Chapter 2 Stars in the Dust
Chapter two
Stars in the Dust
Six department heads gathered in a locked second-floor chamber with the queen and her chief of staff—a striking contrast of scuffed hardwood and Persian rugs.
One wall sported open windows, the other three, cherry wainscoting and desert mirage plaster.
Bookshelves loaded with volumes on history, law, government, philosophy, and diplomacy stretched across the far end.
A harp that nobody knew how to play adorned a corner like a statue to a fallen hero of old.
Dominating the chamber stood an expansive table carved in the shape of the transformed continent.
Azaleen’s father had brought her to see it when his carpenters and woodworkers first completed the map.
She had been a teenager then, in awe of its beauty and detail.
She’d spent countless hours admiring and studying it, moving markers around, marching Verdancian horses and flying hot air balloons into foreign lands.
Her tutors used it as a tool to teach her geography, tactics, and environmental science.
It wasn’t long before she’d memorized every town, mountain, river, and danger zone, dancing across them when she dreamed.
Every so often, the map needed updating—a new hazard discovered, town incorporated, border altered, or other feature to add or take away.
The craftsmanship and artistry of the table-map had always fueled her imagination.
Eight leather wingback chairs surrounded the table, interspersed with tea tables, leaving ample space to stand and interact with the map.
Oil lamps affixed to walls and candelabras on pedestals provided substantial light for evenings or cloudy days.
This afternoon, sunlight streamed in, illuminating dust particles that hung in the air like so many stars suspended in the breath of heaven. When Azaleen sat, the others followed.
“This meeting of the Verdancian council is hereby called to order. Her Excellency, Queen Frost, presiding,” Sabine announced, taking her seat last.
“Where’s Franklin?” Vera Sutherland asked, her tone more interrogative than concerned.
She straightened, chin lifted with the authority of someone used to being obeyed.
Her gray attire, dull compared to her peers, washed out her pale skin tone.
With her frosted acorn hair arranged in a severe bun, reclaimed glasses perched on her nose, and a pencil poised over her ledgers at the ready, Vera embodied her post of treasury secretary.
“Mr. Pickett will not be joining us,” Azaleen replied straightforwardly, her anger over his absence having subsided.
“Damn fool got himself lost in a red zone’s what I heard,” Silas Beaudean grumbled, scratching his stubbled chin.
Another headache—now she’d have to find a replacement, Azaleen was reminded. Not the easiest job to fill. Dangerous. Requires tenacity and knowledge. Skills. The others tsked and shook their heads, mumbling with each other about Franklin’s reckless stupidity.
“Enough of that,” Azaleen declared. “Reports. Secretary Keane?” If Azaleen didn’t call on her, the demure woman, old enough to be her mother, might never open her mouth.
Draped in brilliant jewel-tone fabrics and pre-ruin beads, possessing vibrant skin like fertile earth after rain, she appeared in stark contrast to the drab treasury secretary.
She was a full-figured woman with a long, loose braid, who could recall the Day the Sky Fell in vivid detail.
One might suspect she’d never missed a meal.
Azaleen knew otherwise. Rosalind Keane suffered from a thyroid illness, one Nelanta’s doctors hadn’t the proper medication to treat.
“Three new libraries have been opened in Spartanburg, Murfreesboro, and Troy,” she replied in a delicate voice.
“The salvage crews have discovered additional books in fair enough condition to be housed in them, along with duplicate copies of volumes found in our capital library. Counting Marchland and River City, Verdancia now boasts six well-stocked public libraries.” A glow rose in her round cheeks.
She fingered a light scarf that cascaded with color.
“Excellent,” Azaleen praised, though she wondered how many rural residents could read the books even if they wanted to.
“When the new school in Saltmarsh Reach begins its classes this fall, our kingdom will boast forty-six primary schools and ten gymnasiums for older children,” Rosalind continued.
“According to our best reports, that’s more than any other Ashland nation—although, we can’t be certain about the Shattered Edge.
We have so little contact with the Pacifica Confederation. ” She lowered her gaze.
“Impressive, Secretary Keane.” Although Azaleen’s lips remained tight, she acknowledged Rosalind with a nod. “You have managed to double our number of schools in less than a decade.”
