Chapter Eighteen

  The Queen’s Farewell

  The gardens of the Governor’s Residency in Kanmak were filled with the ladies of the court lounging, sipping tea, and engaging in small conversation. The hot summer air of the garden was filled with the scents of hibiscus, jasmine, bougainvillea, roses, and other flowers that Julia did not know. The brilliant summer blossoms filled the gardens with vibrant reds, magentas, and oranges. Several sprawling trees provided shade for the guests. Julia was once again given a place of honour, seated with Queen Ella, though why they were given such a space, Julia did not know. She was only a commoner, the wife of Major Dryden, yes, but still, she felt out of her depth. It was the royal court’s last day in Kanmak. This garden party was the queen’s sendoff. She and King Victus were moving on from Ayodh, heading west to Kathalamanyr, then to Gulud and eventually Huz, continuing their tour of the Eastern Colonies. If the cantonment at Kanmak had seemed empty and lonely since the army had gone and John had left, it would feel all the more so when the court left as well.

  Sitting with them also was Roxana An-Dakal, who held her baby son in her arms. The tiny boy looked half a child of Vastrum, and half of Vurun. He had a child’s light, almost blonde hair, which would darken as he grew, and Lord Havor’s blue eyes, but his skin was a darker shade, olive, like his mother’s. The child was awake and silent, looking around quietly. He gave a small coo, looking up at his mother, Roxana, the Vuruni princess. Julia couldn’t help but smile at the sound. There had been little hope these last years and few joys, but the tiny sounds of the infant gave her hope for the future, even when all the world felt bleak. That alone was the difference between a world of grim darkness and a bright one—hope. Children were that hope for her. She hoped someday to have children of her own. John had frowned when she broached the subject months before, saying it was not the right time. She wondered when the right time would be. Certainly not now that he was off at war.

  Julia took her teacup, a bright porcelain painted with pink flowers, and sipped. It had sat for a while and cooled. It was lukewarm now and overly sweet. She had added one lump of sugar too many and now avoided drinking it. She took a small biscuit and nibbled at it, not wanting to show how hungry she was. She was also avoiding being the first of the women to start a conversation. She had no idea what to say, and beside the presence of the queen, any small talk, such as the weather, seemed absurdly quaint. She imagined how the ladies would laugh behind her back, “She had the honour of being sat with the queen and brought up the weather! How dull can you be?” Better to say nothing and let someone else begin the conversation.

  The fourth lady at the table, an older, middle-aged woman who had been introduced to her as Lady Margaretta, looked down at Roxana’s child. “Cherish it, darling; they grow up so fast.” She had a deep, rich voice with a thick accent. The woman had the look and accent of a Styranian. She was olive-skinned, with long, flowing, straight black hair and pale green eyes. Despite the heat, she wore a high-necked black dress, numerous layers of silver jewelry that flashed with emeralds in the morning sunlight, and a small black bonnet on her head. Julia had not met many Styranians. It was a Western nation, yet lay far from Vastrum or Fyranis, south of Gant, on the other side of the free cities and Ist. It was a land of enchantment, so people said, full of sorcerers, witches, and demons. Lady Margaretta seemed friendly enough. She had a wry smile on her face, almost like she was appraising both Roxana and Julia.

  Roxana turned to Lady Margaretta, “You have children? How many?” She asked.

  “I have four. Three boys and a girl. They are grown now.” She answered.

  Julia saw Queen Ella look down as they began to speak of children, almost as if she were ashamed at the conversation. She knew the queen had no children. She was young and had married an older king whose wife had passed away. The king had sired no children with either of them. The lack of any heir was much fretted over, if little discussed. The king had named no successor, and it was thought that he was waiting for a child to be born. There was no law in Vastrum that said it must be a boy. Any legitimate child would do. There had been queens who had ruled Vastrum several times before. Ella raised her chin again. The shame of a conversation about children, when she herself was childless, was only briefly upon her face, but Julia had seen the look. She felt the same. Fair or not, a childless wife was something the aristocracy would look down upon, especially other ladies. Most of them were married not for love, but for status, wealth, and above all, bearing male heirs to the great noble houses of Vastrum. John had certainly not married Julia for her money or status. He also did not seem to care for the idea of having children. She wondered briefly if the marriage had been solely from pity, for she had brought nothing of value to it, nor did he seem to have married her for love. So, if not for children, love, money, or power, then for what?

  The queen took a sip of her tea, which, due to a copious amount of added cream, was nearly as pale as her own skin. “Julia, I hope you will forgive me asking, but I would hear of your travails in Vurun.”

