Chapter 21

I woke, as I often did, to a room dimly lit by the green glitter of the kir-fount and the first traces of dawn. This morning, the half-Shepherd moon lent some warm glow too. I left the shutters of my castle suite open, whatever the weather, so that I was never more than a heartbeat from my fount. That had been pleasant enough, all summer, but this pre-dawn of the day before the autumn Equinox was chilly.

Anders lay on his back beside me, one hand tucked under the pillow, breathing shallow and soft through an open mouth.

Midnight was my usual bed-time now and still I woke before sunrise. Being elect, he’d wake soon. When I sat up, folding the quilts back, he stirred. “Morning,” I said, combing my fingers through my loose hair. I’d barely gotten it out of the braid before the lure of cuddling up to a sleeping Anders had pulled me in.

“Morning,” he answered. His hand curled around my waist and he dragged me back. I chuckled; he did this every morning. My pattern whirled up, at his call, thick and bright — but not so thick as to hide what he wanted to see.

His little star, between my hips. Anders planted a kiss on my belly, then let me go.

I slid off the bed and flicked a vine of kir across the room to drop a spark on the candle by my bedroom door. That light was the signal to the night maid, Etha, that we were up, next time she looked into my suite. When she came in I was combing out my hair. She brought Anders’ boots with her, clean and polished.

“I’ll be at the palace by noon,” Anders said as he stood from the bed to pull his hose legs up. “There’s a handful more squires to test.”

Etha laid down Anders’ new uniform on the bed beside him; as Knight Protector of Suevia, he wore a red tabard and white baldric hemmed with gold braid and tassels. As Saint Seaxneat had never required his sons, the Aethlings of Suevia, to be knights, the Protector had ever served as chief guardian, champion, and military advisor to the king. The Protector also presided over Suevia’s yearly cycle of jousting tournaments, saw to the testing of squires ready for knighthood, and had a hand in maintaining the top bloodlines of warhorses.

Kiefan needed no champion or advisor, but it was also a way to sift out future battle elect. Offering the post to Anders, complete with the chance to breed and train his own horses, had been a bit like asking a boy if he’d care to eat his favorite cake every day.

There’d been no jousting tournaments this summer because of the trouble; the first was to begin the day after next and Anders had been down to the tourney fields daily. Knights and squires were trickling in from all over to be tested and to compete.

And see the coronation tomorrow, on Equinox.

Anders pulled the red on over his white linens, buckled his jeweled sword-belt atop that. The blacksmiths’ guild had offered him a blade as a sign of their fealty; it was elect-made, hidden away since the conquest and kept safe. With a smile to me, he left for the tourney fields.

Etha laced up my dress snugly. The chamberlain of the palace, Eadwin, had asked leave to consult with the master seamstresses on the matter of my formal gowns. My penchant for plain dresses, he’d never said a word about — only this. He was a wiry, silver-bearded man who remembered Saint Seaxneat and had proven himself priceless in wisdom and tact. So I had agreed and quietly bore the results.

The gown was silk, a shade of green that fairly matched a fount’s glow. Embroidered white kir-whorls ran along the hems and clustered around the close neckline. My loose hair was bundled in a crespine of gold wire strung with green tourmaline beads. The jeweled headband I wore was gold, too, set with more small stones.

Fine stuff for today’s formalities, but it wouldn’t stop me from my weekly duty to the goodfolk. The palace staff expected me to inspect the guest accommodations as well before the guests themselves arrived. They were expected at noon, at the palace.

I sat on the windowsill when I was ready and swung my feet over. Caught myself on kir and soared. The cool, damp wind on my face, the rush of the castle beneath me — I would never tire of flying. Perhaps in truth it was bounding on long legs made of kir rather than true flying, but I’d not complain. I crossed the city in a few heartbeats and landed before the palace’s open gates. The guardsmen there dropped to one knee in obeisance; I still couldn’t help nodding to acknowledge them. Saints weren’t to notice such things. It was their due.

The sick, the wounded, and the maimed waiting for me in the paved city square gave me obeisance as best they could. I walked from the gate, my silk skirt trailing in the dust, and called their patterns as they went. Suevia’s first restored Orderhaus, here in Reowan, managed the supplicants, housed them, and brought them to the square once a week grouped by the worst off, the youngest, and the rest. That was all that mattered; money could not buy my healing and I passed over those with minor afflictions.

A man in rags, suffering scrofula. A woman whose moon’s flux never ceased. A sickly child with a flawed kidney. Hernias. Ruined knees. Consumption. Whore’s rash. Some patients had come alone, some with their families to help them. A week, some had walked or ridden in a wagon. Some days there were more than the square could hold.

It would need moving indoors as the winter neared. But for now, I crouched down beside a little girl and took her hands in mine. She’d been kicked by a goat as a toddler and her hip had given her pain ever since. I ended that and smiled when she did.

I worked my way across the square, from worst off to youngest to the others. When I returned to the gates the goodfolk honored me with a song — a tradition, Eadwin had told me — and I curtsied in return.

Eadwin himself waited for me at the palace doors, his knobby hands clasped behind his back, with a maid who set about brushing the dirt from my hems. “The guest chambers await your approval, m’lady,” the chamberlain told me.

The first two floors of the palace were given over to offices and council chambers. On the third, the largest suite had been redecorated in Suevi green and white for Kiefan. The other suite had been re-purposed as a nursery. And where the governor had lived, honored guests would be staying.

