Chapter Eight
Satia was still cold from the procession when the palace staff knelt at her feet, their blue and white dresses puffed out around them on the floor.
She refrained from showing her irritation at their insubordination. One glance at their reddened cheeks and eyes swollen from crying, and she resigned herself to a show of patience. But the least they could have done was to have mulled wine ready for her.
“We have all suffered a loss,” she said softly. “I share your grief at the loss of the Queen Mother Tithanna. But we must take care not to disappoint the King on his first night in residence.” Satia paused. “I would not wish to see him angered with you.”
“No, Your Majesty,” the Royal Housekeeper said without lifting her gaze from the floor.
“Best to bury ourselves in our tasks and leave our mourning for later, outside the presence of the King.” Satia looked around. The Queen’s Suite was as she expected it to be, cavernous rooms, every inch covered by the blue and white of the Airions. Stuffy and cold, with the stale scent of dried lavender and no fire in the hearth.
Her Bondmaidens surveyed the room, checking behind curtains and in cupboards. Mira sniffed. “Filthy,” she said disparagingly.
“Apologies, your majesty.” The Royal Housekeeper still had her eyes down and was sniffing back tears. “We are somewhat disarrayed. The King and Queen have not been in residence for some time, you see.”
“The King and Queen are now in residence,” Avice said sharply.
The woman’s face went pale. “The Queen Mother’s chambers would be warmer, although they have not yet been cleaned. We were not allowed to—”
“Understandable,” Satia said, although it was not. But allowances needed to be made. Satia reached down and urged the Housekeeper to her feet. “We must see to the comfort of the King.” Satia gave her an encouraging smile. “Rosemary, wasn’t it?”
“Rosalind, Your Majesty.” An older woman, with a worn face and graying hair. Her wrinkles were deep with exhaustion and grief.
“I know this is a trying time,” Satia murmured as she gestured for the rest of the staff to rise to their feet. “But let us be about it. First things first, we need to remove all the airion tapestries.”
Rosalind paused. “Majesty, it will be terrible drafty without—”
“Take them down,” Satia firmed her voice. “We would not wish to anger the King.”
“The oldest ones are fragile and require careful—”
“They must all be removed before the feast tonight,” Satia insisted, more sharply this time, allowing her irritation to show, just a bit.
“Yes, of course, Your Majesty.”
“To work, then.” Satia dismissed them all. “Quickly now. I know you have suffered a great loss and are pained and hurt. But come, mop your faces and turn grief to action. There is much to be done to see to His Majesty’s comfort. The King is currently inspecting the guards and talking to his Council, but he will want to refresh himself soon enough.”
The staff fled, hopefully to get to work without too much delay.
“Rosalind,” Satia stopped the woman at the door. “Please tell the Royal Steward to attend me here as soon as possible.”
“And a hearth boy, to see to the fire,” Avice added.
“I will see it done, your majesty.” Rosalind bowed and left, shutting the door behind her.
Satia allowed herself to collapse into the padded chair by the cold hearth as a sudden wave of exhaustion swept over her. Her gorge rose and she pressed her hand to her stomach. It was far too soon to declare the pregnancy. She’d need to wait a few weeks before making her symptoms known. “That bitch Tithanna must have mellowed in her old age, if they are all heartbroken over her death.” Satia shook her head. Xyrath shouldn’t have acted so impulsively. But what was done was done.
“Majesty, are you well?” Mira knelt at her side. “The procession took forever and I fear you are chilled.”
“It was needful for the people to see us, and for Xyrath to hear their cheers.” Satia rubbed her arms. “We can sort out the staff later. We can weed out the disloyal slowly. No need to seem the butchers.” She shifted in her chair, trying to ease her discomfort.
A cheer went up outside. Avice crossed over to the windows. “The King is in the courtyard, speaking to the guards.”
Satia rose and peered out. Xyrath was indeed out on the cobbles, strutting like a cock, gesturing as he spoke. She’d have to remember to have any large mirrors moved to his chambers. He did so like to look at himself.
Tarwain stood near to the King, with a slight frown on his face. She cracked open the window.
“…peace and mercy to all who pledge their loyalty,” Xyrath announced. “If not, you are free to return to your homes with your weapons and armor.”
“Oh, that was not well thought out,” Avice muttered.
Satia stifled a grimace. She was about to pull back when Tarwain spotted her and gestured toward the window.
“All hail Her Majesty, Queen Satia,” he called.
The Queen smiled, leaned out and waved to the cheering men, then threw a kiss to the King. Withdrawing, she closed the window and considered. Her lover might become a nuisance. “Doesn’t Lord Tarwain have a daughter?”
“Aye,” Avice made sure the window was bolted. “A dowdy thing.”
“I should make her one of my attendants,” Satia mused. “Perhaps his lady should come to Court as well and bring their younger children.” Satia settled back in the chair. They could be given apartments here in the Palace. Useful, to keep him and his family under her eye.
A knock at the door, which Avice answered. A hearth boy stumbled in, arms piled high with wood, kindling clutched in his fists. Rosalind followed him, her hand on his shoulder. “Make your bow, Jarris,” she reminded him. “Then see to the fire. Be quick, now.”
