Chapter 27
Chapter twenty-seven
A Kingdom in Counterpoint
Nelanta, the day Roderic Calder returned home, and Adélard Delacroix died
Azaleen sat in a pew in the Universalist Church that evening between her mother, Orielle Frost, and her confidant, Sabine Fontaine, for the students’ end-of-summer piano recital.
Sarah and Maggie came too. The church had volunteered the use of its building, which had plenty of seating and a Steinway grand in mint condition—a rarity in the twenty-second century.
Everyone clapped for the little girl who bowed beside the grand, grinning from ear to ear.
“Next,” said the piano teacher, who stood at the lectern, “we have Emma Fox performing Stars and Wind, by Catherine Rollin.”
The girl in a sequined blue dress settled herself on the bench, took a deep breath, and began to perform the lyrical standard.
Azaleen’s mother frowned and leaned close. “Who’s that?” It was the third time she’d asked the same question.
“One of the students, Mama,” she answered patiently. “It will be Caelen’s turn soon. Eldrin is next to last.”
“Why?” She peered at Azaleen, confusion clouding her eyes. Maybe this setting posed too much stimulation.
Azaleen whispered, “They perform in order of age from youngest to oldest.”
Orielle seemed satisfied for a few moments, then her gaze began to wander the sanctuary, peering up at candelabras suspended from the rafters, stained-glass windows lifted to admit a breeze, their images blurred, and religious banners arranged with careful symmetry.
The crowd applauded for Emma, who curtseyed rather than bowed.
“Where are we?” Orielle asked, her mind retreating farther into fog.
“We’re at the Universalist Church for Caelen and Eldrin’s recital,” Azaleen repeated. “You said you wanted to come.”
Her mother backed away, looking offended. “Well, I do. This isn’t our church. Your dad and I usually attend another one. Edric isn’t here. He must have had important state matters to attend to. You know, Azaleen, you’d do well to learn from him.”
Her most common delusion was that nobody had died: not her husband, his father, Thalen, or Aren. They’d all been gone for over ten years now.
“Yes, Mama,” Azaleen answered softly. “Now, be quiet and listen to Caelen. It’s his turn.”
Her sweet boy with acorn curls sat on the bench while his teacher announced him and his piece—Chopin’s Prelude in E minor. His fingers floated over their starting keys, and, with the most serious air of concentration, he began to play. Azaleen’s heart swelled.
It wasn’t technically demanding, but, if played poorly, the haunting melody vanished beneath the left-hand pulse. Caelen avoided that trap. His touch was light, his phrases breathing with natural rubato that tugged at her emotions.
The hall filled with applause when he took his bow. Azaleen couldn’t help but think how Caelen’s selection embodied the atmosphere and sentiment facing Verdancia at this hour.
He left the platform, and another student came forward to play.
“Chopin, right?” Orielle asked.
Azaleen nodded and put a finger to her lips.
“Thalen played that one,” her mother said, her eyes unfocused. “I remember him practicing it upstairs. He was just playing it the other day—did you hear?”
“That was Caelen, Mama,” she whispered back. “Let’s listen to the music.”
Her mother pulled out a ball of yarn and a crochet hook from her bag to busy herself during several songs.
“Eldrin Frost, performing Beethoven’s Sonata No. 8, Pathétique, movements one and two,” announced the teacher. Only Tina Rodriguez was older and more accomplished than Eldrin.
Before he sat down to play, Eldrin stood, head high, hands clasped behind his back, facing the audience.
All fell into a hush. “Beethoven was a young man of twenty-seven in 1789 when he wrote this exceptionally passionate piece. His world was in upheaval, not unlike our own. While Austria was at peace, revolution consumed neighboring France. Violence ran rampant, and European economies fell into turmoil. On this continent, George Washington took office as the first U.S. President, beginning a 285-year experiment in government that did not endure. If the music resonates with you, it could be because the composer also lived in a frightening time.”
Taking the bench, Eldrin laid his fingers over the keys, striking the opening chord of the Grave.
He continued in slow solemnity, then broke into the Allegro di molto e con brio.
He only bobbled a few notes; nobody would notice.
After a brief pause, his hands still on the keys, he switched to the second movement, Adagio Cantabile.
Beautiful and warm, Eldrin brought the theme’s simplicity to a poignancy that defied description.
Azaleen couldn’t have been prouder of her son.
As she dabbed a tear from her eye, her mother complained, “When is Thalen going to play? Don’t tell me they left him off the program.”
Azaleen’s heart, brimming with sensation, sank under the weight of reality. For Orielle, this had been a good day.
The next morning
“Reports.” Azaleen and her cabinet gathered in the war room early to tackle any new developments.
Another day without rain. Typical for the season, even preferable during harvest. The cotton required a few more weeks to make picking easier on dry stalks.
The map table at their center bore new markers charting the invaders’ advance.
“Let’s start with the good news,” General Stark declared, holding up a creased paper. “From Fleetmaster Dawnriver—our allies have retaken Fort Hammond! We control the Mother River once more.”
Sighs of relief rippled around the table, grins breaking through the strain. “Thank the Mother, we needed good news,” said Rosalind Keane. She fingered the colorful beads that draped her chest, her intelligent eyes aglow.
Silas Beaudean shifted his feet and dragged a hand across his mouth, less celebratory than the rest. “Good news indeed, but will the Iron Army leave any cotton to send downriver?”
