Chapter Four
Yfin sat on the hearth stool in the corner, leaned against the warm stone of the fireplace, and tried not to let his eyes close.
It was good, being hearth boy in the Palace, not as good as kitchen boy, but better than cleaning the midden or catching rats. Best an orphan like him could expect. He was fed and warm, better than when he’d been running the streets.
His duty was the hearths and naught else. Normally, this late, he’d be bedded down already, on his own pallet, with a blanket all to himself.
But this night he’d been sent to serve Queen Mother Tithanna. Usually, she took to her bed fair early. The Queen Mother was old, as old a person as Yfin had ever known, wrinkled and tall, with bright white hair she kept in a thick braid. She liked her chambers warm, for her old bones, she’d said.
Footsteps roused him and he glanced up as she paced by, circling the chairs before the hearth, back and forth. She’d been doing that since he’d come on duty, her heavy robes swishing against the floor as she walked.
Yfin yawned and rubbed at his face. He’d already got a good stack of wood, so easy enough to keep the fire bright.
The Queen Mother made a turn and stopped. Yfin heard footsteps, coming towards the door. He rose to answer it.
“No,” she said quietly, picking up a candle. “I’ll see to the door.”
Yfin stayed put, laying in a bit of kindling and blowing on coals. The flames licked at the wood as he heard a sharp sound behind him.
He turned and saw the Queen Mother just standing there, looking all hollowed out. Her face was as pale as the moon, her eyes glittering like dark stars.
Two men had entered. One of them, bloody and filthy, knelt before her. “I broke off when I saw Queen Kara go down, Daughter of Xy.” He coughed and clutched at his ribs, his face gaunt with pain. “Thought it best to bring you word before—”
Yfin inched closer and smelled the iron tang of blood, the sharpness of smoke, and the sourness of sweat. But the Queen Mother’s face was still, as if the smells and the blood did not exist.
“You’ve done well,” she said, her voice oddly strong. She reached out and put her hand on his sweat-soaked head. “May the Lord of the Sun bless you for your service to our House,” she continued. “But you need to go, get away from here. They will come.”
The bloody man nodded and rose with the help of the other man. “I will, Your Majesty.” He bowed his head. “Lady, Xywellan died fighting. Swinging his sword, cursing them to the last—”
“My thanks,” the old lady said gently, looking past him to the other man. “Can you get him out and away?”
“It will be like he was never here,” came the gruff response as the man stepped into the light. Yfin recognized Captain Roth of the Palace Guard. A strong man with a short gray beard and hard eyes, tonight his face was tired and lined. Yfin wanted nothing so much in this world as to be a Guard and carry a sword and be just like Cap’n Roth. But he’d no chance of that.
The wounded man wasn’t done. He reached out his hands, palms up. “My hand to yours. Bless you, Tithanna, Daughter of the Wyvern House of Xy, Daughter of Xyvoth, Wife of Xykahn, Warrior King.”
A thrill passed through Yfin at the words of the old oath.
The Queen Mother reached out and pressed his hands together between hers. “My hand to yours. Blessings upon you, Warrior of the Airion House of Xy.”
The fire spat and Yfin started and turned back to his duty, using the poker to spread out the coals and adding another log. He heard the Queen Mother say something to the Captain, heard the door close. There was a whisper of cloth and then she stood over him, looking into the flames.
Yfin looked up as the firelight danced on her face. He was young, true enough, but he knew something had happened, something bad, because he knew that there was war. He was afraid to speak, to ask, because, well, she was old and kind, but scary at the same time.
She took deep breath, then gave a sharp nod, like she’d made up her mind about something. “Build up the fire, lad,” she commanded. “I’ll see to more candles.”
Yfin scrambled to obey, out the door and running for another armful of wood.
When he returned to her chambers, Captain Roth was in the room with the Steward. The Queen Mother stood by the fireplace, arms crossed over her chest.
