Chapter 33 Shadows on Stone
Chapter thirty-three
Shadows on Stone
Nelanta, Kingdom Day, two weeks later
The warm sunlight poured over Stone Mountain’s granite face, its sheer rise catching green and gold banners that rippled in the breeze.
Azaleen sat at the head table, draped with a snowy linen cloth, beneath a grand tent marked with Verdancia’s tree of life sigil.
Vases of fresh flowers, pitchers of cider, sweet tea, and carafes of wine greeted her esteemed guests, as did the rich aromas of roasting pork, hickory, and spice.
Before them stretched a vast green field—Stone Mountain Park—strewn with picnic tables, blankets, folding chairs, and merrymakers too numerous to count.
Children darted between clusters, laughter carried on the wind, vendors hawked roasted nuts and candied fruit, and games sprang up in empty spaces.
Music filled the air—fiddles and hand drums in a lively reel that set feet tapping and, for a moment, whisked every care from Azaleen’s heart.
Timber pavilions, stables, restrooms, and a commemorative hall bordered the treelines that flanked the field, dancing with bright banners and fresh garlands.
Smiling families lined up at serving tables laden with food: platters of smoked chicken, brisket, roasted vegetables, cornbread, and pots of beans.
Behind, a reflecting pool shimmered beneath the sheer rise of granite rock, where immense, horse-mounted figures of long-dead leaders loomed over the festival field.
Azaleen opposed the principles upon which they had been erected—slavery and oppression—yet she couldn’t deny the resilience of the artwork.
The largest such carving in the world, the relief and the prehistoric rock itself, had endured war, shifting politics, and the slow weathering of time. Would anything she built last so long?
“This is great BBQ, Mom.” Caelen beamed up at her, sauce smeared across his mouth and fingers.
On his other side, Eldrin looked every bit a prince in his stately, military-style shirt, long trousers, and absence of errant sauce.
Lady Orielle’s wheelchair occupied the spot to Azaleen’s right, her mother seeming to enjoy the fresh air.
She had confused the occasion for a long-ago festival, but nobody seemed to notice.
Azaleen gave her staff the day off to celebrate with their families; it was only right to do so.
“It is indeed delicious,” she replied to Caelen, matching his bright smile.
“You pulled out all the stops,” commented Lady Evelyn Whitfield from down the table. She looked regal in her summer green dress, gold ribbons woven into her silvery updo.
“I have Sabine to thank,” Azaleen answered modestly. “She pulled everything together—and stayed on budget. I’m so glad you could come, and the new grandbaby?” She peered around to admire the tot cradled in his mother’s arms.
“Rowan Junior.” Evelyn glowed with pride. “The future of Clearwater.”
“He is adorable,” remarked Lady Marenne Calder, the old lord’s granddaughter.
Azaleen studied the young woman, a few years older than Eldrin.
She was sweet, innocent, attractive, and old enough to marry.
She thanked her lucky stars that Marenne and Eldrin were first cousins, eliminating him from her prospect pool.
Her father, General Roderic Calder, Aren’s older brother, nodded.
“A fine heir to carry on the legacy.” The Calders occupied a row of seats across from the Frosts and Whitfields, leaving two seats for Lady Cade’s party—if they ever arrived.
Azaleen’s relationship with Roderic was frosty at best. Despite all the facts to the contrary, he continued to blame her for Aren’s death.
She should have done more to save him. Then there was the fact that she and her father had agreed to bestow the Frost name on her sons—not Calder.
Regardless of Roderic’s sentiments, it was Lord Thorne Calder who called the shots.
Robust for his seventies, he had claimed the chair directly across from Azaleen—and not by accident.
Thorne Calder never sneezed without first calculating the benefits.
His hair was white, his face lined, but a keen fire blazed in his russet eyes.
“A legacy is everything,” Thorne declared, his glance flicking to Eldrin and Caelen before he sipped his wine as though to seal a toast.
“Was June unable to make the trip?” Azaleen asked, directing her question to Roderic.
While he chewed a bite of food, he tossed an assessing glance at her. Marenne cheerfully replied in his stead. “Mama had to stay home with my brothers and sister because Jacob has an awful cold. She didn’t want him running around playing with the other children, making it worse.”
“Aw,” Caelen exhaled in disappointment, his shoulders slumping. He stabbed at a morsel of sweet potato. “I was hoping they were just late. I wanted Jacob to do the three-legged race with me. Eldrin’s too tall.”
“And I’m too old for kids’ races,” Eldrin quipped. “Uncle Roderic, tell me what it’s like commanding the Stonevale Citadel. Do you ever see action?”
