Two Prophecies, Fulfilled

“She’s gotten worse the last day or two,” said the lady-in-waiting. Over Ansella’s protests, Donnis told him of the headaches, the weakness, the vomiting, the lack of appetite. “But she won’t let me call the Sisters! I’ve given her until this evening, and then I’m calling them whether she likes it or not,” she finished

“I’m not giving her five minutes,” said Temmin grimly. “We’re calling them now, and there’s an end to it. Papa will be furious when he finds out you’re ill and haven’t gotten help, Mama!”

“Your father doesn’t care a whit,” said Ansella, a little color coming into her wan cheeks. “If he did, he would have enquired.”

“He thinks you’re having a sulk. Everyone does!”

“And don’t I deserve one!” she said, her old temper breaking through her lethargy.

“About Lady Callant--” Temmin began.

“Don’t bring her up, Temmy,” warned Lady Donnis.

“Lady Callant can have him!” shouted Ansella, rising off the pillows and then sinking back, shaking, and paler than before.

“Mama!” said Temmin. “Right. Donnis, I’m sorry to order you about--”

But Lady Donnis was already on her way to the sitting room. “Hanston, off you go. Find the nearest footman and have him fetch the Sisters. Be quick about it!”

“Finally!” said Miss Hanston as she picked up her skirts and dashed out of the room.

Lady Donnis ran back into the bedchamber to the sound of breaking glass. Ansella was panting, doubled over in Temmin’s arms; pieces of a drinking glass lay in a puddle of water on the floor. “I tried to give her some water--I’m sorry, I dropped the glass--I had to catch her--” Ansella cried out and clutched at Temmin’s shoulders. “Cousin Donnie, what’s wrong!” Temmin said.

Donnis rushed to the right of the bed to hold Ansella on the other side. “She might be miscarrying,” she said. “There, Annie, let go of Temmy, I have you!” she soothed as she felt another spasm shake the Queen.

“Don’t tell him! Don’t tell him!” Ansella wept as Donnis rocked her.

“Tell who what, Mama?” said Temmin. He stood up and barely missed treading on the broken shards of glass. “Miscarriage? What?”

The day of the battle, the King’s two generals surveyed the gathered enemy from a rise behind the camp; Ardenil saw nothing but a sea of spears, fronted by banks of archers protected by earthenworks bristling with horse-killing pikes. “I don’t see anything for it, Dantono,” said Ardenil. “We’re outnumbered, they have a battalion of Brothers, and they’re entrenched.”

“I don’t think they’ve even bothered to saddle their cavalry. I don’t see a single horse,” said Dantono, squinting. “All the platoons we’ve sent to scout their flanks have gone missing--I think they just fled into the woods! The rest of our men are on the brink of turning tail, Ardenil, we’re losing discipline with no way to enforce it. We’ve never faced anything like this. What do we do?”

Ardenil scanned the enemy again. Years of campaigning left him able to read the mood of an army even from this distance. He could sense their excitement, the confidence running through the rebel army, such a stark contrast to the dispirited men he was left with. I’m sending men to certain death, he thought. Ardenil had been a soldier his entire life. The only reason he hadn’t stayed with the Brothers was that he could not forget his sweetheart, no matter how hard he tried; finally, he gave up his postulancy, went home and married her, and joined the King’s Army as an officer. I don’t mind dying, he thought; though leaving Elibetta a widow pained him, she would get his pension and his oldest son would care for her. No, it wasn’t the dying, it was the pointless slaughter of his men that made it hard to swallow.

Finally he turned to Dantono, his oldest friend. “We’d better see the King and try to talk some sense into him.”

In this life, thought Bear, I am doomed to spend more time waiting outside Missy’s apartments than in them. Once again he sat in his preferred corner in the kitchens at the Keep, listening to the gossip of the servants at tea. It was the best way he’d found to measure the mood of the castle, and through it, the world outside its walls. Going out had become too dangerous.

Few Inchari lived in the capital, and though he exchanged his turbans, bright satin breeches and brocaded doublets for sober clothes when going into the city, he still stood out on the street like a parrot among pigeons: tall, brown, dark-eyed and exotically handsome. Everyone knew who he was on sight, and some took great exception to him as the “Furrin Hoor’s boy.” The last time he’d ventured out, he barely escaped a small mob with no more than a cut to one hand. “T’ain’t you, sweetheart,” the motherly housekeeper had said that day as she bandaged up his hand. “We as know you, love you! It’s that Lady of yours! I know you love her, but you’re the only one--besides His Majesty!” she whispered.

Except that was hardly true, he thought. Plenty of men loved Missy. A whole herd of them were in her apartments right now doing the Gods only knew what, because Bear certainly didn’t want to know.