The boy bobbed a hasty bow, nearly dropping the wood, then rushed to the hearth and dropped the logs with a clatter.
Rosalind bowed. “Your Majesty, the Royal Steward awaits your pleasure.”
“Show him in,” Satia commanded, then rose to stand facing the door. Better to be on her feet for this interview.
“Queen Satia, gracious majesty, I am Paulin, Royal Steward.” An older man, bald of pate and with tired eyes, went to one knee before her. Not without an uneasy glance at her Bondmaidens.
“Rise, Paulin,” Satia commanded. “There is much to be done and little time. It is the pleasure of the King that there be a small dinner this night in the Great Hall. There will be no more than a hundred people or so, only the most loyal of our supporters.”
The man nodded. “Yes, your Majesty.”
She continued, “Please see that the Great Hall is prepared. Remove the airion banners and replace them with ours.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Do not clean our banners. They will be stained from the battlefield, but those are honors hard won.”
“Of course, gracious lady,” Paulin’s head bobbed.
Saita paused as if thinking. “Are all the solid gold place settings still here?”
“Aye, Majesty, locked up tight.” Paulin looked nervous. “Would you have them used this night?”
“No, no, the everyday ware is fine for men fresh from the field.” Satia’s stomach chose that moment to flip. She drew a breath and gave Paulin a smile, hoping she looked more tired than sick. “Royal Steward,” she said more seriously, letting her smile fade, “before I let you go, we must speak of other matters. I would ask the status of our coffers.”
The Royal Steward bowed his head. “I fear I anticipated your question, Majesty. Your coffers are almost bare.”
Satia was practiced enough that she didn’t even flinch, though this was not what she wanted to hear.
“We are in arrears with all the tradesmen and the Guild of Mages,” Paulin continued. “I fear that soon—”
“The Guild of Mages?” Satia’s voice was sharper than she intended. “Why so?”
“For the Chained Mage,” Paulin lifted an eyebrow. “Ruinously expensive, but Queen Kara insisted.”
“A Chained Mage? Here?” Satia demanded, feeling the stirring of her Bondmaidens. “I didn’t…” All the possibilities of what she could accomplish with a Chained Mage under her control flooded into her mind.
“He is outside, awaiting your Majesty’s pleasure.” Paulin’s expression was an odd combination of anticipation and dread. “Majesty, if I might offer a word,” Paulin paused. “He is rather…difficult at times.”
“Bring him in.” Satia ignored the probably well-meant advice.
The door opened and darkness walked in. A man, tall, long black hair streaked with gray cascading down his back. His robes were black as night; the only brightness to his appearance was the glint of the silver chains that ran from neck to wrists to ankles, lose enough to allow movement, but obvious marks of what he was.
Satia controlled her excitement. A chained mage.
The chains made a soft rattle, glittering in the firelight. They did not bind his movement as he flowed into the room. His dark gaze flicked over her and then to her maidens, no doubt seeing more than she wished. Satia kept her face still as his lips tightened.
She’d a moment to wonder if there was elven blood in his lineage as he came to stand before her and gave her the barest of nods.
Paulin cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, this is Ritathan, Chained Mage of the Guild of Mages of Edenrich.”
Satia smiled warmly. “I welcome you to our service.”
“I do not serve you,” Ritathan said coolly. “You do not hold my key.”
So they were not to be friends. Satia dropped her smile and gave him a narrow look. “A small matter.” She turned to Paulin and held out her hand.
Paulin shook his head. “Majesty, I was never entrusted with the key. To my knowledge, it was carried to the battlefield and may be lost.”
“And the spare?” Satia clamped on her anger as the smirk on Ritathan’s face grew.
“Your Majesty, I beg pardon, but I was never told of a spare.”
Satia glared at Ritathan. “Where is the spare key?”
“You are not the master of my chains,” Ritathan intoned. “You do not hold my key.”
Paulin studied the ceiling. “That’s rather a common refrain.”
The two men exchanged looks that told Satia much that did her little good now, but could be stored away for the future. “You cannot cast,” she said flatly.
Ritathan gave her an insolent nod. “I cannot cast unless commanded by the master of my chains, the holder of the key. I am bound by key and contract.” Satia didn’t miss his glance at her women. “Such are the strictures of the Guild of Mages and the Royal Contract from the time of—”
“No matter,” Satia interrupted, to regain control of the interview. “We will find the key.”
She turned her attention away, deliberately, and focused her attention on Paulin. “Royal Steward, we need prepare to celebrate our victory—”
“Your victory?” Ritathan’s voice cut through hers, smooth and strong. “You have won a civil war over the carcass of what was Xy. ‘Tis now but an outlying city of what was a vast empire. This city and its surrounds can barely sustain itself and your army just trampled over many of the crops that would have aided its people.”
“Mage Ritathan,” Paulin protested, but the man continued.
