Conquests and Crowns

by S E Meliers

  ‘I have never been to Vareia,’ he said. ‘It sounds beautiful, however.’

  ‘It is a long, long voyage, and many do not survive. You have to be sure your ship’s captain is friends with the merfolk if you intend to attempt the journey,’ she advised solemnly.

  ‘I will remember that. Maybe, after this war,’ he mused. ‘I would love to see the Silver Spires. Did you see them?’

  ‘No,’ she was regretful. ‘I did not get the opportunity.’

  ‘Lovel,’ he started audaciously but paused not sure if he was brave enough to ask.

  ‘You wish to know about the debt the White Hair owes me?’ she shot him a look under her eyelashes.

  ‘I am intrigued,’ he admitted.

  ‘Hmmm,’ she considered the horizon. ‘I do not see any harm in you knowing,’ she decided.

  ‘My people come from the land on the north-east of Vareia, a land we call Kchryll,’ when she pronounced it, it was mostly growl. ‘Our land is very cold, much colder then Shoethal or Rhyndel, and wet. In our winter, there is snow so thick you could lose a pup in it,’ she smiled, reminiscing. ‘Much of our land is forest, and we live amongst the trees. In the fair seasons we scatter and live in individual huts, but in the long winter it is much safer to pool our resources and everyone in the village will stay in the Winterhouse.

  ‘The Winterhouse is crowded, and living so close to your neighbours, with so little privacy, can wear on even the most communal of spirits, so the village elders have the storytime dances to distract us from our troubles. There are many storytime dances, but the one that I will tell you is about the Diyethi. Steady,’ she admonished the horses who skittered as a scout party rode by at speed. ‘Where was I?’ she frowned disapprovingly after the scouts.

  ‘The Diyethi,’ he wished he had not worn his armour – the day was getting warm, and it was unlikely they would see battle. He considered stripping it off.

  ‘The Diyethi,’ she nodded. ‘The Diyethi were the first people,’ she said, ‘of this world, you understand? They came from the stars, looking for somewhere to make their own, and settled in Vareia.’

  ‘The Diyethi were gods?’ he asked.

  ‘Maybe,’ she shrugged. ‘In the stories, they are not called Gods, but who is to know? Maybe Diyethi meant Gods in the language spoken by our most ancient ancestors? Regardless, the Diyethi made their home in Vareia, probably due to the lushness of the land. For this reason, the Elves consider themselves superior – they believe themselves direct descendants of the Diyethi, though in their tongue it is Dtha’ye – Dtha’ye, Dtha’ye,’ she tried it a few times before sighing irritably. ‘I can never get the right emphasis,’ she shook her head.

  ‘So the Diyethi settled Vareia,’ she sighed. ‘There are many stories about the Diyethi, but this one is about the Diadem.’ She glanced at him to ensure he was following. He nodded encouragingly; if nothing else, her story took the tedium from the journey. ‘The Queen of the Diyethi had a Diadem made of a silver metal – it was not silver, or iron, or steel, but a metal that you and I have never seen, nor are ever likely to see. This metal was said to never need polishing, it never tarnished, it could not be scratched, it could not be dented, and it was as light as a feather. A marvellous metal, indeed. But, more marvellous than the metal of the Diadem, were the six stones mounted within it.

  ‘Each stone was a perfect oval, the size of a EAeryian man’s thumb, and had a heart of flickering fire in red, green and blue. It was said that six hundred of the most powerful Diyethi mages poured their magic and their lives into the creation of the stones, and that the completed Diadem gave the Queen the power to bring the Diyethi from the stars to our world. With her Diadem, she could stop the flow of the ocean, change day into night, bring life to barren ground, and heal mortal wounds – all very useful things when you are settling a new world,’ Lovel approved of the powers of the mythical diadem. Cedar smiled, amused by how serious she was about what was, regardless of her explanation of its use in the Winterhouse, a child’s bed time story.

