She supposed it was Rammel and she hoped it was. He was due to arrive early afternoon. She couldn’t think of a single other person she would rather see, except for Song, of course.
Thinking that caused the tears to start all over. She reached up to staunch the flow, but made no effort to curb her emotions. After decades as mistress of the palace, first as the king’s wife and then as the king’s mother, of keeping a tight rein on feelings, she had earned the right to cry about a heartbreaking event. And even the dimmest member of staff could tell that it would be highly inadvisable to suggest otherwise.
“Aye. Come in then.”
“Madam, a phone call for you.”
“I told you no calls today.”
“This one says she will no’ take no for an answer.”
“Well, for Paddy’s sake, Loftis. Who is it then?”
“Lorna Torquil, ma’am.”
Tepring froze. “Put her through.”
The queen’s secretary withdrew and closed the door. Tepring listened for the catch. The old doors were solid and well-built. If the latch caught properly, she could be reasonably assured of privacy for a conversation, barring spy equipment. For office use, she was still using an old-fashioned multiline, land phone. Aelsblood insisted the wireless technology not be used for official communications because he didn’t believe it was secure enough.
“Your Highness.”
“Your Grace.”
“Is she well?”
There was a slight pause before the Scotia queen answered. “Aelsong? Do you no’ know?”
“Is she with you?”
“No. I was callin’ for your reassurance that my son is well. He disappeared and then we received a message that the two of them have been given sanctuary and that we will no’ be seein’ him again unless we reach an accord with elves that includes open sanction of the marriage.”
Tepring sighed. “Aye, sounds exactly like the missive that was delivered to my son, the king. He was certain it was some fae trickery.”
“Aye. My husband thought the same only the phrase was Irish hijinks. May I ask you, if you hear anythin’ more, will you be callin’? I give you my promise it will go no further. ‘Tis for my peace of mind alone.”
“’Tis your only child, aye?”
“He is. And she’s your only girl.”
“An agreement then? Whatever is learned is shared?”
“Done.”
Both of the royal households were thrown into a state of turmoil when they received a letter stating that they would not see their children again unless they managed to secure the peace for both peoples for now and the future. Initially both kings rejected the leveraged suggestion that talks should commence.
However, after considerable grousing and grumbling, ranting and raving, the fae king had agreed to a meeting. That was in large part due to the efforts of the fae queen, who had used every manner of pressure available to her to persuade him to make peace with the elves, including threats of suicide, and in smaller part due to the ruler’s feelings about his son personally and about what it would mean to leave Scotia without an heir.
A peace talks meeting was arranged at a neutral site in London by the anonymous party and a mediator was appointed - a supposedly well-respected woman named Arles Logature, who was Etana disguised as human.
Every staff member who was in the east part of the palace at Derry heard Ram come through the side door by the topiaries and shout, “Honey! I’m home!” And each one who had been employed by the household when Ram was a sometimes resident turned to another and smiled, thinking he would be a welcome relief to the pall that had fallen not only over the household, but to some extent, over the entire country.
Ethelred’s two Irish wolfhounds, whose hearing could detect sounds originating in the palace from great distance, attempted to knock over two people and one statue on their wild and heedless mission to capture a greeting. He had made it as far as the grand central staircase when the dogs caught up to him. He had never so much appreciated Elora’s insistence that big dogs need to be taught good manners than when the two giant hounds knocked him off his feet. They licked and sniffed wherever Blackie had touched and wiggled their enormous bodies like they were puppies.
Just as Ram was getting them calmed down he heard footsteps on the marble tile.
“You should no’ play with the dogs on the floor, Rammel. ‘Tis a bad habit.”
“Aye, Da. ‘Tis good to see you as well. And where would the queen mum be keepin’ herself on this fine chill overcast and thoroughly Irish day?”
Ethelred looked toward the staircase. “She’s been stayin’ close to her rooms. Does no’ like to be seen lookin’ red and puffy. Still vain, you know?”
“Should I take some tea?”
Ram’s father shook his head. “No. She’d rather be seein’ you sooner than later.”
Rammel began to climb the stairs, but looked back as he did. His father’s semi-cordial tone was a little discomfiting. People grow into a rhythm of expectation, particularly in the area of family relations. Having someone step out of their role disrupts that rhythm and creates confusion.
Tepring had not moved from her chair after her conversation with the fae queen. There was a soft knock on the door.
“What is it now, Loftis?”
“’Tis no’ Loftis. ‘Tis Ram.”
She swung around in her chair, took one look at him, and burst into a fresh session of tears. After getting a big hug, Ram rekindled the fire and gently coaxed his mum to sit in one of the two overstuffed chairs in front of the fire.
“I’m askin’ for tea, Mum. Is there somethin’ in particular you’d like or will you have your usual?”
“Whiskey and arsenic.”
“Mum,” Ram chuckled. “You should no’ even joke about such thin’s.”
“Who’s jokin’?”
Ram opened the door and stuck his head out. “We could use a tray. Bewley’s Irish Afternoon and gingerbread scones. Ask them to bring us some honey butter and maple butter.” Pause. “No. I do no’ want milk and I do no’ want half milk. I want cream, real cream. As a matter of fact, I want heavy cream. Do no’ laugh. I’m bein’ serious.”
