by Kai Kazi
“He won’t do it,” a voice said from the crowd, hint of smug disdain more than audible. Temejun shuddered at the hushed chuckles, and Shaitani realised that they would do her job better than she ever could.
As if to prove a point he raised his blade in one smooth motion and brought it down into Batu’s chest, staring at him with stoic numbness as he screamed and writhed. As if the pain it caused had nothing at all to do with him. As Batu’s blood seeped into the Europian mud Shaitani suppressed a smile, sending power and pleasure to Temejun with a twitch of her long, cold fingers.
CHAPTER IX
“How can we know nothing about her?” Avondale demanded, holding her heavy stomach, “how can we not know anything about her?” It boggled belief. Sonja rubbed her back gently, Shannon rubbed his face as the rest of the council looked sheepishly at one another.
“Highness, if I may?” Habd said, Avondale nodded,
“Yes?”
“I… your father never asked that we search for information regarding the witch, and so it was never done.” He said, “Do you wish this remedied?”
“Yes.” Avondale said,
“But she is dead,” Wilelm, sputtered, though Ronald shook his head,
“She is not. I fear you were right, my Queen, my men bring news of a woman matching her looks in the enemy camp. Close to the brother of the king, and the supposed cause of their rift. This morning an agent said the brothers had fought over her fate, it seems she was in danger of execution. The younger brother, Temejun, is now leading the host after besting his brother the king.” Ronald said, and then licked his lips, “a feat no-one believed him capable of.”
“You believe she has chosen another champion?” Shannon asked, and then flushed, “so to speak?” Ronald nodded,
“I believe so, Lord Tethetras.” He said, and Avondale smiled; she was less used to hearing Shannon’s second name than even he. He nodded, cleared his throat and muttered something as a flush crept over his features.
Avondale sighed,
“If this is true, it’s something we must worry about now. Has the younger Lord gully arrived yet?”
“I have, my lady.” A brown haired man of perhaps thirty bowed,
“Very good,” Avondale said with a smile, “Lady Sonja will hand over all necessary information to you. See that our armies are fit to move if needed.”
“Yes Majesty.” He bowed again,
“The coronation-” Lord Wilelm said,
“I will not schedule the Coronation until Aiden is present, not while there is a danger of repeating last years…” Avondale faltered, waving her hand in the cool air, “tragedies.”
“You must,” Fiona said suddenly, and then flushed, “forgive me for speaking out of turn Avo- my Queen, but Avondale needs a rule now more than ever. If your kingdom is to fight with confidence it needs to see you forging on as you must.” Her words were jumbled, lacking the eloquence she usually displayed, but as always they were wise. Avondale sighed, and pressed her fingers to her forehead. A few of the council murmured in agreement.
“Very well,” she said, “when did you have in mind, my lords?”
“Tomorrow, my lady.” Habd said, and the others nodded in agreement. Avondale baulked,
“So soon, nothing is prepared, we have no guests, no dress-”
“I have taken care of it.” Fiona said, smiling kindly. The lines around her eyes had deepened, and yet she seemed more youthful than ever now that she had Jon to care for. “All of it, just as you ordered, we have been awaiting only your agreement.”
Avondale rubbed her belly and sighed,
“How big I shall look in my dress,” she whispered,
“We can have the painting commissioned after the birth?” Ronald asked, smiling indulgently. Avondale huffed and rubbed her stomach, feeling the life inside turn. How angry she had been with Eramys when she refused to take the child from her, how many times she had considered doing it herself… but always something stopped her.
“No,” she said, surprising even herself, “I have nothing to be ashamed of. Let them see that their Queen was also a mother.” Fiona nodded approvingly, and Avondale fancied she hear Sonja huff and shift behind it. A happy sound? “I have done nothing wrong.” She said quietly, reminding herself of what Sonja said to her each time she wavered. A calloused, feminine hand landed on her shoulder, squeezing gently. “Bring Eramys here for the Coronation, if she is agreeable.” Avondale said as the lords filed out, “I have need of her advice.”