Yfin darted in, dropped the wood by the hearth with a clatter, and bent to work with a will while they argued. The boy watched them out of the corner of his eye.
He knew Steward Paulin, ‘cause the man had a tendency to kick boys out of his way. Normally, Yfin was frightened of him. But right then, the Steward stood there, sweating, shifting his weight from one foot to another like he had an itch. He pulled out a large white handkerchief and mopped his balding head. Now, he was the one that looked afraid.
The Captain, now, he was like a rock, his voice soft but firm. “We could fight.”
“What good would that serve?” The Queen Mother faced them, her voice clear and sharp. “More blood spilled and to what end? Open the gates,” she commanded. “Welcome the victors.”
The Steward bowed and scurried off, closing the door behind him. Captain Roth waited.
“Instruct your men as well, Captain.” The old lady’s voice was firm. “They are to offer no impediment.”
“I’ll pull them off the gates.” The Captain’s voice was low and rough. “The Steward can have the honors.”
The Queen Mother snorted. “He’ll bow his head and not have the courage to look them in the eye.”
Captain Roth’s smile was grim.
“Just as well.” The Queen Mother lifted her hand to smooth down her hair. “Just as well that I sent my women to safety weeks ago.”
“Majesty,” the captain’s voice grated, low and thick, “you should go.”
“Go?” she said, her voice sounded so regal Yfin had to look up from his work. She seemed to grow taller as he watched. “Go where, good Captain?”
“There are those that would shelter—“
“And what of the harm I would bring down on them? No.” She shook her head so hard the braid swayed down her back. “I stay. But what of you, Captain?”
Captain Roth gave a slight shrug. “The Palace Guard has walked a fine line of neutrality, ma’am. I will be well, or not, as it may be.” His face went hard. “I will not leave my post.”
The Queen Mother nodded, then shivered, rubbed her arms, and sank down into her chair. “I would ask for more wood. The boy will build up the fire and we will wait.”
The Captain bowed and next thing Yfin knew, guardsmen were tramping in with arms full of wood, stacking it up by the side of the hearth as tall as he was. They’d come in, stack the wood, and bow to the old lady, seated in her chair, her eyes hooded, staring into the fire.
At last, they were finished and the room grew silent. It was just the Queen Mother and the hearth boy and the crackle of the fire. Yfin could hear the castle stirring beyond the door and people moving about with voices raised.
Queen Mother Tithanna rose from her chair, went to the door, and bolted it. “Come,” she bid Yfin, and he followed her into her bedchamber.
“Under the bed,” she gestured. “The long, narrow chest.”
Yfin went to his belly and pulled the chest out in a cloud of dust.
“Lazy maids,” she muttered, then gave a dry laugh. “As if that matters now. Come, lad.”
She led the way back to the fire and slowly lowered herself to the floor, close to the hearth. “Open it,” she commanded.
The box was a narrow thing, of old, thin pine. It took Yfin a minute to wrestle the stiff latch. Once he had it opened, the old lady reached in and pulled out a dagger, with a bright blade and a sheath decorated with an airion. She drew the blade.
“Still sharp,” she said, testing it. She held it for a long moment. “This was mine, when I was young. Wellan would not wear it for fear of offending the Wyverns. He was too trusting, too eager to please.”
After a long pause, she set it aside and pulled out a tabard of blue and white velvet and embroidered with an airion, rearing up, its sharp claws extended.
“He wore this at his investiture, when he was named Prince and Heir. I embroidered it myself.” The Queen Mother held it up. The cloth glittered in the firelight, on the silver and gold threads. “He was so proud that day, so glorious. Handsome, the sun shining on his sweet face as his father placed the coronet on his head.”
Yfin knelt beside her, admiring the crest. The airion looked so fierce, with the head and wings of a bird, and the body of a horse, and the legs of a lion.
The old lady gripped it firmly in both hands and brought it up to her nose, her eyes closed tight. Like maybe she could still smell something on the cloth.