He closed the door and sat down next to his mother.
“Now then, Mum. Are you familiar with the phrase drama queen?”
She saw his mouth twitch. “’Tis nothin’ funny about this, Rammel. I can no’ lose one of my children. As if I have one to spare.”
“No one is suggestin’ so. Only sayin’ that we do no’ cry wolf unless there really is one.”
“What are you talking about?”
Ram realized that he’d spent so much time with Elora he sometimes forgot that some of her expressions were unfamiliar to others. “Oh. ‘Tis just a reference to a silly story. Ne’er mind at all.”
She sniffed. “You look good, Rammel. Have you seen your father?”
“On the way up.”
“Ah. How did he seem?”
Ram pursed his lips and looked at the fire like he was trying to decide how to answer. “Mellow. Subdued.”
She nodded. “Your brother left for London. ‘Twas difficult enough to e’en get him to go. I do no’ know what is the bother with him.”
“Has that somethin’ to do with Song?”
“Aye. Everythin’.”
She told him about the first message concerning the threat that they would not see their children again if they did not make peace and bless the mating. And about the second message outlining details for a forced negotiation. There was a postscript to the second message urging them to watch a special documentary broadcast to be aired on the History Channel that night. It claimed that important information pertinent to the discussion at hand would be presented.
Rammel had dinner with his parents. He couldn’t remember ever having had dinner, just the three of them, in his life. There was a tiny dining room decorated in the dark wood style of an eighteenth century tavern. The three of them ate to
gether in front of the fire.
Ram was curious to know about the general reaction to the elopement. He was told that there were factions calling for the Hawkings to surrender the monarchy. The hardest thing for his parents was hearing descriptions of Song. The most polite words were often disgrace and traitor. Ram felt a shameful blush creeping up his neck when he recalled that his first reaction had been to use that same word.
Ethelred looked at his watch. “’Tis time for the tele presentation if you’re still wantin’ to view it.”
They adjourned to a small parlor that was outfitted in the modern style of comfortable furniture. A Welsh professor had been given information about the political histories of elves and fae by an Irishman. The professor had gone to the sites mentioned in the evidence he’d been given and found sufficient reason to believe the claims of the tale that elves and fae were the same people when they had first arrived in the Brit Isles and that the root of the millennia-long war was a family feud over a mating.
Ram took this revelation in stride since he’d already heard the story, but he could tell that his parents were stunned. When it was over, Ethelred said nothing, but walked to the liquor cache and poured himself a scotch. As an afterthought, as if he’d just remembered he wasn’t alone, he turned and lifting the glass said, “Anyone else?”
Ram said, “Still on American time. ‘Tis early for me.”
Tepring said, “Give me a double.” She looked at Ram. “Do you think any of it could be true?”
“Aye. I work with an elf who needed an emergency blood transfusion last year. There was no’ elf blood available, but there was fae blood. When I protested, they laughed and said ‘twas the same.”
“I had always wondered…” Ethelred began, but didn’t finish the sentence. “I wonder what Blood will do, or not do, with this information.”
“What will you do with it, Da?” Ram asked.
Ethelred gave his son a thorough appraisal, then said, “The next time I encounter fae, I will probably hesitate before I begin throwin’ rocks.”
Ram laughed. Tepring rolled her eyes.
Etana was an introvert at her core, but she had been given a talent for guiding others through negotiations to resolve disputes and hoped that the children of Danu weren’t as intractable as others said.
“No one ever wants to compromise, your Highness. But the alternative would be to carry a twin blade ax and lop off the head of everyone who disagrees with you until the day you encounter someone with a different perspective and a faster, sharper ax.”
“Do no’ patronize me, young lady. Who are you again and what is your interest in this matter? If you be neither elf nor fae, I fail to grasp that you have a say.” Ritavish Torquil, the fae king, was visibly irritated and wishing that Ethelred was still king of Ireland. There was an elf he could at least respect, one with whom civil conversation was possible.
That traditional regard between leaders was what had enabled the elves and fae to be at war in name only for the past several centuries. They held each other at bay with mutual distaste, but without actual bloodshed. The fae king knew that any reasonable head of state would naturally see the wisdom in maintaining the status quo. Since sitting down for talks with the young elf king, he was having misgivings about whether or not the boy understood that.
“I don’t have a say in the outcome, although that would certainly simplify and expedite. What I do have a say in is how the proceedings proceed. So, once again, can we agree on the starting point that both parties will have to find flexibility in order for us to reach accord.”
“O’ course,” said Ritavish.
“So far, Ms. Logature, I’ve heard nothin’ to indicate an understandin’ of the crux of the matter.”
“What is your view of the crux of the matter, Your Highness?”
“Motivation.”
Etana, in the guise of Arles Logature, showed no emotion. “Would you care to expand that thought?”
“Certainly. You’re after compromise. You can pretty it up with words like flexibility all you want and it still comes down to one thin’, givin’ in. I’m no’ sayin’ there’s ne’er a reason to do so, but I am sayin’ that one of us is powerfully motivated, while the other is no’.”
