Chapter Thirty-Two
In the Palace of Xy
“Satia!” The King’s excited bellow could be heard coming from far down the Palace halls.
Caris didn’t lift her gaze from the floor, but she knew full well that this could bring this Council meeting to an end.
She was in her usual position at the left of the Bonded, who was seated on her throne.
Avice was at the right. Close enough to guard, listen, and take note of the reactions of the Council members.
Queen Satia tilted her head and spoke in a calm voice. “I am afraid that this Council meeting must come to an end,” she said. “It appears the King requires my attention.”
Which was just as well. Caris was fairly certain that if the Councilmembers kept arguing with her on the current topic, the Queen would order public executions.
“Satia,” came another bellow.
“My Queen,” Lord Consus said hurriedly. “The matter of the regency of Xykeir must be decided. Should aught happen to his Majesty, we must know who would guide the Son of Xy, and—”
“Lord Blandus would be the best choice,” said Lord Rallous smoothly, glancing at the doors.
Caris heard the Queen grinding her teeth.
“What would be wrong with the Queen serving as regent for her own son?” Lord Marshal Tarwain said sharply.
“Aye to that,” Guildmistress Plumestra chimed in, drawing glares from the others on the Council.
Caris concealed her smile. The midwife was not popular with the other councilors, when it was her turn to represent the Guilds.
“Satia!” the doors to the room flew open and Xyrath strode in, flushed and pleased. “You are never going to believe it.” He was waving a small piece of paper in his hand. “We got another bird from the Black Hills!”
That caused a stir among the Council even as they all bowed to the King.
Xyrath swept Satia from the throne into his arms. With a great, boisterous laugh he spun her about, then sat on the throne with her in his lap. He tossed everyone a delighted grin. “I’ve interrupted, haven’t I?”
“No, your Majesty,” Lord Marshal Tarwain rose from his bow. “We were just discussing—”
The Queen interrupted him, her arms around Xyrath’s neck. “I was about to call for a pause in our Council,” she said, her face formal and serene. But Caris saw that she was teasing the back of Xyrath’s neck with her fingers.
“Excellent,” Xyrath said. “You have been in here for hours,” he nuzzled Satia’s ear, then turned his attention to the Councilmembers.
“Lords, you must not weary the Queen. It’s not been that long since she’s given birth to our heir.
” He gave them all an intent look, then broke into a calculated grin.
“There’s news from our cousin, Lord High Baron Orval of the Black Hills.
” He waved a tiny scrap of paper at them.
“This is his last bird. Seems a cat killed the rest. He’s well in control and the people are enthusiastic about getting me the marble for my statue.
Orval’s putting off repairs to the Keep so that they can get started.
He’s sending a courier with messages and gifts.
Should take about two weeks, depending on the weather and the condition of the roads. ”
“Did he send congratulations on the birth of the Heir?” Satia asked sharply.
“Far too soon for that, beloved,” Xyrath assured her. “The roads, you know.”
“Does he say anything about the cost of the marble?” Lord Blandus asked anxiously.
“No, no, probably because there’s not enough room on the paper,” Xyrath said, waving it about again. “Besides, that doesn’t matter. What matters is getting Master Sculptor Muris to work. In fact, I will send him to the Black Hills so he can pick the marble personally.”
The King paused as the Lords looked at one another nervously.
“It’s just that,” Lord Consus cleared his throat, “the treasury is straining under the costs of the coming celebrations for the birth of the Son of Xy. Our concern—”
“Xykeir’s birth will be celebrated in royal style.” Satia spoke mildly but Caris saw the man flinch.
“Of course, your majesty.” Lord Consus said soothingly. “It’s just that we’ve not yet heard from the other Baronies, or established tithes and taxes. Without the flow of income—”
“The Royal Couriers only went out with messages about two weeks ago, including the invitations to the Son of Xy’s presentation to the SunLord.” Xyrath said firmly. “It will happen, Lord Consus.”