“She is already here, my Queen.” Shannon said quietly. When Avondale turned a wizened old woman hobbled into the room and sat at her table, rubbed the edges and sighed,
“Round, very nice. A good sentiment.” Eramys said,
“Eramys?” Avondale looked her up and down, smiling when the crone nodded,
“You are ready to listen?” Eramys said, and Avondale nodded, “and no more thoughts of harming the child?”
“No.” Avondale said, “It is mine, he… for all the faults he will have…”
“Good,” Eramys said, shifting in her seat, “the creature calling itself Shaitani is not a witch, but a Weyvren. An old, shapeshifting being now nearly extinct.”
“Such evil,” Avondale shudder, but Eramys shook her head,
“Weyvren were not evil, child, but Shaitani is. She has been made this way the same way any being might be and convinced that she has higher calling in the opening of this world to the void.”
“You told Greendale this?” Avondale asked, furrowing her brows,
“No, I did not know. You’re not the only one digging for information,” Eramys laughed, and coughed into her hand, “the cult which took her as a child was but young when she was born, they revere her as a leader, a High Priestess, and yet her blood was used to prolong the lives of some amongst those ranks. If she knows this I cannot say.”
Avondale rocked gently, feeling spasms of pain run down her spine, her face twitched, no doubt, because Eramys clucked in sympathy,
“A difficult boy choosing difficult paths I see,” she got to her feet and pressed at Avondales stomach, “he is pressing against your back, child. But he will be fine.”
“Will I?” She asked, jokingly, and Eramys chuckled,
“An old woman I knew once as a child, brown as a nut and wiser than an oak tree said to me once, ‘Eramys, woman be born in blood and die in blood, and every life is a circle and you make of it what you can’, and I believe that still.” She sat back rubbing her gnarled hands on her thighs,
“What does that mean?” Avondale ground out as she rubbed her back slowly,
“It means you survive because there’s no choice,” Eramys said, “just like Shaitani did. You survive as you can, and hope it makes you stronger, because we can’t know what will make us better.” Avondale nodded, but her head filled with questions.
“I had a dream about her,” Avondale said, “she was drowning.” Eramys stopped, blinking rapidly,
“Drowning, or swimming?”
“Both, I believe.” Avondale sighed with relief as the pain suddenly abated,
“And you were watching her?” Eramys asked, returning to a chair,
“No… I… was her, I was in her head.” Avondale said, and shuddered at the memory of the cold, dark depths. Eramys rumbled and stood suddenly,
“What?” Avondale said, trying to stand, but Eramys pushed her back down,
“No, stay, child. There are things I must consider,” she said, “I will return to you, but… be wary. Be careful of such dreams… do not dwell on them.” She left with more speed than she had entered, and suddenly Avondale wondered if she should have told Eramys that it was a waking dream. She contemplated the heaviness in her stomach, the ache in her hips, and waited for the tell-tale sound of the door,
“Shannon, I’m going to take a nap. You may send another to watch me and rest for the night,” she said without turning, “I wish you by my side with Sonja during the coronation.”
“Yes,
my lady,” he said, “but… Lady Fiona wishes to prepare you. Something about place settings?”
“Tell her to find me after dinner.” Avondale said and got to her feet, hefting the bulk of her body without grace. Shannon nodded, bowing,
“My lady.” He said and backed away. He was becoming a fixture of her life, as Greendale had been. And yet she had to remind herself that she knew nothing of him, really. He was only doing his job. He was a paid retainer, granted he was loyal and showed her some affection, but he was, in the end, a guardsman. Not a lord. Not really. She found she had to remind herself of this more often these days, especially when he was so thoughtful. It was easy to pretend that Greendale could be replaced; not two nights before he had arrived at her chamber clutching a plain white cushion of some kind.
“My wife swore that holding it between her knees helped her to sleep, and I thought it might give you relief, majesty.”
It had and did. She pressed it between her knees and let her head fall to the pillow, breathing in the scent of Sonja’s perfume and the dogs that more often than not followed her everywhere.
