Chapter 41 Thread of Accord
Chapter forty-one
Thread of Accord
Aurora, the day of Crane’s execution
Lark leaned back in a rocking chair, her feet crossed on the front porch railing, enjoying the pleasant weather while people-watching.
Even though Luke had estimated the meeting lodge to be at least thirty years old, the wood still looked and smelled fresh.
She’d walked with Azaleen from the inn a short while ago for another day of negotiations.
While the queen continued to say everything proceeded smoothly, Lark could tell her nerves were frazzled.
Last night after dinner, she just sat in the lobby for an hour, staring at a cedar knothole as if in a trance.
Finally, she’d dared to disturb Azaleen, to ask her if she was all right. “Just thinking,” she’d answered.
“Look over there.” Skye, occupying the neighboring rocker, pointed to a rectangular concrete slab past the garden, sprawling before the capital building.
Luke and Diego, sticks in hand, tussled over a puck with street hockey players.
At the opposite end of the plaza, Harland looked at home chatting with a wire-bearded fellow who could pass for an eighteenth-century French fur trader.
Wes, smoking one of his homerolls, laughed with a trio of tech nerds drooling over electronics.
Aurora presented a splendid vista—a lush valley crossing a pristine river, framed by tree-covered mountains, and cottony clouds painted on a bright blue canvas, with warm sunshine, never oppressively hot.
Historic churches rose between log cabins with stone chimneys, wood-plank businesses beside painted stucco facades.
Closer to the river, warehouses and waterwheels dominated, providing goods and services to the community.
The smell of smoking fish drifted by from somewhere.
“My money’s on the captain,” Lark said. “Diego’s meatier, but Luke’s got moves. Where are the skipper and Flynn today? They finished reoutfitting the Halcyon, didn’t they?”
“Yeah.” Skye flicked her a glance. “Rory said something about a salmon run and lit out before dawn. Oh my God—here she comes!” Skye straightened, trying three different poses before settling on a standard leg cross.
Lark grinned as the shawl dancer—long legs, sassy hip-swing—strode up the steps. “Hi again.” Skye waved, offering a friendly smile.
Playful lights danced in the woman’s eyes. She tossed her hair back with a careless flick, the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “Good morning.” Sashaying past them, she glided into the lodge with honey-badger confidence and snow-leopard allure.
Skye exhaled, tipping her head back and closing her eyes while Lark’s suspicion turned to certainty. “You like her.”
“Don’t be silly,” Skye quipped. “I don’t even know her name.”
“Azaleen said it’s Renée something. She’s the high chief’s granddaughter. You should get your aunt to introduce you.”
Skye craned her neck, gaping at Lark. “Azaleen, now, is it? Just who has eyes for whom?”
“Queen Frost,” Lark rushed to correct, dropping her boots from the rail to the deck planks. She buried nervous fingers in the longest strands of her hair, fluffing them for no reason. She had to turn this conversation around.
“I didn’t know you were attracted to women.”
Skye laughed, flashing pearly teeth. “I appreciate the finer aspects of all genders, and Renée has a mountain of fine aspects.” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.
“Well, what have you been spending the whole week with me for?” Lark asked. She waved a hand at the closed door behind them. “Go for it.”
“Yeah, like you’re going for it? Furtive glances, longing looks behind the queen’s back?”
“Hey, I talk to her, and it isn’t the same,” Lark explained. “You have a chance.”
“And you think you don’t?” The laughter evaporated from Skye’s manner, replaced by a reflective expression.
Lark shook her head, lowered her chin, heat searing her cheeks. “Of course not. Even the thought is ludicrous.”
“I don’t know,” Skye speculated. “I think you’re exactly what Queen Frost needs, even if she doesn’t know it yet.”
They let the topic drop, moving on to debate which of them performed better in the moccasin and dish games they’d played last night. Still, hope sprouted in Lark’s imagination. Maybe there could be something more between her and Azaleen … maybe.
“Tell us about your current trade deals and how those are going.” Steven Batise shuffled to the next page on his clipboard and slipped on reading glasses.
Again, he sat at the high chief’s right, with Steward of Treaties Laurent Kewatin to her left.
This time, they gathered in a cozy den with the drapes to a generous window open, inviting in sunlight and fresh air.
An exquisitely handcrafted dreamcatcher bearing a wolf motif hung above the dormant fireplace.
Azaleen and Camille relaxed in large stuffed chairs with padded backs and comfortable armrests in a circle with High Chief Batise and her inner council.
Azaleen opened her mouth when Renée Rivard waltzed in, taking the last seat.
“Sorry I’m late,” she offered with a sincere look.
“Wahpun escaped the fence—again—and Mrs. Ochek will have a fit if he digs up her geraniums.” The young woman rubbed her thighs, forcing a smile.
Batise wobbled her shoulders, her glare hard on her granddaughter.
Azaleen was thrilled the elder chief had worn the gift shawl Orielle had crocheted. She took it as a promising sign.
“Aren’t you the one always fussing at me about keeping schedules?” Batise arched a brow.
“Yes, Kokum. I apologize.” In a demure gesture, Renée folded her hands in her lap.
The high chief returned her attention to Azaleen, who cleared her throat.