“Not soon enough,” Satia said.
“Now, my precious Queen,” Xyrath cupped her face with his hand. “Beloved, I know that the other baronies aren’t falling into line as fast as you wish. You just give me the word, and I and Tarwain will take an army into the field and crush them under my heel.”
“The cost,” came a soft whimper from one of the lords, which Satia ignored. She leaned her face into Xyrath’s hand and smiled.
“I know you will, for me.” She reached out to stroke his cheek.
“Hmmm,” Xyrath hummed. “Lords,” he said, his eyes not leaving Satia’s, “there’s no matter that can’t wait for a day or two. Leave us. I would spend time with my Queen.”
For a moment it looked like Lord Consus might protest, but with a slight sag of his shoulders, he bowed, and the rest of the Council followed his lead. They streamed out, talking in low voices among themselves.
Xyrath made a gesture and the guards at the door also bowed and left, closing the door behind them. “Did they bore you to tears, my love?” He nuzzled her ear.
“Someone must listen to their complaints,” Satia said with a shrug. “And I am more than willing to take the onus off you, beloved. Although it seems sometimes, they would create more problems than they solve.”
“Ah, you are out of sorts,” he said, breathing deeply in her hair. “No word from Atheylbryght on the birth of the Chosen?”
“No,” Satia pouted prettily.
“I am sure they will rejoice at the birth of a Chosen and come into our control without complaint.”
“They’d better,” Satia grumbled.
Xyrath kissed her cheek. “Yes, well, it seems our Orval is working hard.”
“Perhaps. But is it to our benefit?” Satia said.
“Ah, my sweet, you see only the negatives,” Xyrath said lightly.
“The Council complains of the cost of everything,” Satia said.
Xyrath shrugged. “Debase the coinage.”
Caris blinked in surprise.
“You’d already planned to melt down the gold plate and issue new coins,” Xyrath continued. “Do that, and reduce the amount of gold in each coin.” He gave Satia a slow smile. “We’d have enough for the celebrations of our son’s birth and,” he leaned into her ear, “both our private projects.”
Satia’s smile matched his own. “You are so very clever, my King.”
Xyrath lowered his voice. “I’ve a mind to make love to you, beloved.”
“Alas,” Satia whispered as she pressed her forehead to his, “it’s too soon, my love. The midwife says another few weeks.”
Xyrath heaved a sigh but nodded. “Better to wait then,” he said. “I will not endanger you and our future children. Heir and a spare, you know. Sun Lord be praised that you came through this birth well.”
He smacked a kiss on her cheek, rose with her in his arms, then resettled her on the throne. “I’m off then, to find Master Sculptor Muris. Let him know what’s in the works. And Ussin. Good man, Ussin.” Xyrath kissed Satia’s hand, and headed for the doors. “Later, my love.”
The Queen waited until the doors shut behind him before she spoke. “As if I am going to go through that again anytime soon,” her lip curled.
Avice raised an eyebrow. “It is traditional,” she started, but Satia shrugged her off.
“Yes, yes, I know, but it can wait for a while, at least until the ceremony is completed.” Satia said. “There are more important concerns.” Her eyes narrowed. “Debasing the coinage is a good start. So is requiring generous birthing gifts from the merchants and the people of Edenrich.”
Avice and Caris both nodded.
Satia arranged her skirts, smoothing the fabric. Caris could almost feel her thinking.
Plotting.
“I think perhaps it’s time to let Guildmaster Forterran know what we know about the treasonous actions of a member of his guild,” Satia said softly. “I am sure, quite sure, that he will be willing to work closely with us to avenge that offense. To both our Crown and his Guild.”
Avice gave a slight nod.
“As to the Black Hills,” Satia looked down at the tiny slip of paper in her hand, which she’d plucked from Xyrath’s fingers before he left. “Send for our listening friend,” she said. “I have some planning to do.”
Surrounded by the women of the house, working at sewing, Leeda stared at the large bowl of oak galls and groaned.