“Thank you, Madam Queen. If I may be so bold, there is the matter of funding for our capital’s proposed college, New Lyceum. The planning team has found a suitable building we can modify to accommodate the classrooms. The abandoned houses nearby can be repaired and turned into dormitories.”
“We simply do not have funds available,” Vera declared in a clipped tone.
“Queen Frost,” Rosalind addressed her in a more robust voice.
“If our citizens aren’t taught factual history and continue to soak up fairytales, how will they learn not to repeat its mistakes?
I know certain council members prefer the sanitized version that claims America was a blameless victim of foreign aggression, but—”
“Our parents and grandparents did not start that war!” General Stark thundered, his face reddening.
“Neither were they blameless,” Rosalind rebutted. “I’m old enough to remember.”
“Silence!” Azaleen held up a hand, her gaze sharp and unyielding. The tension in her neck and shoulders twisted tight enough already without listening to bickering advisors. She rubbed a throbbing vein in her temple.
“You are both correct. Our finances are stretched to their limits, and securing medical supplies and fostering a healthier population take precedence.” With an empathetic glance at Rosalind, she added softly, “You know this.” She lifted her gaze, scanning the circle.
“As for history, we must never bury facts simply because they are unpleasant. Speaking of unpleasant things, General Stark? What news from the borderlands?”
“Our spies report more rumors from the Iron Wastes,” he stated.
He’d removed his worn, patched, olive green uniform coat, and his hat, pinned with his rank, lay in his lap, revealing neat, trimmed salt and pepper hair.
“President Irons, the blowhard who talks out of both sides of his mouth, proclaims peace from the podium, yet plots to attack us in secret. He wants our food, our arable land, and he’s got most citizens of the Red River Republic believing in this Doctrine of Manifest Destiny he dredged up from the 1800s. ”
Azaleen wanted to roll her eyes. She would have, had she not been presiding over an official meeting.
No doubt, Vera would include it in her notes.
While she’d never met her rival in person, she’d read some of his speeches and seen his likeness in the newspaper.
Thank both the old and new gods that Grandfather had friends at The Atlanta Journal-Constitution.
Five years after the ruin, they ventured back to Old Atlanta, got into the basement, and salvaged the ancient, iron, hand-operated presses.
Brought back barrels of ink too. With no working radios, no television, no holograms, and no towers left to speak from, the printed word was king.
“The good part is,” Stark continued, “that he has no way of getting large numbers of troops across the Mother River without us spotting them and sinking their vessels before they hit our shores. I got a pigeon from Marchland just this morning. They’re disappointed the medicine didn’t arrive, as they’re suffering from an early malaria outbreak, but the troops are in good spirits, thanks to the musicians you commissioned for entertainment. ”
Shipments sent in horse-drawn wagons over long, cracked ribbons of highways, once traversed in mere hours, were constantly at risk and often disrupted.
Convoys had to detour around blast craters, and, if the road-clearing crews slacked off at their jobs, kudzu would take over, obscuring the roadway with relentless foliage.
I’m grateful for the musicians. At least they seem to be taking the soldiers’ minds off their aches and pains.
“Skirmishes on the northern borderlines—warg, wildlings, bandits, a few mutants—but there always are. We’re doing our best to keep them out, but we can’t build a wall, and the troops are spread thin.”
Azaleen nodded—things she already knew. “Do you need more guns?” she asked, despite suspecting his answer.
Stark licked his lips and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Guns aren’t the problem; we have more of ‘em than soldiers to hold them. It’s ammunition that’s in scarce supply.
Still, I reckon our few cannons and the old-fashioned catapults and trebuchets we’ve got stationed up and down the river’ll keep those Iron Realm would-be invaders at bay.
” He slapped his thighs with a satisfied expression.
“Thank you, General.” Azaleen shifted her attention to Diplomacy Secretary Camille Navarro. “Is there anything you can do to keep Luther Irons and his Iron Army at bay?”
The youngest advisor on the queen’s council, Camille was an attractive, mixed-race, Latina and Creole woman, fluent in English, Spanish, French, and Hausa.
A daffodil sleeveless blouse, whose open collar drew Azaleen’s unbidden attention to the beads of sweat lingering there, contrasted with her dusky skin.
Azaleen tamped the thought, refocusing. It had been too long; it would be longer.