Reading between the lines of what Aelsblood was saying, Etana allowed the smallest flicker of a scowl to read on her features, thereby betraying her distaste for the elf and his comments.
The meeting quickly degenerated into a standing yell rather than a seated talk. It became clear to Etana that Aelsblood had only agreed to the meeting for the opportunity to grandstand to his people and not because of a sincere approach to the subject with mind and heart open to change.
By midafternoon the television channels were playing Aelsblood’s parting comments so often the sound bite was almost on loop. Ram stood in his father’s study readying to watch the replay. His mother sat stiffly, spine straight, with a handkerchief in her hand. The necessity of his mother needing a handkerchief close by at all times made Ram frown.
When Aelsblood emerged from the stately old Greco-Roman building that housed the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, he was surrounded by security holding back a throng of reporters. Though he may have appeared to be grim to those who didn’t know him, his family recognized the look in his eye and set of his mouth as enjoying the attention. For the moment, he was not the ruler of a small country that was insignificant on the world stage. He was the focal point of all eyes around the world and he clearly planned to make the most of it.
He paused on the steps.
“Your Highness, are you leaving the peace talks without resolution?”
“If the fae prince is no’ returned, the fae are left with no heir apparent. Therefore, they have more to lose in the bargain than elves. When they begin to exhibit a proper appreciation of that, there may be room for negotiation, but understand this, Ireland has no need to negotiate peace because my country is no’ eager for the return of a traitor. They can keep my sister and good luck getting’ their countrymen to accept an elf as queen.”
Two dozen voices barked follow-up questions. He nodded at one. “What did you think of the presentation on the history of the conflict?”
The king made a dismissive noise. “Hogwash.”
The camera followed until his limousine pulled away from the curb.
CHAPTER 13
With his arms crossed over his chest, Ram had watched Blood publicly throw their sister away. His mother had left the room sobbing. His father had switched off the tele with a remote, poured a whiskey and sat down heavily in his favorite chair. His dogs were lying on their sides between Ethelred’s chair and the fire.
There was no sound in the room other than everyday sounds that serve as the score to contentment, or melancholy, or despair, all relative to the emotions of the perceiver. The faint patter of rain, a small crackle of fire, and an occasional sigh coming from one of the dogs.
As Ram had replayed the broadcast in his mind, over and over, he had felt his fingers curl into fists and was seeing flashes of red battle haze. At length he interrupted the everyday sounds that could serve as the score for contentment or melancholy, depending on one’s viewpoint.
If he had been someone else, he might have seen Ethelred’s study as a supremely comfortable masculine retreat with muted colors and furniture worn in such a way as to impart that the occupants lived in harmony with a long history. Since he wasn’t someone else, he associated the room with memories of his father’s disapproval, which was swiftly and invariably followed by whatever punishment his father thought appropriate.
He wished he could tell his father about his accomplishments. He wished he might have experienced the approval that Aelsblood took for granted. Just once. Maybe.
When Rammel broke the silence, it was to say, “I would very much like to kill my brother right now.”
Ethelred looked up and met Ram’s gaze. “Me, too.”
Ram sat down in the chair across from his father. �
�I’ve always wondered, Da, why you passed the crown on to Blood? You were still young. A good king. Will you tell me?”
With a sigh he said, “I had observed that some monarchs with capable offsprin’, held onto the throne ‘til the end of their days, for so long that by the time they passed, the heir’s time was passed as well. Did no’ seem right to me. No’ right or wise. So I thought to avoid the error and the regret.”
“And did you avoid regret?”
Ethelred laughed softly and looked at Ram with sad eyes. “Am no’ thinkin’ so today. I would no’ give a ha’penny for a man who would abandon a member of his family.”
Ram saw a barrage of images of his childhood. He held no illusion that he hadn’t been a difficult kid. He’d been practically impossible as a matter of fact. When he would run away to the New Forest and live alone like a feral child, his father hadn’t abandoned him. He’d seen to it that Liam O’Torvall and the people of Black-on-Tarry had adopted him and were looking out for him like a community project. Whenever he came back home, he was welcomed. Whenever he couldn’t stand to be there, he left and his father let him. If he looked at it honestly, through the eyes of an adult, he could see that it wasn’t just to be rid of a troublemaker, that his father had done the best thing for him.
Ram sighed. “So what are you thinkin’ we might do?”
“Do? I wish I knew. I’m receptive to suggestions if you have some.”
“I might.”
“Let’s hear it. “
“I’m no’ a constitutional scholar….” Ethelred snorted into his whiskey tumbler. “But if I remember correctly, the crown is yours for life unless you decide to give it up.”
“Aye. ‘Tis true.”
“So I’m thinkin’, if ‘twas yours to give up, can you no’ simply take it back?”
Ethelred barked out a short laugh, then looking closer at Ram, let his smile fade. “You’re serious?”
“Aye.”
“What makes you think that I would have it back in a hundred years?”
A Tale of Two Kingdoms (Knights of Black Swan, Book 6) Page 15
