delphinia gave you a new life,” Marcus said.

  “She did. This was all her idea.”

  “Was your name a part of that?”

  “It was.”

  “What was your name before that?”

  Livia answered, “I didn’t have one.”

  Marcus looked stricken. “Really?”

  “Didn’t you put that together?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Nobody called me anything when I was growing up. If my parents gave me a name, it died or disappeared with them.” Livia explained it to him as she ushered him along. “Hamid said I should do what he did and pick one for myself. I tried a few on, but in the end, I liked Delphinia’s idea best.”

  “Maybe she saw something in you that you didn’t know about yourself.”

  “Maybe.” Livia smoothed her skirt with wistful eyes. “I wish she were here to see all this.”

  “I’m sure she’d be proud of you.” Marcus patted Livia’s back. “Anyway, for what it’s worth, you’re Livia to me.”

  “And you’ll always be Marcus.”

  “Not ‘High General Incipio?’”

  “Don’t let it go to your head.”

  The workmen hauled out the trimmings that had graced Hector’s suite, and his marble bust slipped out of their arms and smashed on the grass.

  “Seriously, though.” Marcus picked it back up. “Not even a nickname?”

  “Hamid used to call me ‘Kid.’”

  “That’s charming.”

  “I know. I thought it was too.” Livia left her skirt alone. “He’s in Kaditha right now. I’ll write and tell him you said that.”

  “Kaditha? Doing what?”

  Livia gave him a look.

  Marcus snickered. “Ah. Right. ‘Need to know.’”

  Livia gestured for Marcus to follow her down a side path, and she led him up a set of narrow plaster stairs. They emerged on a covered balcony set into the palace roof, where the capital sprawled out beyond the green of the palace grounds.

  Livia sighed. “Be honest. Are you still worried about Artemisia?”

  “After Hector, I’d be worried about anyone.” Marcus scratched his neck. “I don’t know. Maybe I should give her a chance.”

  “It’s not you.” Livia grimaced. “She’ll have a lot to defend herself from.”

  “The optimist in me wonders if we’re headed for a golden age. The realist says we have no idea what we’re getting into.” Marcus stepped forward and planted his hand on the balustrade. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll pull through. I’d like to think we’re plucky enough.”

  “I’ve lived my whole life without a precedent. It’s worked fine for me.”

  “It sure has.” Marcus let the breeze ruffle his hair. “Well, either way, it’s going to be interesting. I’m glad I’ll be
alive to see it.”

  Livia laid her head on his shoulder. “I’m glad you will be, too.”

  The two of them gazed out at the sea of red-tiled rooftops, and the flocks of white egrets that flew across the cloudless sky. They gazed out at the domes of the Grand Temple and Proscenium, and the slums where charwomen and tavern maids opened their windows. They gazed out on streets where builders and clerics washed ash off the walls, and a crowd brought Hector’s golden statue crashing to the ground. Together, they watched their city slowly bloom back to life, as the sun shone bright on Histria - and the days it had to come.

  APPENDIX

  Dangerous Crowns takes place in a world of three charted continents, separated by a strait and surrounded by ocean to the west and south. Countries are referred to as “provinces” and ruled by monarchs, and consist of a large capital city, villages, and countryside. The setting abstains from fantasy standards like magic or supernatural beings - it is a world of human society, human conflict, and human love.

  When I began Dangerous Crowns, I sought to create an atmosphere where I could set the kind of story that I would like to read. I had become frustrated with certain stock high fantasy themes, in particular the darkness that seeps through some modern fantasy works. Even though Dangerous Crowns deals with dark ideas, I did not want to root it in a cynical view of humankind - gratuitous brutality, intellectual dark ages, or grim, dirty adaptations of historical periods.

  Instead, I landed on what I call neoclassical fantasy, an epic, romanticized world in the image of what humanity has achieved. Dangerous Crowns is set in Histria, a love letter to the art, architecture, textiles, and language of Republican and Imperial Rome. But the world also owes a debt to the culture of the Directoire and Empire eras, the Wars of the Roses and Tudor period, the Russian Enlightenment, the Fertile Crescent and Islamic Golden Age, Vikings, Scots, Romani people, and the kingdoms of West Africa.

  While the setting is based on years of research, it is intentionally anachronistic, and some elements are simplified, remixed, or purely fictional. Printing presses and violins coexist with tunics and thieves’ guilds, and soldiers with ancient names use modern military ranks. This was done for both fun and readability. I wanted a lush, but straightforward world, so a reader - especially one unfamiliar with fantasy tropes - could understand the story without cumbersome amounts of exposition or lore.