  ‘The Queen was a wise and courageous ruler, and the Diyethi prospered on their new world. Many, many years passed, and the Diyethi were happy, but then the Queen decided the time had come to leave her flesh behind, and pass the Diadem to the next ruler - ’

  ‘She died?’ he frowned, puzzled by the phrasing, and wondering if it were a translation error due to the Rhyndelian language not being Lovel’s native tongue.

  She shrugged. ‘I do not know any other way to leave flesh behind, I guess it is a pretty way of saying die. I am just using the traditional phrasing of the story-tellers,’ she explained. ‘Shall I continue?’

  ‘Please,’ he nodded.

  ‘The Queen had four children,’ she said. ‘And their rights of inheritance were not clear; not to the eldest child, to the first boy, or first girl, or any set guiding rule. The Queen was to choose who would inherit her Diadem, and with it the rule of her people. To make this choice between her dearly loved children, she consulted the Diadem, which had, as one of its powers, the ability to show her the future. What the Diadem showed her must have been truly terrible, for it is said that she immediately ordered a horse brought to her. She refused all company, and rode away, and was gone for many months of days.

  ‘When she returned, she did not have with her the Diadem. Her children were furious – how could any of them rule without the Diadem? And she replied that all of them would rule, and none would need the Diadem. She divided her people up into four groups, sending each onto a different island of land, each under a different child, thus making all four children happy, though all four had reason to long for the Diadem as each land had its own troubles and toils, and the Diadem would have saved a lot of heartbreak and loss.

  ‘The Queen, however, took the location of the Diadem with her when she left her flesh behind, and no matter how hard they searched, no one was ever able to locate it, she had hidden it so well.’ She paused to reach behind in the wagon and fish out a water-skin. She drank deeply before offering it to him. He accepted: the water was warm and carried with it the taste of the skin it was in, but welcome. She licked her lips, and continued: ‘In time, the land on which they lived changed the people, and thus we have the Elves, the Dwarves, your people, and mine.’

  ‘How do you explain the other peoples?’ he asked, amused. ‘The world is not populated by only four races.’

  She smiled back. ‘No doubt, the story-tellers would tell you that the original four peoples outgrew their lands, or had adventurers within them who set off to explore, seeding lands beyond the original four, and these other lands changed the people who lived upon them, resulting eventually in the world we live in now.’

  ‘Very good,’ he approved. ‘So is that the end of the story? I do not understand how it is related to Calico?’

  ‘No,’ she took another drink of water. ‘It is only the beginning. That is the story from whence all other stories begin, but to understand the debt Calico owes to me, you need to know this story.’

  ‘Very well, continue, I am listening,’ he put the cork back into the skin when she had finished with it.

  ‘My people have a sacred place,’ she hesitated for a long moment, picking her words carefully. ‘In this sacred place was a stone carving of our Goddess, a carving older than the oldest cave painting.’

  ‘Is she the same as the Rhyndelian Goddess?’ he was curious.

  ‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘The Rhyndelian Goddess is one of healing, ours… Well, ours is otherwise inclined.’ She bit her bottom lip with her sharp teeth.

  It took a long moment before she continued: ‘When we reach a certain age, we share the duty of guarding this sacred place, and pay homage to the Goddess throughout the dark night as is our custom. I was too young for this duty, but my brother was old enough. On his watch, the sacred place was desecrated and the stone statue of the Goddess smashed. My brother said it was done by a white haired witch, who spelled him still so he could not stop her.’ She
stopped and looked away. The memory caused her great pain, he saw.

  ‘That sounds like Calico,’ Cedar acknowledged gently, ‘but she would have good reason for her actions, and she did your brother no harm.’

  ‘Regardless of her reasons,’ her voice was harsh, ‘my brother was put to death by our people, for allowing the desecration to take place, and my family disgraced. To be disgraced is to be cast out into the cold. Our land is very cold, and our people are communal in nature. It is a very lonely, long death. I am,’ she had trouble with the words. ‘I am the last of my family,’ she finished hurriedly.

