Chapter Forty-Three
If Queen Satia had to walk, everyone walked.
Caris suppressed a smile, following the Queen as the Guildmasters puffed alongside Satia, trying to make their arguments heard.
“A Guild charter, Your majesty?” huffed Merchant Guildmaster Evens. “Is this really necessary? Childbirth is only a woman’s matter, and usually handled by the women of the family. Surely there is no need for—”
Ah. Word had gotten out. It had taken time to draft the charter, but Plumestra had started at once to advise the Queen. Twice daily walks through the Palace. At least a quarter of an hour in the gardens in the sun. Plain tea and dry toast. Satia had not taken it well, but she had done as she was told. Not that she would admit it was working.
But it was.
“Are you saying that a woman’s health and care in childbirth are not important?” The Queen asked in a mild, dangerous tone. Caris noted that she picked up her pace a bit.
“No, of course not, your majesty,” Weaver Guildmaster Mator chimed in. Thin as a rail, he was having an easier time keeping up. “But these are matters of the body, usually addressed by the physicians and apothecaries.”
Evens was breathing hard. “Guilds govern matters of craft or trade and—”
“The safety of the Queen and her child are paramount,” Caris interrupted before they could keep digging the hole they were in. She kept her face demure, her eyes down, but put a threat in her tone. “Above all other concerns.”
“But Plumestra will sit on our Council,” Evens blurted out in a plaintive tone.
Ah. Caris had suspected that was the crux of the matter.
Queen Satia stopped suddenly and gave Evens a long look, with an arched eyebrow. “Guildmaster Plumestra.”
“Oh, yes, of course, your majesty,” Evens stammered. Both men bobbed their heads nervously.
“I fail to see how this threatens your Guilds or your livelihoods.” The Queen lifted her head imperiously. “I would hope that you are not placing your discomfort over my health.”
“No, of course not, your majesty,” Evens stammered again and started wringing his hands.
“The matter is settled. Good day, Guildmasters.” Queen Satia started off down the hall, leaving the Guildmasters open-mouthed in her wake.
Caris bobbed a curtsey to the men and followed.
This hall was lined with courtiers and nobles, some with actual business, some there just to be seen. Everyone cleared a path for the Queen, bowing and greeting her with her titles, wishing her well.
Few things pleased the Queen more than adoration; Caris could feel her contentment through the Bond. Satia strode the length of the hall, even stroking her belly to accent its roundness.
Nora appeared from the crowd and joined Caris.
“How does our guest?” Caris asked softly.
Nora rolled her eyes. “Men,” she scoffed. “He’s incoherent, claims he is dying, moans in his suffering. We just got through the latest round of puking. He’s asleep.”
“And if he wakes while you are gone?”
“He can lie in it until I return.” Nora said.
“What does Mira say?” Caris asked as the Queen resumed walking.
“That while she has no experience with this kind of thing, she doesn’t think he is dying.”
They walked side by side behind the Queen, careful to keep in step.
“You need to have a care,” Caris cautioned her. “The Bonded needs him.”
Nora sniffed.
Mira came up from behind, holding an armful of velvety white fur. “The Queen’s new cloak,” she whispered. “Isn’t it lovely?”
They parted to let her pass and present it to the Queen.
Satia made a show of stroking the white fur of the collar. The crowd of courtiers around them murmured their admiration.
“What of your other tasks?” Satia asked her Bondmaidens under her breath.
“I met with the midwife, and she gave me lists of potential nursemaids and wet nurses.” Mira assured her. “She also recommended an expert seamstress to make a new blessing gown, since we haven’t been able to find the ancient one.”
Satia’s smiled never wavered but they felt her displeasure.
Mira looked miserable. “The craftspeople did press as to the cost of the materials for this,” she lifted her arms to indicate the cloak. “And for the gown, especially if you want the silks—”
“Of course I want silks,” Satia snapped.
Mira dropped her gaze.
Satia huffed, turned on her heel, and headed toward the gardens.
This hall was not quite so crowded, undoubtedly due to the draftiness of the windows. Caris shivered a little as they walked.
“My Queen!” came a call from behind.