Then she tossed it into the flames.
Yfin jumped, reaching for his poker, sure she’d made a mistake, but she gripped his arm and stopped him. “Let it go,” she commanded. The cloth burned and the gold threads curled up and melted.
She hesitated over a sheaf of letters tied with ribbon. “Ah, Kahn, my love,” she whispered, letting her fingers linger over the ribbon. “You wed me to bring the Airion and Wyvern families together and it only drove them all further apart. It might have worked, but for your death. Our Wellan just was not strong enough.”
Yfin shifted his weight from one foot to the other. She didn’t look at him, just tossed the bundle on the fire. The paper sizzled and turned black.
“Build up the fire,” she commanded. Yfin placed two logs and added more kindling to create the brightest, hottest flame.
The Queen Mother reached into the box again and pulled out old cloth gloves, stained brown.
“His first kill at the hunt,” she said, placing the gloves in her lap. “My golden boy, laughing in the courtyard as his father the King smeared the blood on his cheeks and forehead. So young, so happy, and his father and courtiers all gathered around, praising him. He basked in everyone’s approval. I was so proud, but I hurt as well. I lost my little boy to manhood.”
With a flick of her wrist the gloves went into the fire, landing on a log as if they’d been put there to dry.
Yfin watched them blacken, then returned his attention to the old woman to see her drawing a leather cuirass from the box, clearly made for a little one even smaller than him. The leather was dry and cracked, worn thin from use. Something clattered to the floor as she pulled it out; a small wooden sword and shield had been tangled with the leather.
Yfin couldn’t resist; he reached for them, eager to swing, then froze, realizing what he’d done in his excitement.
The Queen Mother eyes crinkled at the corners. “Go ahead,” she said.
Yfin grasped the sword and took up the shield in his other hand, taking a stance like he’d seen the guards do at practice. He slashed at his enemy bravely, holding his shield high. The weapons felt so good in his hand, for all that they were toys.
Would that they were real. He closed his eyes and took up the stance again, standing strong, seeing the monster before him, and his blade…
He stopped, taking a breath. Yfin’s shoulders slumped as he came back to himself.
The Queen Mother’s blue eyes were fey and wise as she stared at him. “What is your name, lad?”
“Yfin, lady,” he said awkwardly, then remembered his lessons. “Your Majesty.”
“How old are you?” she asked.
Yfin shrugged. “Last I remember, my mam told me I was ten. She died before the war,” he mumbled the last, not really wanting to think on it.
The Queen Mother’s smile dimmed. “So you, too, know of loss,” was all she said as she gave a nod toward the fire.
Yfin bowed his head in obedience and tossed sword and shield into the flames, trying to ignore the stab of pain it gave him.
The old lady tossed the leather cuirass in as well. Yfin thought for sure the smell would drive them out, but the smoke just grew black as the leather curled and darkened. The wood of the shield was dry enough that it was soon burning, the sword as well. They watched for a bit as the flames consumed everything.
“More wood,” she commanded. Yfin quickly obeyed until the flames roared up the chimney and it seemed to him that the stones of the mantle were turning red. Sweat poured off him like rain.
The old lady’s face also glistened in the light. He thought it was sweat.
But maybe it was tears.
She tossed smaller things, then, a bouquet of dried flowers, tied with a blue ribbon. Those crisped before they even touched the coals. Next was a child’s wooden tablet, with faint chalk marks. She brushed her fingers over them, tracing the letters. That went fast, the fire crackling around it.
The last thing, as Yfin stood and watched, the very last things she brought out, were a white baby gown, with ruffles and ribbons, and a tiny white cap.
The Queen Mother laid it in her lap, gently smoothed out the fragile cloth with her old, wrinkled hands. For a moment, just a moment, she smiled. But pain returned and her face grew tight with anguish. She balled up the cloth and cap and flung it into the flames. It fell like a blanket of white over the wood and fire, but black scorch marks appeared as quick as thought, and then it was gone.
