Chapter 39 Council of Many Voices
Chapter thirty-nine
Council of Many Voices
Aurora, the next afternoon
Azaleen sat between Camille and Jonas on a bench halfway up the risers in a longhouse that might have made a Viking king envious.
The cedar-scented hall was vast, its walls bright with ethnic art, from Irish knots to Inuit carvings.
Colorful banners lined the space—among them the AlgonCree wolf flag in blue and white, and the old red maple leaf from before the War of Ruin, remembered here as “The Time of Smoke.” She glanced left to the row ahead, where Lark squeezed between Skye and Diego, her discontent sprouting like a weed.
Clearly, her expectations had been too optimistic.
She had met with High Chief Batise, a grandmotherly woman a little older than Orielle.
Gray hair, braided with ribbons and beads, circled her head.
Dark, wise eyes that crinkled when she smiled peered from a warm, honey face bearing earned age lines.
Her white dress accented in teal flowed with artistry, cinched with a wide, colorful, woven sash.
They engaged in a formal greeting, during which Azaleen presented her gifts—including the shawl her mother had crocheted.
The chief listened with interest to the story behind the fabric and accepted it graciously.
In return, she gifted Azaleen with a wool blanket in traditional weave, pumpkin and squash hues bright despite being passed down for generations.
They had shared tea, after which Batise rose, bowed, and declared it to have been an excellent meeting.
Azaleen and her party were invited to enjoy the evening’s entertainment at the Great Gathering.
That was it? A hello and gift exchange? Azaleen and Camille were ready to present their proposal. Patience, she reminded herself. Sabine had warned her that AlgonCree time may not run at the same speed as Verdancian time.
The high chief’s son and steward of prosperity, Steven—a man about her height and only a little older—had made apologies that they arrived too late for the sporting events, but not for the musical performances.
“Tomorrow you’ll be present for the great potlatch,” he’d beamed.
“All the regional chiefs will be there, and my mother will meet with them to discuss affairs of state. Afterward, we will be happy to spend more time with you and discuss the proposed treaty. In the meantime, make yourselves at home and enjoy everything our city has to offer.”
No progress on the treaty, no sitting with Lark.
The thoughts rumbled through her mind as a Scottish pipe band marched into the center of the arena below, dressed in tartan kilts, accompanied by drummers.
The lively folk song favorites proved a recipe to improve her mood.
Glancing around, Azaleen saw every skin shade, tall and short, portly and thin—a sea of citizens not so different from her own.
A kindred spirit to these Frostlanders sprouted within her and, slogging negotiations aside, she decided to allow herself to enjoy the evening.
Next came a Métis troupe. The fiddler, dressed in black pants, a wide-brimmed hat, and a white shirt, struck up a jig, clogging with his boot as he played. He and the dancers wore characteristic Métis sashes woven in bright pigments in traditional patterns.
Camille leaned in and cupped a hand to Azaleen’s ear.
“Centuries ago, the Métis band was formed from Scottish, Irish, French, and Indigenous people dedicated to preserving and blending cultures rather than replacing one with the other. They have remained distinct while being absorbed into the AlgonCree mosaic.”
She turned over the phrase—AlgonCree mosaic—and approved of the image it evoked.
The dancers’ movements and clogging combined aspects of Irish, Scottish, and French styles, as did the tone and rhythm of the jigs.
Thunderous applause followed them out. A soprano sang a pop ballad; a baritone, backed by accordion, belted I Am the Very Model of a Modern Major-General; then a quartet struck up Borodin’s Second on strings. ”
“And now, I present to you, the Aurora Fancy Shawl and Jingle-dress Dancers,” boomed the announcer.
Five men carried out a huge bass drum, laid it on its side, and sat around it with padded mallets.
They started with a steady beat pattern, all tapping the drumhead in unison.
Five dancers in full regalia entered, feet moving to the rhythm—a man in turkey feathers, a woman draped in a knee-length, deep plum shawl, dangling gold and silver fringe, and the other three in blue and white jingle dresses with rainbow accents.
They cavorted, knees high, feet tapping, as more percussion joined in.