While Eldrin listened with interest, Azaleen replied to Marenne, “Please give your mother our best, and I hope Jacob gets well soon.”
The music across the field had changed. Now, Spirit, a popular drum and bugle corps, played its rendition of a traditional song, melodies soaring over an energizing beat.
Azaleen felt the vibrations down to her bones.
That’s when Lady Cassandra Cade strode over, sporting a flowing teal and white garment, accented with shoulder pads and a low V-cut neckline.
Her lush auburn tresses and fashion sense were as unmistakable as the jewels dangling from her ears, neck, and wrist. But she wasn’t alone.
The companion on her arm was the sort who raised eyebrows and sparked whispers.
“My apologies for being late,” Cassandra offered as she and her plus-one took the empty seats.
Azaleen blinked, thinking, If Lady Cassandra can have a female date, why can’t I? Rather than admit such a notion aloud, she answered, “Think nothing of it. You’re just in time, and I’m so glad you could come.”
“May I introduce my cousin Suzanne?”
All eyes were already on the attractive, dusky-skinned brunette, her long lashes batting bashfully while dimples dug into her heart-shaped face.
“Hi, Suzanne!” Caelen bounded in his chair, a half-eaten slice of cornbread in his hand. “I’m Caelen, and I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Excuse my little brother,” Eldrin rushed to say in the deepest voice he could muster without squeaking. “I’m Eldrin, and we’re so glad you could accompany Lady Cassandra to our Kingdom Day Festival. After you’ve eaten, I’ll be happy to show you around.”
“That would be lovely,” Suzanne answered. She flashed a humorous grin at Cassandra.
So, she isn’t a girlfriend—merely a cousin.
Azaleen’s gaze drifted beyond the tent, snagging on a picnic table where Lark sat with her team.
Chicken leg in hand, sauce dripping, she laughed so hard her eyes crinkled.
An unexpected urge yanked at Azaleen’s core, and she found herself wishing she was with them instead of this stuffy crowd of nobles.
Lark was free to enjoy herself, participate in the games, and eat as much as she wanted without worrying about criticism.
I wonder if she’ll enter the archery contest?
Lark had been at a few meetings and debriefings she’d had with the VERT team over the past couple of weeks, but Azaleen hadn’t talked with her directly.
At least she hadn’t declared her hatred for the queen in weeks.
Besides, the team had been busy running more missions—one to rescue a family near the Gulf Coast when a sinkhole swallowed their house, and others to chase away mutants or raiders threatening villages.
They’d also plundered a research facility that Desmond Shaw had uncovered up in the mountains.
Thinking of her served no purpose. So why did it feel so good every time she did?
“Lady Cassandra, have you met my youngest son, Bernard?” Thorne asked.
One more Calder male joined Lady Marenne, her father, and grandfather.
Not as handsome as Aren had been, nor as politically minded as Roderic, Bernard was a free spirit, an artist and musician, the black sheep of the Calder family, but the best of the bunch in Azaleen’s estimation.
He smiled and waved to Cassandra from down the table. “So pleased to meet you at last. Hey, the Irish step dancers are performing in a little while. Want to come with me to watch them?”
Cassandra had to snap her attention back to the Calders. “Uh, sure, if Suzanne can come too.” Following the direction Cassandra’s gaze had come from, Azaleen spotted Captain Moreau strolling by with a fresh plate piled high. Out of uniform, in his tight cotton pullover, every muscle bulged.
“Certainly!” Bernard smiled brightly and resumed eating.
“The tug of war is about to begin!” boomed the announcer. “Civilians vs. military.”
“Farmers and shopkeepers don’t equal soldiers,” Roderic muttered.
“Mama, I’m done eating,” Caelen announced. “May I go join in the games now?”
“Yes, dear, but don’t make yourself sick trying to do too much on a full stomach.”
“I won’t!” Hopping up, Caelen wiped a napkin across his mouth and cleaned at least two fingers before romping off to be a kid.
From down the table, Azaleen picked up on bits and pieces of conversation between Calders and Whitfields. “The Frosts might hold the throne, but my house builds armies to defend it.” Roderic.
“Interesting then how House Whitfield has raised five thousand recruits in but a few weeks,” Rowan answered, his head tilted thoughtfully toward Roderic.
Orielle laid a hand on Azaleen’s arm and quietly said, “Your father will straighten them out when he returns. He must be competing in the caber toss.” She scanned the grounds, searching for a man long dead.
Azaleen suddenly felt drained. Politics.
Posturing. Matchmaking. And now Mama, still waiting for Dad to set it all right.
She cast a wistful glance at Lark, animatedly relaying a story to Skye. Yeah, I want to be at that table.