Avondale rubbed her belly and walked slowly to the gardens, feeling the eyes of curious servants on her every move. The statue of Greendale in the royal rose garden was smaller than the great tribute erected near he and Fiona’s home, but as she grew bigger her world shrunk; that statue was too far a ride, to exposed a locale, though it was a mere few hours on horse-back. She stared at the replica and wondered if it truly did look like him.
His face was becoming harder to place in the fog of memory. Avondale covered her mouth and let a few tears fall,
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I cry every time I come here, my friend. How foolish you must think I am to weep for you when there is no pain in your world now… but I…” she sighed, “I am selfish – I cry for myself. I wish I was with you, or that you were here. I wish you could see Robert grow, I wish my father was alive.” She rubbed her hands, “I wish this burden was not mine to bear, my friend.” No answer from the stone, of course, but she fancied she felt a warmth. She closed her eyes,
“You told me, once, about a great warrior who made allegiances with the fae folk, Greendale… what was his name?” She asked, “I should like my son to be a diplomat rather than a fighter. I should like him to speak with his tongue before steel.” The name was elusive, slipping through her grasp again and again. She sighed and made her way back to the royal quarters, tumbling into bed with only a cursory look for Sonja. When her friend lay down on the bed beside her she said nothing, barely noticing until the first hound settled around her stomach.
“Your mutts are in my bed again.” She mumbled, but she was smiling; the hounds were warm and sweet and loyal, and now that Sonja had agreed to wash them after each hunt they smelled not of mud and shit and blood, but warm, musty puppy-flesh and fur that took the tension from her back.
“Aye.” Sonja said and shifted, “And?” Avondale shook her head and let sleep take her without rebuke. When she woke, as she did at intervals, she realised a kind of peace had fallen on her. She wished for nothing more and ached for no other person. This love all around her was enough, this warmth enough, this swelling in her belly agreeable. Her heavy eyes flitted across the drapes enclosing her bed as the sound of many sets of lungs filled the warm, dusty air.
If only she never had to leave.
“Avondale?” Fiona’s voice was quiet, but it broke her reverie and brought the real world with it. She sighed as the hangings were pulled back and Fiona sighed, “You should not allow the hounds in the bed, Avondale, it is bad for the baby.”
“No it’s not.” Sonja grunted sleepily, “My mother had hounds in her bed more often than my father when she was pregnant and never lost a child.”
“And you should not be allowed in the bed either,” Fiona snapped,
“I must sleep alone always, then?” Avondale said with a sigh,
“Most women do, Avondale.”
“I am not most women, and I desire my friend close, and she desires her hounds close, and I will never have to worry about an assassination with so many dogs in the bed,” Avondale said, voice slowly rising “and if this is how I wish to sleep while my husband is away I will do so without guilt.” Fiona raised her brows,
“It is not proper to-”
“Hang proper!” Avondale snapped, “Shit on proper, and don’t look so scandalized, I heard that gem from you.” Fiona shook her head and pursed her lips, but there was a smile in her eyes, “I only wish to be comfortable and happy, Fiona, for all I give up, for all I have given up is this not fair?”
“Of course,” Fiona sighed, “but I have to tell you how others might feel.”
“So don’t tell them. I have nightmares, Fiona, when I sleep alone,” Avondale said, “Sonja was through each night calming me, but when she stays here, or when her dogs are here I feel safe. I don’t dream at all.” Fiona nodded, rubbing her shoulders.
“Come, we must prepare for your coronation,” she said with sudden and brittle cheer. Avondale nodded,
“I’ll stay here,” Sonja said, and rolled over, “keep the bed warm.”
The preparations were endless, however, and she didn’t get to feel the warmth of her blankets until dawn was brightening the horizon again. Avondale lay still for what felt like seconds before the maids were bustling in, Fiona in tow in all her limitless energy, to drag her from the warm silence. Sonja put up a valiant effort but was bundled off for her own bath and robing. She’d sulk for days after this. Avondale smiled and stroked one of the hounds curly heads as her own hair was dragged and coiffed into a stiff, flawless shape that defied gravity and common sense. The dress was like armour, the shoes impossibly ornate.
