Chapter 6 #2
“There’s more, Your Majesty.” Bron tugs my focus back to the council. “Reports of other strange events happening across Tirene.”
“What kind of events?” I already dread the answer.
“Guardian cave cats spotted roaming beyond their usual territories.” Duchess Breann glances at the shadow in the corner, as if concerned she might find Nyc eavesdropping on our discussion about the goddess’s sacred animals.
Or who knows, maybe Breann’s hoping the goddess will respond.
“Northern villagers report that it seems more like prowling.” Nira points to little colored flags marking the map of Tirene on the wall. “Though none have complained of any attacks. Not even against livestock.”
Bron gestures to the papers in front of him. “Then there’s the matter of the lost items.”
“Lost items?” I cock my head.
“Yes.” The young duke scratches his chin. “A spate of long-lost objects, missing for years, have suddenly reappeared in their owners’ homes.”
I frown. “That seems odd but harmless. The return of missing items? Isn’t that a good thing?”
Duchess Breann dabs at her nose with a handkerchief. “They claim the God of Lost Things is including messages with the items. Divine messages.”
Sterling returns to his seat. “What kinds of messages?”
The council members exchange glances.
Bron sighs, impatience tightening his features.
“One scholar reports that his quill now writes on its own when left unattended. Strange sayings like, ‘Even stars die.’ A merchant reports a valuable ledger where the numbers rearrange themselves to form words when moonlight hits the page. ‘Count your prayers as you do your coin. Riches await…or beggary.’”
Ziva’s flames, that’s bizarre.
But is it harmless? Or ominous?
Are the gods assisting us after we helped them? Or should we consider these communications threats?
The duke shuffles some papers before continuing.
“In consequence, the merchant has made a substantial donation to his local shrine, money his family simply cannot afford to give. Odder still, people have begun throwing valuable items into temple wells and fountains, hoping for some celestial response. Like children tossing coins in a wishing well.”
“Except they’re throwing in family heirlooms and precious vessels.” Fenton shakes his head, and his gray curls bounce. “And then everyone fights over the returned items, claiming they belong to their family. An entire black market has sprung up for ‘divine lost things.’”
Rafe’s caramel-colored eyes meet mine. “And the Devoted are trying to capitalize on it. Preaching about divine retribution and redistribution in the streets. They’re scaring people.”
Angry heat rises in my chest. “We didn’t defeat Narc just to be playthings for the rest of the gods.”
“Exactly.” Sterling’s expression hardens, mirroring my resolve. “We can’t sit here while people suffer.”
“If these are attacks, we need to defend ourselves.” I mull over the possibilities. “If they’re warnings, we need to understand the message. If they’re blessings or portents, we need to be properly thankful.”
Rafe crosses his arms. “Ideas?”
I wish. “I could travel to Westcliff to see these black springs myself. Or maybe—”
“Your Majesty, you cannot be wandering the countryside with animated statues on the loose.” Fenton’s patronizing tone sets my teeth on edge.
“The queen will go wherever she’s needed. With purpose, not wandering. No permission needed.” Sterling’s icy stare could freeze water. Literally, if he wanted. “Understood?”
Fenton blanches. “Of course, You Highness. I meant no disrespect.”
I have no doubt the older man speaks the truth, that he was only worried for my safety. Sterling merely nods.
“Perhaps we should send scouts first.” Nira’s suggestion softens the tension in the room. “Gather more information before acting.”
“While the Devoted spread their poison?” I wave to the window. “Maybe I should find one of their street preachers and—”
“Punch them in the face?” Rafe brightens as if he enjoys that idea a little too much. “Though it might not be the most diplomatic strategy, Your Majesty.”
Before I can defend my not-entirely-violent intentions, the chamber doors burst open. A petite woman with papers clutched to her chest rushes in, her face flushed and her gray eyes wild. Pale blond tendrils escape a complicated updo.
It takes me a moment to recognize her as our wedding planner. Crap, what was her name again? Lady Odetta? Lady Odelia? Lady Oh-why-the-hells-can’t-I-remember-her-name?
I dig through the depths of my memory and almost collapse in relief. Odessa! I’m pretty sure that’s it.
“Your Majesty! Your Highness!” She gasps. “Forgive the interruption, but we have a wedding crisis.”
The council members trade glances that range from amusement to irritation. Rafe coughs and ducks his head to hide a smirk while I arrange my own face into a carefully blank expression.
“The flowers you selected are now unavailable.” She barely pauses for breath. “A strange blight has withered all the flora in the Eastlands. All of them! And the pavilion tents are back-ordered because a river flooded in the South and knocked away the bridges used for deliveries!”
And here I thought there was nothing worse than sitting through an hours’ long council meeting. Wedding planning with a frazzled assistant just might top that.
She flings her arms wide, sending papers fluttering.
“But that’s not the worst of it. I’m not sure if the wedding fountain is designed to best suit the ancient water ceremony.
The royal artificers are at an impasse, and if we don’t decide soon, the artisans will miss their deadline, and then where will we be?
” Her voice rises to a near-wail on the final question.
I listen, first astonished, then dazed, then a little empathetic. The poor woman looks like she hasn’t slept in days.
Bewilderment soon sets in. Ruined bridges sound noteworthy but not in terms of delayed flower deliveries, and is a fountain really this important? Do any of these things matter right now compared with animated statues and religious cults?
Then I remember the calamity that ensued when I refused to partake in council talks about my own coronation and bite my tongue. From here on out, I will be present for any meetings revolving around ceremonies that involve me.
I feel Sterling’s stare burn into me from across the table and shoot him a warning glare that he willfully ignores.
He stands, the epitome of grace and charm. “I’ll help with the water fountain.” He tosses me a grin. “And the queen will too. Won’t you, my love?”
I swallow the curses rising to my lips and force my eyes not to roll. In the process, I meet Agnar’s gaze.
My love, Agnar mouths while tossing me a wink.
Subtly, I scratch my neck with my middle finger before answering Sterling with faux sweetness. “Of course.” I climb to my feet and circle the table, leaning over to murmur in Agnar’s ear. “Guess who just got out of a council meeting? That means you get to stay and take notes for us…my love.”
Agnar’s groan follows me as I join Sterling and our harried wedding planner by the door.
Some days, it’s good to be queen.