  Cedar closed his eyes. ‘I am very sorry,’ he said. His sympathy was a tight uneasiness in his chest. ‘I am very sorry for your loss.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said with dignity. ‘I vowed revenge on the white haired witch, and this purpose drives me. I left my land to seek her. I am a great hunter,’ she said without pride, simply stating fact. ‘I found her.’

  ‘Yet, you let Calico live?’ he stated the obvious as a question.

  She lifted one shoulder unhappily. ‘She convinced me to give her time. Her purpose is a great one. I agreed to her terms. When she has completed her work, she will give me her life in return for the death of my brother. For this reason, I help you, because in doing so, she says it helps her. The sooner she finishes her task, the sooner my brother is avenged, and I may join my ancestors in their long sleep.’

  Cedar regarded her seriously. ‘You realise, I am sworn to Calico. I will defend her with my life, if necessary.’

  She returned his gaze. ‘I hope that I will not need to kill you, my friend,’ she acknowledged. ‘But I will if my hand is forced. It is good that we understand this about each other.’

  ‘I appreciate you telling me,’ he said, nodding. ‘I am not sure why you chose to do so, however, as it is not to your advantage, for now I am fore-warned.’

  She smiled. ‘You will need more than forewarning to defeat me, if you were to put yourself in my way,’ she told him honestly. ‘I do not disadvantage myself by giving you this knowledge.’

  They rode in silence for some minutes as he considered.

  ‘I hope that Calico’s task is long,’ he said finally. She smiled, and they both relaxed into amiable companionship. A thought occurred to him. ‘What is Calico’s task?’ he asked.

  She glanced at him. ‘I am not able to say,’ she said.

  ‘Of course not,’ he grumbled. ‘She is most secretive about it. I suppose she only shared it with you in order to keep you from killing her.’

  ‘That is so,’ she agreed.

  He turned her story over in his mind. ‘I do not see the connection between the story and Calico’s theft,’ he admitted.

  She glanced at him from the corner of her eye; lightning quick. ‘Do you not?’ she was straight faced, however her tone teased. ‘How unfortunate for you.’

  ‘Is this a guessing game to while the drive away?’ he was glad the conversation was leavening.

  She shrugged one shoulder carelessly. ‘In the Winterhouse, the stories are told in order to sharpen the mind, not to dull them as a child’s tale does. As a warrior, one must be able to interpret what is not stated plainly. You may regard it as a game; we regard it as training.’

  ‘I find myself much intrigued by your people,’ he admitted. ‘Very well, what is the connection?’

  ‘You must think, and then ask,’ she reproved. ‘In life, answers are not handed to you.’

  He resisted rolling his eyes. ‘You are a natural teacher, are you not?’ he commented.

  ‘Hmph, my people would disagree,’ she offered no more, gazing off into the distance.

  After a lengthy time, he sighed. ‘Very well,’ he said again. ‘What was Calico up to in your sacred cave?’ he tried.

  ‘A good question,’ she conceded. ‘She was after what was within the statue of the Goddess.’

  He sighed. ‘And what, pray, was within the statue of the Goddess?’

  ‘Within the statue of the Goddess was a stone the size of a large man’s thumb; an oval stone with a heart of fire.’

  Patience

  Patience lay alongside her sleeping daughter.

  Joy lay on her back, her arms upraised and fisted on either side of her head, her hips splayed and knees bent. Such an abandoned pose, Patience marvelled, such trust in the world that no harm would come to her in her sleep. She took advantage of Joy’s inertness to stroke the fine hair and let it curl around her fingers. She admired the peach-skinned cheeks, the pouting little mouth, the dimpled knuckles, oddly elegant fingers and chubbily perfect little arms and legs. Not so little anymore, she thought with a mixture of relief and regret. They grew up too fast, but also not fast enough for the perilous world they lived in.

  She feared for her children. They were both so open and eager; empty, trusting vessels, keen for filling with knowledge of what they found to be a fantastic and fascinating world. Vulnerable to and uncomprehending of the pain and disillusionment that the world could deal them. She craved to shelter them, to hold them safe, but knew that her power to do so was small and fleeting – as they grew, they expanded their horizons beyond her control. She did not want Joy’s bright eyes to be shadowed by woe, as she had seen Charm’s that day in the dungeons – though he appeared to have put that experience behind him as a transient divergence, not comprehending that it was a continuous threat.