At various points, one or more would sing in a language foreign to Azaleen.
Then they were joined by two whoop dancers, mirroring each other’s movements as they added more rings to their routine.
When the dance ended, applause swelled, and the lead dancer—the striking young woman in the purple drape whose effortless movements captured the audience—lifted her arms in invitation.
Every child in the lodge rushed forward, hopping down steps and darting around adults.
The drums thrummed, and the dancers led the children around the plank floor of the arena as they kicked up their heels with glee.
Parents and elders smiled, pointing and laughing as they enjoyed the little ones’ frolic as much as the professional performances.
Azaleen pictured Eldrin and Caelen twirling with the others, though more likely Caelen.
Eldrin had shifted into true teenager mode, serious and broody, acting like he had something to prove.
It’s just a phase, she told herself. All boys go through it—only he doesn’t have a father …
no uncle, no grandfather on my side. The secretaries are too busy.
Perhaps I can ask Luke to spend time with him, take him on a hunting trip, or something.
The idea that the prince and heir might wish to go stay at Stonevale horrified her.
I must find him a male role model in Nelanta.
Two days later
Azaleen and Camille sat outside the High Council Meeting Lodge, the AlgonCree version of a capital building, waiting their turn.
Over the past two days, High Chief Batise had been conferring with regional chiefs as part of the annual gathering.
The queen and her entourage attended the summer potlatch, where they were showered with attention, reveled in the food, storytelling, gala events, and especially the redistribution of wealth that took place during the event.
AlgonCree collected taxes like any government, mostly in goods rather than coin, which were used for infrastructure and defense.
Azaleen had learned that Aurora’s hydropower produced the electricity for lights and other appliances throughout the city, as it did in various population centers, though a nationwide grid or mass communications network was still beyond reach.
The surplus resources were then redistributed to towns and regions with the most need.
Batise and her family gave away vast quantities of personal wealth to orphanages, the disabled, and the infirm.
It was fair to say that no person went cold or hungry in the Frostlands.
So why don’t they have clocks? Azaleen drummed her fingers on the tea table between her and Camille.
She soaked in the lovely summer day—flowers in bloom, green leaves swaying in a gentle breeze, the sun high and direct.
Azaleen had noticed how early it rose and how late darkness fell at this latitude.
With summer days being so long, she imagined they were equally short in winter.
She preferred the more even distribution they experienced at home.
Lark and the rest of the VERT team were out on a hike with a local guide, showing them the most beautiful vista on earth, while she sat here waiting.
She was about to complain when a young woman approached.
Upon closer inspection, Azaleen recognized her as the lead dancer from a couple of nights ago.
“Is Kookomis still keeping you waiting?” she asked, sounding just as put off as the queen. She shook her head and lowered herself into a vacant chair on the porch. “I love my grandmother, but she can be as slow as Christmas.”
Camille replied eloquently, “We understand the annual meeting of chiefs is of great importance, and it’s not our intent to encroach on High Chief Batise’s schedule. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. I’m Ambassador Camille Navarro, and this is Queen Azaleen Frost.”
“Renée Rivard.” A bashful smile washed over the young woman’s face as if she were embarrassed for forgetting her manners.
“Just call me Renée.” She rose gracefully and extended both hands to Azaleen, then Camille.
They both clasped hands with her in greeting.
“I am so pleased to make your acquaintance. Our greeting word is kwey, which is like hello.”
“Kwey, Renée.” Azaleen practiced the new word.
Renée stood as tall as Azaleen, her long, straight brunette hair loose around her shoulders.
Nut-brown eyes brimmed with questions and bright energy, a picture of her generation’s hope.
“I must say how much I enjoyed your dancing the other night. You truly have a gift.”
Her blush deepened. “Thank you. It’s what I love to do.
Unfortunately, it isn’t an art I get paid for, and Kookomis has grand plans for me to take on some leadership position, most likely in diplomacy.
Creator knows we need a push in that direction.
” A nervous chuckle fell from her lips. She was about to return to her seat when the meeting lodge door opened.