  Julia blushed and looked down. That was why the queen had wanted her close, she was curious about the imprisonment, “Majesty, I do not know what there is to tell. We were kept in the Shah’s palace. We were well guarded and protected and rarely allowed outside our apartments.”

  “I understand that you had negotiated to secure your own release.” The queen commented, “That is no small feat.”

  It was true. She and Helena had negotiated with her captors, specifically with the man protecting them, Kal’kuris Dravetta. They had promised him a great deal of money, and he had agreed to take it. Everyone thought that Dryden had heroically ridden to her rescue. His ride across the north was becoming something of a legend. That story was also true to some extent, but it left out the fact that the captured noblewomen were on the verge of having rescued themselves. She blushed at the question, feeling unworthy of the attention and praise of the queen. “That is true,” Was all she said.

  “How in the world did you manage it?” The queen asked.

  “We were housed with the daughters of our captor. Over the months we were there, his daughters became sympathetic to our plight. His eldest daughter broached the subject with him slowly over several weeks. Once the idea was planted, he brought it up as if it were his own. Really, it was as much Helena as myself who negotiated. It was her father’s money with which we bargained.”

  The queen smiled at Julia, “Remarkable. Such initiative. If only we had more such women in Vastrum.”

  Lady Margaretta smirked, “It is a shame the story is about a man riding a horse to rescue helpless women. What ever would we do if not for the men playing at war with their toys?”

  “Perhaps it would be better if the men were away more often. Think of all we could accomplish.” The queen replied.

  They all shared a small laugh. Women at the other tables looked on, envious that they were not seated at the table with the queen. Julia caught some glares. They did not like that a commoner was seated in what they probably viewed as their rightful chair.

  “Still, they are useful for some things,” It was the queen’s turn to smirk. She looked over at one of her household guards and admired him in a way that felt inappropriate to Julia. He was a tall, handsome, gallant-looking man with a crisp blue uniform, tan skin, auburn hair, pale blue eyes, and a chiseled jawline. He had a blade at his side that reminded Julia of her husband’s Styranian blade, which had also been her father’s.

  Roxana caught the look that the queen gave the man and raised an eyebrow at Julia, wondering the same.

  “My youngest,” Lady Margaretta called out, “Allow me to introduce you. Karlos, darling, won’t you come and meet our new friends?” She waved him over.

  The young man took a few steps towards the table, bowed slightly, and greeted the women in turn, “Majesty. Mother.”

  “This is Roxana An-Dakal, princess of Vurun.” Margaretta smiled at him.

  Roxana extended her hand. The young man took it, bent down, and kissed it while maintaining eye contact with the princess. “Charmed," he said, practically leering at her.

  Julia raised an eyebrow. The look he was giving Roxana seemed almost seductive. Then he turned to her. She felt herself flush slightly at the forwardness of his gaze.

  “Julia Gorst,” Margaretta caught herself, “My sincerest apologies, Julia Dryden. She is married to Major John Dryden.”

  She extended her hand. Karlos took it and bowed, giving her almost the same seductive look he had given Roxana. “Enchanted, " he said, his smile bordering on arrogant.

  She wanted to slap him, but said “Likewise,” Instead.

  He stepped back to his position several feet away behind the queen where he had been silently watching and protecting.

  “I truly am sorry, Julia.” Margaretta said, “How are you finding wedded life?”

  Julia began to smile, but felt it fade from her face, “Lonely.” She admitted. She did not know why she admitted it, but she did all the same.

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  “I am sorry to hear that,” It was the queen who spoke. She genuinely sounded sad.

  “It is only that as soon as we were married and beginning to settle into our life together, that war began, and he was pulled away,” Julia explained, hoping that they would not think the marriage a poor one.

  “Ah, the life of a soldier’s wife is often lonely. Many of us find diversions to occupy ourselves while the men are playing their little games.” Margaretta smiled.

  “Is your husband a soldier?” Julia asked.

  Margaretta smiled, “My husband was a great general, my darling. I was married to Lord Blackwater.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry…” She stumbled over her words, feeling embarrassed. It seemed to her that she ought to have known, “I did not know.” The colour of Margaretta’s gown and bonnet suddenly made a great deal more sense, she was still in mourning.

  “Think nothing of it. Ours was more a political alliance than a marriage for love, darling. I spent my days at court, and he spent them campaigning around the world. I have lost a great ally more than I have lost myself a husband. I was sorry to hear of your father. Marcus was a great man. I was very fond of him.”

  “You were friends with my father?” She asked.