“We engage with the West African Coalition—a very valuable trade partner—and several of the Caribbean islands. In the past, we honored a trade agreement with the Red River Republic; however, they disavowed it eight years ago and have grown increasingly hostile. Their disposition toward aggression is our primary concern in seeking an alliance with the wise and prosperous nation of AlgonCree.”
“Yes, well, we’ll get to that,” Batise said. “What reason did they give for breaking your pact?”
Azaleen exchanged a beleaguered look with Camille. With a nod, the ambassador took up the question. “The Republic cited social and religious differences between our societies as reasons they could no longer conduct business with us.”
The high chief blinked; Renée leaned forward in confusion.
Steward Kewatin responded, “I don’t understand.
We’ve not traded with the Iron Realm since the formation of our government—primarily because of the distance and Appalachia’s closed-border policy.
They had no complaints with your prices or quality of merchandise? ”
“No, sir.” Camille glanced between the Frostlands leaders and swallowed. “They claimed their strict religious edicts forbade them from exchanging money or products with those they deemed morally corrupt infidels.”
Mouths gaped, and eyes rounded.
“Is that what they called Verdancia?” Renée questioned. “What’s morally corrupt about you? Because I haven’t seen it.”
Azaleen stepped in. “We espouse many individual freedoms in our society, among them freedom of speech, religion, and expression. The Republic champions the Old Religion, which is freely practiced in our kingdom. But so are many other faiths and belief systems. They consider any expression other than cisgender heterosexual to be perverted—sinful— while we respect all individuality.”
“They what?” Heat surged into Renée’s cheeks. “They cut off trade with you because people like me have a right to exist in your kingdom?”
“Little goose!” Batise admonished. “Please excuse my granddaughter’s outburst. Two-spirit people are esteemed in our society. She’s never been exposed to prejudice. Your enlightened views on personal freedoms are a value our countries share.”
Azaleen nodded, thankful to have another piece of common ground. “Who are your current trading partners?”
Steven answered, seeming relieved to move to a different topic. “Almost since the beginning, we’ve maintained a robust relationship with the Icelanders. They are always in need of timber, and, while our fisheries run over, we’re happy to acquire different varieties, and, of course, their aluminum.”
With a dumbfounded stare, Azaleen said, “Icelanders?”
War Chief Wasaykeesic raised a palm. “The island nation of the north between our land and devastated Europe. Britannia, bless their souls, was bombed into oblivion, but no warring faction cared about an inconsequential Viking holdover on a rock of ice and fire. I’m surprised you’ve never heard.
With their progress practically uninterrupted, they must rival the West African Coalition on the world stage. ”
The world stage. Other than wondering when shipments of tea and coffee would arrive, Azaleen had barely spared a thought for the rest of the world.
She was too busy scrounging for medicine, producing electricity, and ensuring schools and clean water for every Verdancian.
Engineers actively worked on repairing old railways and refitting engines to run on alternative fuels, while inventors disassembled old communication devices, trying various tactics to make them functional.
Recently, her focus had shifted to defense with President Irons breathing down her neck.
Suddenly, her world became a whole lot wider.
“They probably don’t sail so far south,” said Kewatin with a speculative expression.
“What other news have you from the rest of the world?” Discovering she was behind the curve on information, Azaleen wanted to know everything.
“We’ll catch you up, dear,” promised the high chief. “But first, tell me what your heart’s been bursting to say since you arrived at our pier. I am ready to listen.”
Taking a deep breath, Azaleen settled herself.
In a calm and level tone, she spoke with the poise of a queen.
“High Chief Batise, distinguished leaders, I am responsible for a kingdom of three million people—peaceful people, who just want to live their lives in safety and freedom, partly to regain what was lost, but mostly hoping to create something more. We have an abundance of arable land, forests, rivers—not unlike here—food to supply our population with plenty. And every year, our winters grow milder. What we don’t have are guns, ammunition, and soldiers to use them.
Luther Irons and the Red River Republic have made their intentions clear.
My spies report that an invasion could be underway even as we speak. ”
She paused to catch each person’s eyes, emphasizing the stakes.
“They have adopted a policy called Manifest Destiny—the belief the Republic should, by divine right, rule the continent and everyone on it. High Chief Batise, AlgonCree might be far away from the Iron Realm, but do not be lulled into a false sense of security. After they conquer my kingdom and Appalachia, Irons will come for you. Their lust for land and power is insatiable. It’s not only that I need you, Madam Chief—we need each other. ”
Renée leaned back in her chair, an uncharacteristically troubled look dominating her features.
The counselors glanced at each other and Batise.
The high chief rose, her authoritative presence filling the den.
“Laurent, Secretary Navarro, will the two of you allow my granddaughter to observe and learn while you draw up the specifics of our treaty with the Kingdom of Verdancia? And Renée, dear, don’t be a bother. ”
Excitement whirling in her chest, Azaleen stood, followed by all present.
Batise stepped across the floor, extended her hands.
Azaleen gratefully clasped them. “We shall be friends. I will retire now to craft our Two Row Wampum belt as a symbol of our oaths and mutual respect. The treaty signing ceremony can take place in the city plaza, midday on Friday. That should give our diplomats and event organizers time to prepare.”
The bright old woman stretched up on her toes, kissed Azaleen’s cheeks, and stepped back with an infectious smile. “Welcome to the family.”