Chapter 8 All That’s Worth Saving
Chapter eight
All That’s Worth Saving
Nelanta, three days ago
Azaleen slipped quietly through the back door of her home. They’d waited for the storm to pass before conveying her back to the capital in a caravan replete with armed guards. General Stark and business of state would have to wait. She needed to see her boys.
Magnolia Dawes’ brown face brightened, but Azaleen pressed a finger to her lips. “Thank you for holding down the fort,” she whispered. The cook and caretaker of the house hugged her tight.
“We were afraid,” she murmured, deducing Azaleen’s wishes. “When we heard about the attack on New Charleston.”
“Yes, but I’m fine, as you can see.” Azaleen stepped back and brushed a stray lock of Maggie’s dark hair. She listened, captivated by the music coming from the baby grand piano in another room, flowing down the hall to her delight.
“Eldrin and Caelen have a recital coming up,” Maggie said. “Should I go get them?”
“No.” Azaleen met her servant’s eyes. “How’s Mama?”
Maggie’s shoulders sagged. “You know. She’s got good days and bad ones, but she’s been worse while you were away—even forgetting her grandsons.”
Resigned to the way of things, Azaleen gave a sad nod.
“I want to surprise Caelen and Eldrin. Just keep doing what you were, and I’ll be back in a bit.
” The housekeeper nodded. “And Maggie? I appreciate you and everything you do for us. I can’t promise this house won’t lie in ashes before all is said and done, but I’ll do everything in my power to protect you. ”
Meeting her gaze, Magnolia declared, “And I’d give my life to safeguard your sons.”
Azaleen smiled, hoping fire wouldn’t rain down on her home, while resigning herself to the possibility it could.
She followed the mournful, dulcet sounds of Beethoven’s Sonata No.
8 Pathétique, first movement, pausing to linger in the music room doorway.
Eldrin bore a look of intense concentration as his fingers floated over the keys, stumbling only once.
Caelen perched on the edge of his seat, anxiously rolling sheet music in his hands, waiting his turn.
Azaleen was moved by the haunting beauty of the piece and the astonishing skill with which her son brought it to life.
Love and appreciation welled up from deep inside her, lurching to burst through her wall of reserve.
Perhaps sensing a presence, Caelen glanced her way. “Mom!” Dropping the roll of music, he flew across the room and flung his arms around her. “You’re home!”
Eldrin stopped mid-phrase, his head jerking to the side. “Mom!” Proceeding with a bit more dignity than his younger brother, he joined in hugging her tight.
“My fine boys.” She kissed each of their cheeks. “I’m home now for the duration, I think. Eldrin, your playing is beautiful. Please finish the piece.” Turning, with an arm around each son, she moved into the room.
“No, my turn!” Caelen exclaimed. “Mine is Chopin. The recital is next week—if we aren’t under attack. I suppose you know about the Iron Army’s invasion.”
Azaleen shot him a withering look. “Yes, I know all about that. And I want to hear your selection too, Caelen. I’m sure it’s just as lovely.”
Eldrin peeled away, his joyful expression going sour. “I don’t see the point of practicing for a dumb recital when a megalomaniac is assaulting our country. I should be in military training, not attending classes as if everything was normal.”
Steering her sons to an antique-style cluster of cushioned chairs, she pointed. “Sit.” They both obeyed, Caelen with a curious expression while Eldrin’s remained dubious.
Azaleen considered her sons as she would young adults, for it was clear they’d be growing up fast in the months to come. “Would you really give Luther Irons the satisfaction of disrupting our daily activities, chasing us away from our lives into a dark cave of fear?”
“No, but—” Eldrin began. Azaleen held up a hand.
“What do you think we’re fighting to preserve?
Your music, this artwork,” she said, motioning to an original landscape produced by a local painter.
“We didn’t build this kingdom just to exist. Without the arts, without beauty, poetry, music, there is no civilization.
Our enemies crave power, guns, and steel, but we know those aren’t the things that enrich life.
Yes, our armies march to the front lines to protect lives, but also a way of life, to preserve the jewels of the past—like Beethoven and Chopin, the eminent artists and authors who left their mark on mankind. ”
They regarded her with contemplation on their youthful faces.
“I say the recital should go forward. Let us show the Iron Realm that we don’t bow or cower, forfeit our routine because of their incursion.”
“Huh,” Eldrin uttered.
“Now, the time might come when we will be forced to flee, but not today. Live your lives, my sweet boys. Play the piano, participate in your sports games, go to your classes, and make the most of every moment. Not an hour is added to our lives by worry. Eldrin, I’ll start including you in more strategic planning because you’re old enough and you’ve earned it, but no joining the fighting—not yet.
You are heir to the kingdom, remember? Every life in Verdancia is precious, but some carry more weight than others.
You must both be brave and strong. We inherited a sacred duty, and that comes before everything. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Caelen answered. “We understand.”
Azaleen shifted her gaze to Eldrin, who nodded.
“Now.” Caelen sprang from his seat and bounded to the piano. “Listen to my Chopin.”
Smiling, Azaleen relaxed into her cushions while Eldrin looked as though lost in thought. Caelen’s piece, while not as technically demanding, came to life just as beautifully as his brother’s.
The next day
Azaleen sat in the war room of the Capitol Building, the expansive carved map of Ashland dominating the space.