  “When we were young. He served with my uncle Suvor at Caribonne. He was a very gallant young man back in those days.” Margaretta had a faraway look in her eyes as she spoke of Julia’s father, “That’s where he received that sword. Did you know that sword was in my family for ten generations before it came to your father?”

  Julia shook her head, “I knew very little about it, only that it was special. Honestly, I grew up hating that sword and all it represented.” She said, “It was a symbol of his life as a soldier. He was often on campaign. My governess raised me. It always felt as if that sword was taking him away, and now John has it…” She almost felt as if she could not stop herself from talking, as if she was saying too much and it was outside her power to stop. Something about the older woman, her dark eyes, glittering jewels, and smoky voice, made her want to keep talking.

  “Now it has come to your husband.” The woman’s voice sounded half amused and half annoyed at the idea. The look of a predator crossed her face for just an instant.

  Hairs stood on the back of Julia’s neck, as if this were some ambush, “I truly know little of it. You would need to speak with him.” She said, trying to end the discussion.

  Margaretta dropped the conversation as the queen’s secretary, Aberlour, walked up to the table, leaned in and whispered something to Queen Ella. Her face paled slightly.

  “What is it, Majesty?” Margaretta asked, “Is everything all right?”

  “There has been a riot north of the city,” She said. “Soldiers were forced to open fire. Some people were killed.” Then she stopped and collected herself, smoothing her dress, “I am sorry, this is not good conversation for a tea party. Sadly, I believe we will have to go to deal with this.”

  “Surely the king can…” Margaretta began to interrupt.

  “No, the king cannot. He is unwell.”

  “His council members and advisors, then.”

  “I must deal with this.” She said, standing, “As you well know, if we leave all the important work to the men, nothing would ever be done properly. I think we have left this to the men long enough, have we not? The dead Ayodhis are proof enough of that.”

  “As always, you have a point, Majesty,” Margaretta smiled sweetly at the queen.

  Other guests' eyes were glancing towards the queen now, looking at her with something like alarm. If they did not know what had happened, they could sense it.

  The queen stood tall and spoke to the whole gathering, “Do not worry, friends. We are safe here in the cantonment and the residency. Please, take your time, and enjoy the beautiful day and refreshments.” Then, the queen turned and walked off, almost gliding over the stone path through the sprawling gardens, her advisor and guards in tow. All the members of the court stood and bowed to her as she passed on her way back to the residency manor.

  She was barely out of sight when Margaretta took up the subject of the sword again, “You know there are only a dozen such blades ever made, darling.”

  “What is so special about these swords?” Roxana interjected. She had been silent most of the conversation, tending to her little infant, but now she spoke up, her Vuruni accent thick.

  “What do you know of the gods of the west?”

  “You westerners have no gods.”

  “True, and also not. It would be more correct to say that we had gods.”

  “You cannot kill a god,” Roxana snorted with laughter, “Are you sure they are not just napping?”

  Margaretta smirked, “I could not kill a god, but that does not mean they cannot be killed.”

  Julia sat listening quietly. She had heard this story many times growing up. Priests told the story in every church. Like many young people, she had not been particularly religious. She saw no point in worshipping gods when they were silent, but her governess had insisted she be educated in religion.

  “They killed one another,” Margaretta answered, then anticipated Roxana’s next question, “There was a war between the gods. Just like we war with one another.”

  “What does that have to do with the swords?” Roxana said dismissively, taking a bite of a sweet biscuit from the table.

  “These swords were forged using fragments of the dead gods. There are perhaps thousands of such fragments. Half the churches in Vastrum claim to possess such relics; a few really do. In the days after the great silence began, these swords were forged. The church outlawed anyone who owned the shards or used them for any purpose other than worship. The makers of these swords were hunted down and killed as heretics. Of course, the church could not undo the forging of the swords, so they were gifted to noble houses.”

  “Who has the swords, aside from John and your son?” Julia asked.

  “There are four in Vastrum, including your husband’s. Three in Fyranis. Three in Styrania. One in Gant.”

  “That makes eleven. You said there were twelve,” Julia said without skipping a beat.

  “You’re quick. One was lost.”

  “Why are you speaking of these things? I don’t see how this is relevant.” Julia had the distinct impression that the woman wanted the sword back.

  “Little girl,” Her accent was thick, her voice husky. You misunderstand me. That sword is not a blessing but a curse. Most of these swords used pieces of different gods. Each one is unique.”

  “What god is my husband’s sword made from?”

  The woman leaned in, “Even though the god is dead, I hesitate to speak his name.” She spoke softly, “Orgos.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know that god.” Julia said, “I should have paid better attention to my governess.”