None of it felt like her, and yet that was a blessing as she stepped from the carriage to face the great Cathedral as the men and women behind the rows of guards screamed and waved. This was not happening to her, but Queen Avondale, that cold, impressive woman who would know no fear or doubt. Inside her hard carapace mother, friend, woman, and lover Avondale could cower until the worst was over. The roses thrown onto the path were beautiful, fragrant, and slippery; at first she tried to push them from her by sliding her feet forward, and then she realised how foolish this looked, and she tried to stand on them. Through the soft leather of her shoes she felt the thorns of some that had been poorly stripped, and she wobbled on the hard, round stems.
A strong hand gripped her elbow; Shannon. Avondale’s mouth twitched into a half smile as she took his arm on one side, and Sonja’s on the other. It was unusual for a Monarch to be flanked by advisors on the walk to the gilt throne, but what had been usual about her situation? She raised her chin as the Cathedral Pather spread his hands to her, bowing,
“My Queen,” he said simply, gracing her with a radiant smile as she left Sonja and Shannon behind to turn smoothly, as instructed, and slid back into the Gilt Throne, back straight, chin raised as he approached her with a sweet smelling, thick oil. The warm oil on her forehead made was soothing at first, and then the slight breeze chilled it and made it a cold brand, and she wondered if that wasn’t the intent. A physical reminder of the weight she was to carry. The load in her stomach squirmed, kicking as if the nerves had run all the way down to him. As if he felt the ghost of his own oil. The crown regal sat heavy and unsteady on her brow, and Avondale began to worry that she would let it fall if she put a foot in the wrong place. But she made it to the bottom of the steps without incident and raised her hand to the gathered nobles. Their polite applause was drowned by the endless fervour of the crowds outside.
CHAPTER X
The forward camp was as close to hell as Aiden had ever seen, not at all like he would have imagined a Royal forward base. The mud and the mire were mixed with blood, fires burned hugely, devouring soiled bandages and ruined clothing like so much chaff, and in the near distance men were moaning in ecstatic agony; as they neared death it seemed that the lines between pleasure and pain were blurred for th
em. His horse shied, whinnying and steaming in the still air, as Aiden craned his neck to find the purple of the Royal tent, but there was only a small lake of beige and grey, tattered cloth rippling with every slight brush of the wind.
“Prince Aiden,” a voice came from the throng of men slipping past his charger like water, “Prince Aiden!”
A bedraggled young man in dirty finery raised his hand to wave,
“Yes… Comyn, is it not?” He said, reigning his horse in,
“Yes, my Prince… if it pleases you to follow me, I can take you to your father.” Comyn said, self-consciously straightening his clothes. Aiden nodded,
“Lead on.” Aiden said, and urged the horse after him. The Royal tent was indeed purple, or it had been once and there was a great, sturdy table laid out in its mouth. His father was holding court with the officers, motioning to a map with broad strokes of his broad, twisted sword hand. His father was a great warrior; Aiden smiled, but his stomach lurched.
“Father,” he called, and Eaglecross stopped, looking up to his son with a face that Aiden was sure had aged by years rather than months, “My King.” He said quickly, and Eaglecross nodded,
“Come,” he said, “we are finalising the plan for tomorrows push. The barbarians will be back in their boats and we in our beds by tomorrow night if I have my way.”
“So soon?” Aiden said, pushing hair from his face, “such a swift victory would indeed be favourable.” The knights around the table glanced at each other, and Eaglecross sighed,
“Leave us.” He said, and before his hand had fallen the men were dispersing, “… Aiden, this war has been in play for nearly three months now.” He said, looking at the table,
“But I was sent for only two weeks ago – I came as fast as I was able, surely…”
“Aiden.” Eaglecross said, “you were sent for because news of the battle’s escalation into this… invasion… this war, it was reaching towards Avondale by itself.”