“Good heavens, Silas!” exclaimed Camille. “Take the win. Even if all the delta cotton is lost, plantations are scattered across the country. Garcia can’t burn them all.”
“Marchland stands a better chance of victory with AlgonCree ships in the river than facing bombardment from their back,” Desmond Shaw pointed out. He took a sip from the coffee mug he’d brought.
“I suppose,” Beaudean grumbled, his bushy brows narrowed. “I’ve received an emergency missive from Augustus Fairborne, a prominent cotton baron north of Marchland, reporting General Garcia torched his six hundred acres and his barns. He barely escaped with his life.”
Azaleen sat forward. She’d already heard about Ft. Hammond, but not their primary base. “What else do we hear from Marchland? Reuben, any word from General Longstreet?”
“A pigeon arrived this morning,” he said, pulling a tube from his pocket. “The aviary keeper just handed it to me on my way in.” He popped off the top and unrolled the scrap of paper with thick fingers, spreading it across a broad hand.
Azaleen waited, poised and coiled beneath calm. Marchland must still stand.
Stark read from the scroll. “Enemy assault from the north failed. Sustained minor damage and losses. Scored six thousand kills. Expect renewed assault within forty-eight hours. —Longstreet.”
“That’s good, right?” asked Vera Sutherland. She squeezed the ledger between white-knuckled fingers.
“Good for us that idiot Irons executed a brilliant general and put another idiot in his place,” Shaw remarked.
He sat back, propped a boot over one knee.
“I ran some privately commissioned recovery operations in that area about ten years ago. If Garcia marched due south from Tupelo to attack Marchland, his troops got stuck in a bog at the bottom of those bluffs. I remember it. Clouds of mosquitoes thick enough to choke a man. Moccasins, gators, and rattlers, too.” His lips curved in a satisfied smile.
“The treasure hunter is correct,” Stark confirmed.
“But the Iron Army still greatly outnumbers Marchland’s fighting men.
My greatest concern is the civilians. Based on the reports we’ve received, it’s clear he’s engaged in total war.
Queen Frost, I’d like to surprise him—take Nelanta’s Army Reserve and attack his rear. ”
“A bold move,” Azaleen said, giving his proposal consideration. “However, if we lose those five thousand troops, there’ll be no one but farmers, mill workers, and shopkeepers to defend the capital. And there’s still the other half of the invasion force.”
She met Reuben’s gaze with sharp steel. “I received a letter this morning from Lord Thorne Calder, who extends his deepest gratitude for the recovery of his son. He also reported that a force of thirty thousand has almost reached his door. We no longer have one massive invasion force to contend with, but two. I’m not convinced Stonevale can hold. ”
“Then do you prefer I take the reserves and make haste to Stonevale?” Stark asked, a flicker of doubt in his deep-set eyes.
“Doesn’t the Iron Army still have troops on the ground in the south?” asked Beaudean. “They could wreak havoc with our food supplies, not to mention what they could be doing to our citizens.”
“I ordered Colonel Ashby to send as large a force as he could spare from New Charleston to recapture Fort Jasper,” Azaleen said.
“That’s right,” Stark confirmed. “His units are forming a coordinated approach overland and by sea. They’re due to arrive tomorrow. Madam Queen? Stonevale?”
Tension cinched tight at her throat, her gut twisting.
If they lost Stonevale, there was nothing to stop the Iron Army from descending on the capital from the north.
If they lost Marchland, General Garcia would race to Nelanta to seize her and the country.
If neither fortress prevailed, they were doomed.
Shaw spoke up in an authoritative voice. “If that half-wit Garcia could manage to capture Marchland, even with superior numbers, it’ll take him months. He doesn’t know what the hell he’s doin’ and I’ll bet you General Longstreet and Lady Cassandra Cade do. Stonevale is the more pressing matter.”
“Camille,” Azaleen said, shifting to face the ambassador. “Did you ever get a response from the Oligarchy in Clover Hollow?”
She lowered her chin, shook her head. “I haven’t received correspondence from them in years. I know the messages arrive because the pigeons come back. They don’t care about what happens to us.”
“They’ll care when Irons turns his manifest destiny on them,” Azaleen muttered, leaning back in her seat. “Secretary Sutherland? How bankrupt are we?”
She shrugged, a hopeless expression on her usually sharp face. “Does it matter? We must defend the nation regardless of the budget. Losing agricultural assets is no help.”
“General, let’s hold off on stripping Nelanta of our only defense until we receive more updates from Calder. Sabine.” Azaleen caught her attention. Her chief of staff had been taking notes.
“Yes, Madam Queen?”
Azaleen exhaled a heavy breath. She hadn’t wanted to do this, but she saw no alternative. “Draft a letter to Lord Whitfield in Clearwater requesting he deploy his regiments to reinforce Stonevale.”
“Request?” she specified, a question in her eyes.
“He already answered my call to reinforce Stonevale once,” she replied. “Emptying his garrison will leave Clearwater undefended. It doesn’t seem right to issue an order so extreme.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Sabine said. “I’m sure he will comply.”
A knock sounded at the door. A Capitol guardsman opened it. The staff member in the hall said, “Captain Moreau and VERT have returned.”
A weight lifted from Azaleen’s shoulders. I’m not alone.
“Show Captain Moreau in,” she said, “and …” She hesitated, wanting to send a message to Lark. I’ll find her, or she’ll find me. “Tell the team I said, ‘Well done.’”