  Margaretta leaned back and rolled her eyes, “Always the youth are forgetting the past. I cannot blame you too much. I did not learn either when I was a silly girl. It took many years and too many mistakes before I understood anything. Orgos was a god of my land, a god of blood, war, and terror. His sword has killed more men than any other, his wielders included. It drives men to bloodlust. Let me ask you, what will you do, my darling, when the sword takes your husband?”

  Julia sat silent, “My father lived many years with the blade, the better part of a lifetime.”

  “Marcus was a disciplined man. Clear-minded. Not prone to outbursts or bloodlust in battle. He rarely drew the sword, seldom fought with it. As I understand, your husband is a terror in battle, even without the sword, is he not? Sooner or later, the sword will take him. So please, I do not require an answer now. Consider the question. What will you do when the sword takes him?”

  Julia did not need to wait. The presumptuousness of it all was infuriating, “You do not think I have considered what I will do when he dies in battle? I made him promise to come home, but I know. I am no fool. His family will give me no wealth. I knew it, but I married him despite it. If I cannot find a new husband, I will be left to live on the queen’s mercy. That is what awaits me when he dies, if not in this war, then the next. That is what awaits all wives of soldiers. So, unless you have another choice for me, that is my answer; you need not wait. If that is all, I tire of this garden party. The heat of the day has become too much for me. I will return home.” Julia’s voice rose as she spoke. Half the women in the garden were looking at her with mouths agape.

  Margaretta only laughed in response, as if the outburst were just the silliest thing. Her face seemed to say “there is no need for such dramatics,” but, blessedly, the woman said nothing aloud.

  Roxanna stood, holding her tiny sleeping baby, “I think I will retire as well. Little Edmund is sleepy. We can walk together.”

  Julia rose from the table, trying not to make more of a scene than she already had. Only the barest scraps of dignity remained, and she clung to them now. She was good at making scenes, apparently. A servant brought her parasol and handbag to her and a stroller for Roxana. The princess put her infant into the buggy, tucked him in, and then the two women strolled from the garden together. Roxana had a serene look to her. When they arrived at the gate and were well away from the party, Roxana burst into laughter, “I enjoy your honesty, Julia. It is so rare among the highborn women of Vastrum.”

  “I should not have said what I said. Or, at least, I should have said it privately or with more tact.” Julia replied, “Still, she was so presumptuous to ask what I plan to do when my husband dies, as if that is her business, and to ask it while he still lives! They will speak of my outburst, natter over the scandal of it, when they should whisper and gossip about the nature of her questions.”

  “I do not think she expected the answer you gave her.” Roxana smiled at Julia. They talked as they strolled back to the small cantonment neighborhood where the officer’s families were housed. It was like strolling through a little village back in Vastrum, except for the palm trees and the intolerable heat.

  Julia sighed. It was good to be in the company of someone she could call a friend. “I was not raised at court, Roxana. You were. What is it she wants from me, do you think?”

  “I was not raised in a Vastrum court. Your ways are strange to me. Such questions would not have been tolerated in my father’s court. Have you considered that she is only concerned for your wellbeing?” Roxana wondered aloud.

  “If there is one thing I am sure she is uninterested in, it is my well-being.” Julia scoffed.

  “You are right. She had the look of a cobra preparing to strike. She denies it, but perhaps it is your father’s sword she desires. She did her best to frighten you over it.”

  “There is much to consider. Thank you, Roxana, for your support and friendship. It means much.”

  Roxana smiled, “Of course. There are few enough friends in this land. Most of those ladies will be gone, sailing off with the queen. We will be left here to wait for our men. We must support one another.”

  “Indeed.” Julia smiled back at Roxana. They had arrived at the small cottage where she was housed and asked, “Won’t you come over for tea tomorrow?”

  Roxana’s face darkened, and for a moment Julia wondered if she had made a mistake with the invitation to tea, but then Roxana pointed at her house, “Julia, your door.”

  She turned and looked. Her door was ajar. She was quite sure she had not left it open, and she was certain she had latched it when she left. She looked around nervously. There was no other sign of anything wrong in the cantonment or her yard. Julia took a step forward towards the door.

  “Julia, we should call the guard,” Roxana hissed at her.

  “Hello?” Julia called out.

  A figure staggered into view and put a hand on the door. The figure was caked in dry blood, with dirty, ragged clothes. The figure made no noise, only stood in the shadows of the cottage’s dark interior. Then it stepped into the light. Julia gasped and put a hand to her face. The figure collapsed to the cobblestone path. A word escaped her lips, “Rathma.” She went and knelt by the figure.

  “Should I call the guards?” Roxana asked.

  Julia’s reply was urgent, “No. Find the doctor.”