King Xyrath came striding up, clearly fresh from the baths. His entourage followed close behind, all smelling of soap and sandalwood. Caris demurely lowered her eyes as they drew close, avoiding their gazes. Lord Marshal Tarwain was toward the back of the group, looking only at the Queen.
Xyrath held out his hands to Satia. “Beloved,” he kissed her cheek. “How do you this fine morn? Out for your morning stroll?”
“Yes, my love.” Satia gave him an admiring glance. “How did the sparring go?”
“Great fun, great fun. Ran them all around the practice grounds.” Xyrath dropped his hands to her belly. “And how does our heir apparent?”
Satia’s smile was more genuine this time, as she covered his hands with hers. Caris felt her glow of pleasure. “Very well, beloved.”
“Good, good, then you can join us in council this afternoon,” Xyrath smiled.
Satia blinked. “I thought we had said that—”
Xyrath nodded. “Yes, yes, I know, but that was a while ago,” he reminded her. “We need to talk things over, to make plans— there are so many questions.” He lifted her hands and kissed both of them. “I need you at my side.”
“Of course,” Satia said faintly.
“Besides,” Xyrath lit up, “there is news. Look,” he snapped his fingers and a thin, old man stepped forward, looking nervous. Caris caught a whiff of something…odd. The man held a small strip of curled paper out toward the Queen.
“Look at this,” Xyrath snatched up the paper and unrolled it. “Came in this morning from the Black Hills.”
Satia perked up.
“Turns out we have a pigeon house,” Xyrath held the paper so she could read it.
“Coop, your majesty,” the thin man corrected.
“Whatever,” Xyrath said. “Hundreds of pigeons, and this man cares for them.”
Caris tried to hold her breath against the foul smell.
“The teeny-tiny handwriting,” Xyrath marveled. “Orval certainly knows how to say quite a bit in a few words.”
“Orval?”
Caris didn’t need to hear the distaste in Satia’s voice. The cold ice of the Bond was more than enough.
“Oh yes, all good,” Xyrath said. “He’s established himself and his family in the Keep, if you can believe it, with the help of the locals.”
“Did he,” Satia said flatly.
Caris glanced at Tarwain. His face was bland, but his eyes were dark.
Xyrath continued, oblivious. “Also says they are searching for the best, pure white marble for our project, still needs to be quarried, mind you. Asks for credit against taxes and tithes.” Xyrath let the paper roll back up. “Smart man, my cousin.”
“Yes,” Satia said darkly.
“I asked the pigeon keeper here if we could send the pigeon back, with a note, but apparently it doesn’t work like that.”
“It doesn’t work like that,” the man squeaked. “The birds need to be trained, and then—”
“Yes, yes,” Xyrath grimaced. “Best we can do is get a messenger off, or even better, send Master Sculptor whats-his-name with our message, so he can supervise.” Xyrath puffed up a bit. “He’s already made fine sketches. He’s including a sword, a shield, and a few skulls of my enemies at my feet.”
Satia took a very long breath.
Xyrath frowned at the slip of paper. “Takes forever for messages to travel. Maybe we should have the Mage Guildmaster do another portal or two, it would save months of travel time.”
“The cost,” Satia said through a clenched smile.
Xyrath nodded. “You are right, dearest.” He raised her hand for another kiss. “Another thing to discuss at council, I will see you there.” He bowed and headed off.
“Come, lads,” he called. “Let’s go see the Master Sculptor. He will be thrilled. And you, pigeon keeper. Walk with me and explain how we can whip these birds into shape.”
There was an odd silence as the King departed. Satia watched him go with narrowed eyes.
Lord Marshal Tarwain lingered behind and broke the silence with a bow. “Could I escort you to the gardens, Your Majesty?”
“My thanks,” Satia extended her hand. “Perhaps you could stay and talk for a while?”
“Alas, I cannot,” Lord Tarwain said as they began to walk. “The council meets before the formal session to discuss how to approach your majesties concerning the issue of taxes. I thought I might sound out some of the councilmembers, see how they feel about the cost of the army, the fact that the treasury must be maintained.”
Caris and the others followed silently.
“You will support us?” Satia asked.
Lord Tarwain made a noncommittal humming sound that grated on Caris’s nerves. “It now appears that I will not be the Lord High Baron of the Black Hills,” Tarwain said.