“The surrounding baronies no longer acknowledge you as suzerain, owe you no fealty, if they even communicate with you at all. Swift’s Port and Athelbryght do not even trade with Edenrich. The foreign ambassadors have fled to their homes long ago, the Palace is falling to ruin about your ears, and the coffers are empty. So, yes. All hail the King and Queen of Xy. The King and Queen of Xy, all hail.” Finished, Ritathan bowed his head with the slightest of impudent tilts.
“I should have you executed,” Satia spat.
Ritathan nodded. “Guildmaster Forterran would not be pleased, but he would not be surprised. I have a reputation for telling truth to power. It makes him grind his teeth.”
Satia turned away and focused on Paulin. “Take him away and confine him to his quarters. Contact the Guildmaster. I do not want a mage I do not control loose in the castle. Are the fees current with the Guild?”
“No,” Paulin said. “Nor with the tradesmen and laborers.”
“We will see to the accounts when the war chest arrives and the King’s household is set up. A matter of days, no more.” Satia closed her eyes, then opened them and smiled at Paulin. “Perhaps you could find a few musicians to play at the evening meal? The King likes revelry and we should see him amused.”
“I will see it done, Your Majesty.” He bowed and gestured for Ritathan to precede him as they left. Satia’s stomach heaved again as the door closed behind them. Wretched man, telling her things she’d rather ignore.
A soft knock. Avice opened the door, took a tray of tea things from someone, and shut the door again. She placed the tray on a small table near Satia’s chair, saying “The war chest is empty.”
“Yes,” Satia settled back in the chair, “I know.”
“Let this steep for a bit, then drink.” Mira set to work with her satchel and herbs. “Should settle your stomach.”
“We can sell the airion tapestries, and take note of who buys them,” Satia took a breath as her stomach knotted again. “That solid gold dinner service can be melted down and coins issued. Xyrath can announce a new coinage to replace the old, debased coins.”
“Were the old ones debased?” Nora asked.
“They were if we say they were,” Satia said firmly. “I also have a list of the richest merchants and bankers that offered us no support. We can accuse them and see their property confiscated.”
A cry from out in the hall. “Our Lord, the King!”
The door flung open and Xyrath strode in, golden and beaming. “Satia,” he boomed, smiling.
“Your Majesty,” Satia got to her feet, then sank to the floor before him, lowering her eyes. Avice and Mira followed suit.
“Now, now, my Queen,” Xyrath put his fingers under her chin and lifted her head. “So lovely, my dear wife and Queen. What do you think of the Palace?”
“Sorely neglected, my King,” Satia took his offered hand and rose. “But we will restore it to its former glory.”
“Well said,” Xyrath said with his usual winsome smile. “Captain Ussin reported to me that all of the Blood on your list are safe and well-guarded.”
“Good,” Satia said.
“They’re no real threat, you know,” Xyrath watched the hearth boy as he struggled with his bucket of ash, then turned back to Satia, his eyes sparkling. “You’ll never guess what I heard from Ussin. Remember my cousin, the cripple, Orval? Crafty dog got himself married and they had twins a few months ago!”
Satia held herself still.
“Can you believe?” he snorted. “I always thought he leaned toward men, just goes to show one never knows. We will have to increase his stipend, what with him supporting three now and being a cripple and all.”
“He is of the Blood,” Satia said slowly. “Didn’t he need to seek permission to marry?”
“No, no, distant cousin really.” Xyrath wandered over to the window, clearly trying to catch a glimpse of himself in the glass. “No claim to the throne at all.”
“Who did he marry?”
“Captain Ussin didn’t say,” Xyrath ran his fingers through his hair. “Only said he was overwhelmed by nappies and dishes. No threat to us, surely.”
“We have just won a war and must secure the throne,” Satia gently reminded him. “Who knows where their loyalties lie? Therefore we must protect them. With all honor, of course.”
“Of course, of course,” Xyrath turned back to her. “Is there to be a banquet tonight? For our brave warriors? I should change. Bathe, perhaps.”
Typical, leaving the details to her. Still, it suited her. Satia nodded. “The baggage train should arrive soon. Let me order a bath prepared for you.”
“Would you join me, dearest?” Xyrath gave her a look under his lashes. “Before the bath? Help me out of this armor, perhaps?”
“My King, you honor me,” Satia leaned in close. “Just let me finish this tea, and I am yours.”
Xyrath swept her into his arms and twirled her around, laughing at her squeal. “Don’t be long,” he said, striding out and calling out for the staff.
Avice shut the door.
“The tea is ready,” Mira poured out a steaming cup. “It will help.”
“Good,” Satia steadied herself on the back of the chair, waiting for the dizziness and nausea to pass. She took the cup from Mira, feeling the heat on her fingers.
A knock sounded on the door. Nora and Caris slipped in when Avice opened the door, their armor caked in mud and grime. Avice closed the door firmly behind them, first glancing into the hall to make sure no one was near enough to overhear.
“A child was born,” Nora said, her voice low. “It was taken, and they were seen fleeing, a person and a large animal. From the tracks, a vore.”
Satia hissed. “Iris?”
“As you commanded,” Caris said. “Iris hunts.”