Nothing happened. She huffed a breath of frustration.
“An apprentice scribe makes ink.” Ritathan was seated next to her, stringing mushrooms for drying. “This is where you start. Take the morter and pestle and crush those. All of them.”
Well, that wasn’t the real lesson. The real lesson was to use the power to crush them, in the presence of others, using naught but her will. If she couldn’t, then she was to use the mortar and pestle. No fancy gestures, no visible strain.
Halithe glared at the galls, then glanced at her master.
Ritithan raised an eyebrow.
“Ouch,” Dayva jerked and put her finger in her mouth.
“And you, focus on your sewing,” Amari said.
“There has to be an easier way,” Halithe grumbled.
“There is,” Ritathan said, picking up and onion and studying it. “But that ink is not as high quality, and fades faster.”
“I thought scribing was writing, and words and numbers.” Dayva wrinkled her nose as she checked her finger for blood. “I mean, I don’t know how to make a needle.”
“Pity,” Ritathan said. “However, a skilled scribe must be one with the ink.”
Dayva gave him a dubious look.
The sound of boots caught their attention. Captain Roth poked his head in.
“What,” Ritathan barked. “We are at lessons.”
“Lessons are done,” Roth said. “The kids are going to show Orval and Aramal the salt pans east of here. They’re going to bring back a load.
” Roth rolled his eyes. “Hisself has already started to lecture on the history of salt. Seems it’s an entire stanza in the Epic of Xyson.
Taking his copy with him so he can read it to them.
” Roth crossed his arms. “Perfect time for her,” nodding at Halithe, “to start training.”
“You haven’t had fighting lessons?” Dayva looked at her, eyes wide in astonishment. “But everyone has to learn—”
A loud, angry squall from the next room. “That will be Lara,” Amari sighed.
“I’ll see to her,” Dayva set her sewing aside in a jumble and trotted off, already talking to the kids.
Halithe waited; Amari had kept them all busy since the Solstice and her master had consistently fended off Roth’s attempts to teach her.
Amari nodded. “Dayva and I will see to the babes,” she said. “Rosalind-”
“I’ll start lunch once I’ve cut this piece,” Rosalind said.
Ritathan frowned, then shrugged. “I will be supervising the lesson,” he said.
“No need,” Roth said.
“Oh no,” Ritathan said, “I think there is.”
Halithe set her work aside and followed them down the hall and through the kitchen into the courtyard.
“Let me get you a helmet and gloves.” Roth walked to a pile of gear on the ground opposite the bench and started to sort through it.
Ritathan went to the well, pulled a bucket of water, then seated himself on the bench with the bucket at his feet.
“Thirsty?” Roth asked.
“Something like that,” Ritathan said. “What weapon will you start with?”
The wooden practice weapons were piled on the bench beside Ritathan.
Halithe studied them for a moment, then picked one up.
Its hilt seemed longer than the rest and somehow it felt wrong, holding it one-handed.
She brought her other hand to the hilt, gripping it and turning away from the bench, adjusting her feet so that the point of the sword rose in the air.
Comfortable, light, the golden wood gleaming in the sun—
That was suddenly blocked by a dark shadow. Roth was in front of her, towering, a darkness with a sword in one hand and a helmet in the other.
“Ah,” he said, and tapped the end of her sword with his.
The wood in Halithe’s hand reverberated.
Her breath stopped.
Fear caught her and in response, fury rose, rage and frustration sprouting from deep within.
Halithe screamed a battle cry. Her wooden sword burst into flames as she lunged, swinging with all her might.
The shadow retreated rapidly, its sword in a guard position, easily parrying her blow.
Halithe snarled, advancing, the flames growing hotter—
Icy cold water hit her face, her hands, the front of her tunic, drenching her, clearing her vision, to see a scorched piece of wood in her hands and a startled, wary Roth, backing away from her, eyes wide.
Halithe dropped the ruined weapon and burst into tears.