“I am sure it’s a temporary—”
He interrupted the Queen. “My daughter is still taking the lessons with that mage.”
“Who I am still paying for,” Satia responded, nettled. “With no luck searching for the key.”
“How does he get away with defying you?” Tarwain asked mildly.
Caris shivered at his tone.
“My daughter’s marriage would solidify my wealth,” Tarwain continued. “And yours, Your Majesty. A reward for my efforts on your behalf.”
Though Caris kept her eyes down, she managed to exchange a glance with Avice. Had there been a threat in those words?
“Both the King and I believe in rewards, Lord Marshal,” Satia said as they approached the doors to the garden.
“I am grateful to hear it.” Tarwain bowed over Satia’s hand as they paused before the doors. “I fear that I must leave you here, your majesty,” he said. “Until the council meeting?”
Satia graciously nodded and he walked off, boots ringing on the stone floor.
Avice and Nora opened the double doors to the garden. Cold air flowed in as Mira placed the fur cloak around Satia.
“It snowed,” Mira chirped. “But the gardeners stamped out a path. There’s a brazier for warmth, and hot bricks in your footstool, so you don’t take a chill.”
Satia made no comment, seemingly lost in her thoughts as she shrugged the cloak into place. Her head turned as she surveyed the garden. The noble ladies of the court were stationed about, looking fairly miserable. Caris wondered how long they had been waiting in the cold.
She caught a glimpse of Halithe on the far edge, with just a hint of a scowl on her face. Something tingled inside her and Caris looked away quickly before she was caught. Halithe would have something pithy to say about this later, she was sure.
They hadn’t had a moment together since their encounter in the chapel. Caris’s tingle grew stronger at the recollection of the intensity of the look they had shared.
A focused needle of anger and cold rage echoed in the Bond. Caris’s attention was brought back to the Bonded in an instant.
“Tea, of course, and crackers,” Mira continued, then hesitated, no doubt feeling the same prick of the needle. She glanced at the others as she tried to keep talking. “As the midwife directed…” her voice trailed off as the bond darkened.
The four women froze in place as Satia paused in the doorway.
Satia framed herself in the doorway as she surveyed the snowy garden.
The noble ladies stirred. Heads turned in her direction and they all started to rise, faces white, cheek and noses red from the cold.
Satia didn’t bother to acknowledge their courtesies. She swept forward, striding to her cushioned chair, settling in with her furs, placing her feet on the warmed footstool.
The ladies fluttered about, offering praise for the furs and compliments on how she glowed. Her Bondmaidens finally settled the woman back to their sewing and Mira started to make tea.
Satia pondered.
They were going to have to start settling lands, titles, and rewards in order to keep their followers loyal. There were marriages to arrange, and also wardships, for the newly orphaned, wealthy children. And there was the not-so-small matter of Swift’s Port.
Satia sighed, trying not to feel put-upon. High Barons, minor lords, warriors: their impatience was almost as strong as their greed. Many hands grasping for what they deemed as their due.
The problem was that she wasn’t sure of anyone’s loyalty.
Xyrath’s approach of reward-them-and-then-kill-them-if-they betray-us wasn’t ideal.
Satia caught sight of Tarwain’s girl, wrestling with a simple hem. It made her grind her teeth, reminding her that Ritathan refused her commands, yet instructed that chit. She seethed with frustration and resentment, and there was little she could do—
Or was there?
Satia accepted a cup of tea from Mira and breathed in the scented steam. She closed her eyes and thought of possibilities.
Her Bondswomen went still around her, turning their heads to her like flowers to the sun, feeling the anticipation as they waited for instructions.
“It’s a risk,” Satia murmured to herself. “But there would also be advantages. There might be a cost…”
Oh, but it would make her feel so much better.
“Worth the risk.” Saitia murmured. “Worth the cost.” She allowed a lovely, dark smile to float over her lips. She could find a way to use it, to create more delay in intricate mourning rituals.
She gestured to her women to draw near.
They leaned in, heads close to hers.
“Ritathan,” Satia said under her breath, as she nodded and smiled to the ladies about her. “Kill him.”