She struggled to her feet, grasping the dagger she’d taken first from the box. Yfin offered his hand and helped her up as best he could.
“Strong young man,” she puffed, then steadied herself on the back of the chair. She drew herself up to her full height. towering over Yfin. Once again she pulled the blade from its sheath, then tossed the sheath into the flames.
She held up the dagger, the steel gleaming in the light. The image froze in Yfin’s eyes. The tall, old woman, made gold by the fire. Every detail seemed clear; Yfin could see a small sigil on the hilt’s cross-piece, glittering in the firelight. The blade glowed in the light, drawing his eye, bright and hard and sharp.
Yfin’s heart leapt to his throat.
Tithanna, Queen Mother, shone in the firelight as she lifted her braid, cut it from her head, and flung it into the flames.
The smell of burning hair filled his lungs, and Yfin knew that he’d never forget the heat, the stench. The sight of her face lit by the fire, the short strands of her hair starting to curl without the weight of the braid. She looked no less a Queen.
She stood there tall and unbending, and watched it all burn, the dagger still in her hand. The sheath melted, the gemstones turned brown and cracked. It was something to see.
“Now the chest,” she said. “Push it against the wall and fill it full of wood.”
Yfin scrambled to do as she bid as a knock came at the door. She placed the dagger on the mantle and went to open it.
There was a blast of cooler air as she pulled it wide. Captain Roth stood there, his eyes going wide as the heat hit his face.
“Your Majesty,” he bowed. “A small group of riders approach. They fly no banners, but they come from the field.”
“They didn’t bother to tend the wounded or see to the dead. Typical.” She turned away. “It matters not. I will await them here.”
“As you wish, Majesty.”
Captain Roth bowed himself out, but she held up a hand. “Captain, this lad is Yfin. He has served me well this night.” She gestured Yfin to her side. “He would be wasted as a hearth boy. I think he’d make a fine warrior. Take him into the Guard.”
Yfin’s heart leapt into his chest at those words. He was sure he looked the fool, mouth wide open and eyes bulging out of his head. “Really? Really?” He trembled as his voice cracked.
Captain Roth didn’t hesitate. “As you command, Majesty. Come, lad. Come with me.”
Yfin ignored him and fell to his knees before the Queen Mother, his heart so full he could barely croak out the words. “My hand to yours,” was all he could manage as he held out his hands, stuttering as he tried to say her name.
The Queen Mother smiled. She reached out and pressed his hands together, between hers. Her palms felt cold and thin against his skin, but her eyes were bright and her words warm. “My hand to yours. Blessings upon you, Warrior of the House of Xy.” She released him and reached out to brushed his hair from where it was plastered to his forehead.
The sound of bells came at that moment, city bells, then temple bells, all pealing the news of the victory.
Captain Roth pulled Yfin to his feet and toward the door. The Queen Mother turned back to the fireplace. Yfin blurted out “Lady, what will you do?”
Tithanna looked at him and her smile was bitter. “I will endure,” she said. “I have endured the death of my husband. I have endured the death of my sons. I have endured the marriages and departures of my daughters, only to hear of their deaths in letters from distant lands. I will endure the sundering of this House and the triumph of Xyrath, my third grand-nephew, once removed, or whatever he claims to be. I will endure,” she repeated.
Captain Roth went to one knee. “My hand to yours. Bless you, Tithanna, Daughter of the House of Xy, Daughter of Xyvoth, Wife of Xykahn, Warrior King.” He bowed his head.
The Queen Mother stood silent and still for a moment. “My hand to yours. Blessings upon you, Warrior of the House of Xy.” For the first time, Yfin heard a tremor in her voice. “Ah, Roth,” her voice the barest whisper. “Xywellan was such a golden child. And such a terrible king.”
She stood there, a dark figure before the raging fire. Captain Roth put his hand on Yfin’s shoulder and they both stepped back, bowed, and closed the door behind them.