  Joy stirred under her stroking and rolled into her, seeking her breast, muttering baby complaints when she found cloth in the way, instead propping her chin on it and cupping it with her little hands. Her mouth worked, pretending to suckle; Patience smiled. Joy’s feet pressed up against Patience’s belly, and, as if in protest of this cavalier treatment, the little half-sibling squirmed, a flutter of movement.

  Patience sighed. She had no idea how far along she was, having no marker by which to measure. Her periods had not returned to regularity between Joy and this one’s conception. Her belly was an outward curve, easily disguised within the empire line of her gowns, and measurable against her previous pregnancies as somewhere between three and six months into her pregnancy. Inside her, she thought, she was growing another Charm, or another Joy; a little boy or girl; a new perfect little being. And she loved it already, helplessly and hopelessly, as she loved Charm and Joy, and the little girl, Faith, she had lost prior to Charm.

  And she feared for it, as she feared for Charm and Joy.

  She eased away from her daughter and straightened her dress. Joy’s nursemaid, Prudence, sat by the window reattaching lace to the hem of one of Joy’s smocks and smiled as Patience passed her. ‘Call me when she wakes, please,’ Patience murmured.

  ‘Yes, my Lady,’ Prudence nodded.

  Patience made her way through the corridors to the main hall, without real purpose. She drifted, taskless and without orientation. Charm was at his lessons under the supervision of the tutor that had been appointed before the Shoethalian takeover and therefore was not inclined to corporal punishment, and Joy was napping with Prudence overlooking her. Rue would be fluttering around the court, the brightest butterflies amongst a brilliant array of both Rhyndelian and Shoethalian butterflies.

  The main hall was busy, as it normally was, with nobles and merchants, trades people, servants, soldiers and petitioners of all walks of life. Seeing, and hearing, the cacophony they produced, she paused, and turned aside, retreating into one of the alcoves that looked out on a terraced garden courtyard. There was a stone bench placed against the two stone walls of the alcove and curtains to shield the sitter from view of the hall. The slight incline inwards of the walls afforded those on the seats a pleasant view of the garden when the shutters were open - as they currently were. The alcove was beautifully scented by the soft white roses that climbed the castle wall in this spot, framing the openings picturesquely.

  She had used this alcove before, to sit with her ladies whilst Charity took petitioners and addressed disputes in the hall beyond. Her ladies had collected
the petals off these roses and dried them for lying in clothing chests to scent their clothing, and also collected the rosehips for teas, depending on the season.

  She sat there now, and listened to the hall. Almost, she could imagine she could hear Charity’s clear baritone rising and falling amongst the other voices, but she knew it was auditory memory playing tricks. She wondered if the baby, enwombed, was privy to her most private thoughts and dreams, and felt guilt.

  ‘My heart can rest joyous and full of grace, that I have looked but once upon thy lovely face,’ his voice startled her from her reverie.

  ‘Excuse me?’ her immediate response was anger, because she had been startled and fear quickly followed surprise, making anger her only defence. She leaned on the sill of the open window. A man, a dark man, reclined against the garden wall just outside her alcove. He was dark of hair and dressed in a red vest so deep of colour it was almost black like his trousers and cloak, but the darkness that he exuded was of a more arcane type. She knew he was dangerous in a purely instinctual way that had the hair on her arms standing on edge and her heart beating that little bit faster.

  At his feet sat a woman so pretty she was doll-like; all porcelain skin, rose-touched cheeks and lips, big eyes framed by long black eyelashes, and ringlets of dark hair. She wore rose hued silks that were worth more than most girls dowries, and Patience wondered at her apparent lack of concern regarding potential grass stains – most women in such finery were over-aware of it, this one seemed indifferent.

  ‘A poem, my Lady,’ he murmured with a slight curl of his lips that was oddly charming, considering her perception of his danger. ‘Or perhaps a homage to your loveliness?’