Patience:

Temmin lay gasping against Issak’s chest, his heartbeat slowly coming down. His eyelids flickered shut.

“Don’t fall asleep,” murmured Issak, pinching Temmin’s nearest nipple.

“Ow.” Temmin opened his eyes. “I’m always sleepy afterwards.”

“You have to learn not to be. Up.” Issak pushed Temmin off his chest and sat up himself. “There is much you still have to learn.”

“It’s not even a spoke and a half, and I think I’ve learned a lot already! No one’s complaining, at any rate,” Temmin added smugly. “Everyone says I’m a quick study.”

Issak stood up. “You pick up some things very quickly,” he agreed, “like a child imitating his parents. You don’t really know what you’re doing, or why.” He poured himself a glass of water from an earthenware pitcher on the table and drank it down, then poured himself a second.

“Why?” said Temmin, an edge creeping into his voice; he plopped back against the huge pile of pillows on the couch.

“What d’you mean, why? To make people feel better! Why else? Isn’t that why we’re here?”

Softenings

That night, Sedra did not come down to dinner, nor did she have Brinnid in her rooms for dinner. In fact, she ate no dinner at all. Instead, she sat in the dusk and then the dark, still curled up on her sofa. She let one of the upstairs maids lay a fire in the hearth, but she refused to let the lamps be lit--not even a single candle.

“Oh, miss,” said her ladies maid, Camma. “You should eat something, and let me light one of the lamps. Would you like to read a little, perhaps? You’ve just cut the pages of that new novel.”

“I don’t want to read.”

“You can’t just sit here in the dark until bed!”

“There’s light enough from the fire, Camma. You’re excused for the evening.”

“But--”

“Sinsett, you’re excused,” Sedra snapped.

Camma shook her head and sighed. “Then I’ll see you in the morning, miss.”

Once she’d gone, Sedra sank even deeper into the sofa, the flames warming her pale skin. Her nose was no longer red, but her eyes were. She’d spent the dregs of her anger on poor Camma, and though she knew without asking she was already forgiven, abusing Camma made her even more miserable, and she hugged the cushion in her lap tighter.

“If your mood is as dark as this room, you’re in a bad way indeed, Your Highness,” came a cool voice behind her.

“You are the last person I want to see at this particular moment, Teacher.” said the Princess, still facing the fire.

Teacher came all the way into the room and shut the door. “And yet, here I am.”

King Harsin approached the morning room in a slight state of dread. He was used to breakfasting alone, and preferred it. It gave him a chance to read the newspapers before his morning meetings with his ministers and his afternoon work reading and answering reports with Winmer. His time would not be his own again until after tea.

But today, his oldest child, a girl he hardly knew, would be joining him. Sedra had come to the capital the day before, just turned 16 and ready to face adulthood and her father. Her father, however, was entirely unsure he wanted to face her. “Do you have my papers?” he said to his secretary, a small dapper man named Winmer who habitually trailed two steps behind him.

Winmer handed over the stack of newsprint. “Are you sure, Your Majesty, that you wish to read the news this particular morning?” he murmured diplomatically.

“Better she should get used to me now,” said Harsin. “While I am willing to take my part in polishing her up for whatever alliance she’ll seal, I can’t imagine we’ll have much to do with one another otherwise. She was a bright, studious young girl--I always enjoyed her on my visits to Whithorse. But I imagine she’s changed. She’ll be going to parties and dances and some such--fussing with her clothes, probably. Besides, I’d wager she’s not even awake yet.”

But when he stepped through the morning room doors, there she was, dark eyes peering above a copy of The Morning Capital. Beside her was a thick stack of newspapers, equal to the one he carried under his arm. She gave her father a friendly “Good morning,” took a long, delicate pull on her coffee, and turned back to her reading. Slightly unnerved, Harsin sat down opposite her and picked up his own copy of the Capital; Sedra didn’t even look up.

It was through the good offices of Embis Winmer that Sedra
discovered she would have to receive Lady Callant in her quarters. The
secretary was apologetic, but “His Majesty requires that it be done,
Your Highness, today and every day,” he said firmly.

“He could at least have had the decency to tell me himself!” fumed
Sedra. Both Winmer and Brinnid refrained from pointing out that as
Sedra was not speaking to her father, he would have found this
difficult.

Sedra saw tea in her rooms as private. Sometimes she took tea with
various members of her family, but she always preferred her own table
and her own company; it was a time for her to think about her day’s
ramblings and readings before dressing for dinner. And now, it was a
time to be alone with Brinnid. To have her tea disturbed by the
presence of her father’s mistress was near-intolerable, and her temper
was stretched thin as a fly’s wing.