She was surrounded by her cabinet, with Chief of Staff Sabine Fontaine stationed behind her.
She’d added a leather wingback chair for Eldrin between hers and Secretary Navarro’s.
He looked every bit the young prince in a starched white shirt, long slacks, and his blond hair neatly trimmed.
Despite the late hour, sunlight poured through the open window, a gentle breeze ruffling the edges of the tied-back verdant drapes.
She’d spent all morning poring through the history texts that weighed down the bookshelves and studying her table map.
Ship and troop markers had been moved to reflect what intelligence they’d received.
The tension in the chamber was palpable.
“The young Iron Navy officer I interrogated gave up what I believe to be truthful intelligence,” Azaleen said.
“Irons divided his fleet, sending part eastward to Fort Jasper and New Charleston, and the rest to attack Fort Hammond and gain control of the Mother River’s mouth.
While we’ve yet to receive confirmation by pigeon, I expect it any day.
Lieutenant Navarro’s last missive indicated the smaller towns are being bypassed in favor of military targets. ”
“What of the AlgonCree Navy?” asked General Reuben Stark. He sat tall and straight, his broad shoulders squared under his uniform. Bushy brows pressed over keen, deep-set eyes, while a gray moustache dominated his troubled face.
Azaleen nodded to Camille. “They have left a warship and two escort vessels at Fort Stilwell, and the rest are cruising the coastline,” the diplomat conveyed. “We suspect they will encounter the rest of the Republic’s Navy at some point.”
“We can’t afford to lose Fort Hammond,” said Silas Beaudean.
His inappropriate farmer’s hat and muddy boots proclaimed his position as agriculture secretary.
Though he was younger than Stark by almost ten years, his weathered appearance would never lead one to guess.
“We depend on clear navigation of the river to get the cotton shipments through.”
“And without profits from cotton, corn, and ethanol, our economy will collapse,” Treasury Secretary Vera Sutherland concluded. Her severe gray suit and stark bun announced her no-nonsense approach to finance. She adjusted her glasses, a worried frown tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“We can only hope the AlgonCree Navy can chase them off,” Azaleen said. “My primary concern at the moment is the whereabouts of the land invasion force. General, do you have any news?”
“General Calder has set out with a significant force from Stonevale to engage in guerrilla tactics aimed at disrupting and slowing their march. However, the last we heard, they haven’t encountered hostile forces yet.
I sent word to General Longstreet to hold Marchland at all costs.
As we speak, he and Lady Cade are preparing the city for an extended siege. ”
Azaleen wondered about a prosperous town that lay on the road to Marchland. “Should we call for an evacuation of Tupelo?”
“I sent a pigeon informing Mayor Thompson of the danger,” Stark said. “As I recall, the area abounds with storm cellars and underground vaults. They may elect to hide rather than abandon the town.”
“I might have some good news,” volunteered Desmond Shaw, the procurement secretary who’d immigrated from Appalachia years ago. The tall, Black man might be overly self-assured, but he had consistently proven himself since gaining the position at the beginning of the summer.
Azaleen shifted a hopeful gaze to him. “And that might be?”
“My scouts have uncovered more vaults in the Chattahoochee-Oconee Forest area, along with a ghost town that sprang up after the War of Ruin, only to become uninhabited sometime later. They are on their way south with truckloads of supplies, ammunition, medicine, and some tech gadgets they aren’t familiar with.
Looks like the preppers emerged, keeping their vaults for storage, and built a new town of log houses.
Can’t say what happened to them after that. ”
“That’s good, Mr. Shaw,” Azaleen heartily approved.
The story wasn’t a new one. The years after the war had been rife with conflict and rampant with epidemics, or so her parents told her.
She recalled that her first steps had been taken inside Grandpa Wynn’s vault before the family moved permanently to the surface.
To think, this entire kingdom has been stitched together in my lifetime, she thought in wonder. What would Father do?
Education Secretary Rosalind Keane interrupted her contemplation.
“I propose we send out a decree that all libraries in the kingdom secure their books in the nearest bunker for safekeeping. I don’t trust the Iron Realm barbarians.
They care nothing for literature. If they can’t shoot it, burn it, or fashion it into metal, it’s of no use to them.
We must preserve civilization.” No one was fooled by the overweight elder’s colorful attire or the sentimental locket hanging from a chain around her neck.
The respected teacher lifted a defiant chin, ready to take on an artillery brigade single-handedly to safeguard knowledge.
“A very prudent idea,” Azaleen concurred. “Sabine, will you compose letters with instructions? I’ll have them sent out at once.” Her aide nodded.
Azaleen didn’t believe every citizen of the Republic was a barbarian.
Surely, artists, poets, musicians, and book readers lived there too.
She recalled years ago, when Verdancia was still on speaking terms with the Unity Party administration, that they had shared some of the same values.
Their countries had traded goods, information, and goodwill.
It’s Irons—the rustin’ Dominion Party and their expansionist policies.
“Now, let’s talk strategies,” Azaleen stated, turning the conversation to tactical warfare. “General Stark, I give you the floor.” She glanced at Eldrin, who’d remained appropriately quiet. “Listen closely,” she whispered. “You’re about to learn a lot.”
Behind her, Sabine quietly slipped out to attend to the letters. A servant entered with a tray of beverages. The meeting continued until the sun sank in the west and the lamps were all lit.