I walked through the rooms, glancing over the furnishings. Particularly those meant for Queen Mercia. I hadn’t known that the Suevi still told stories of the poor, orphaned princess — the Aethlings-dóhtor — and her narrow escapes from Arceal assassins. Her mother’s kin, the Heathugrim, had risked much in hiding her until she was a beautiful young woman. The stories recounted the heroic sacrifices and her kindness and ended when she met a handsome northern prince who carried her off.

She was coming home, now. Saint Qadeem was bringing her to Reowan himself in a gesture of good faith and friendship to mark the beginning of the alliance between Suevia and Wodenberg.

I paused in the door of the finest suite, which would be Qadeem’s. Unlikely he’d sleep much but it was proper for him to have one. The windows looked on the gardens behind the palace, which were a riot of late summer flowers.

“If I may, m’lady,” Eadwin said, as he did when he must broach a delicate subject.

“Certainly.”

“If there should be, say, an urgent message for Saint Qadeem at an odd hour of the night. Would it be possible that he’d be found in… other bedchambers?”

That gave me pause, for a moment. It still didn’t sit easy, thinking of my saint — my former saint, thus.

Eadwin stroked his white beard. “I only ask as it’s known that m’lady and Saint Qadeem are… dear friends.”

Me? I blinked. “Not thus,” I said, with emphasis. “He was my saint, my teacher. I do love him, but only as a friend.”

My chamberlain dipped his head. “Of course, m’lady. I didn’t mean to offend.”

“Though —” A question stuck and I asked it. “Do I offend? Do the people think me —?”

He hesitated. “In matters of the bedchamber?”

“I keep a husband and a consort.” I said it plainly, before I could flinch away from asking. “Does that trouble the goodfolk?”

Eadwin’s mouth twitched as he thought. I looked out at the garden, at the laden cherry tree in the center, while waiting for his answer. “Saint Seaxneat kept consorts, often several at a time. He found them as he pleased, whether among the noble houses or in the countryside. Many stayed only a few moons, but a few lingered until they died of old age. Only his favorites ever bore him sons, though.”

“The Aethlings,” I said and he nodded. “Who ruled…?”

“Who led, in what roles suited them. The goodfolk loved them. Seaxneat himself was… a difficult man to love. He ruled well, though.”

And had for centuries. As I might, with my elect. “So the goodfolk will call Kiefan their Aethling?”

Another nod. “It’s the Aethling’s crown that awaits him. The saint needed none. That crown passed from Aethlings to their sons, or to a new son of the saint’s, for generations. If there’s an elect wearing it, though… m’lady’s son is of the saint’s blood?”

“He is Kiefan’s son.” What of Rafe, then? He had claim to both Suevia and Wodenberg, as Kiefan did. “And Kiefan is my consort rather than my husband. I would not wish the people feeling belittled by that.”

“It’s not for any but Mother Love and Father Duty to chastise the saints, m’lady. The people love you for your kindness and, increasingly, your strength.”

My strength. Once my pregnancy grew and they saw how scatter-minded I became… but other worries, first. I hadn’t yet told anyone of the baby but Anders and Kiefan. It was only two moons along.

We returned to the gate-yard where the greeting party was assembling. Many were city elders and were inside the great hall to avoid the increasingly hot sun. The knights of the honor-guard, the Árheald, stood in neat lines pretending to be untouched by such things. Outside, in the square, a new crowd murmured and jostled for the best views of the avenue from the city gates. I made my rounds in the gate-yard and the hall of the elders, the officials, the soon-to-be restored nobles.

Anders was missing. / ? /

He answered quickly, with glee. / on my way /

If he missed this arrival, it wouldn’t go well. I touched Kiefan’s bond in my other hand. / ? /

/ city gates /

Faintly, I heard a cheer. I strode to the palace gates and looked, along with the hundreds of goodfolk. The cheer rippled down the avenue to us, spread out over the voices and they raised their hands in excitement. I let my kir-cloak unfurl and stood waiting. Elders and officials joined me, shading their eyes against the sun.

Banners came first: Wodenberg’s black with the Shepherd moon, Suevia’s green with the white ram and ewe restored to it. Knights riding escort, from both kingdoms. Then I smiled, glad to see Kiefan at last. He’d gone to Temitte to meet Qadeem and his mother outside the city walls and had been away better than a week.

Though the weather had been fair and the road was easy, I’d pestered him for updates. That had been nothing like the grueling summer of hearing only what Kiefan could explain through our bond, feeling jolts of his anger and frustration, sending him kir and hoping it was enough.

Field Moon had started well, with word that some of the youths collected for the spring Equinox tithe had been rescued. A captain of the guard in the border city Suthleá had mounted a rescue to keep the tithed from crossing the river into Arcea’s clutches; his own daughter had been among them. But his Arceal superiors had attempted to arrest the captain and bloody riots had broken out.

Kiefan had gone to support those who’d accept me as saint. He’d taken Suevi soldiers, along with Scyfe and Glyman, and the rooting out of the Arceal divisions along the southern border had taken much of the summer. There were still rumors of warlords and renegade Arceal companies in the south but Kiefan had come home on a rising tide of success and hope. The noble houses, the guilds, the good-folk chanting in the streets, had all demanded a coronation.

Now he traveled with precious cargo. Not just his mother and my teacher.

Qadeem and Mercia rode side by side, the saint carrying her hand formally. The cheering rose to a thunder around her. She came with her head high, dressed in white and green, finally free of her black mourning veil — all but glowing in the triumph.

The banners and knights circled around to the stable gate; Kiefan dismounted before me and was followed by our guests. A small corner of me wanted to shove them all aside to see what other guests were among them — and where was Anders, mother have mercy? — but there were formal greetings to give.

Qadeem presented the Aethling’s-dóhtor to me, and Suevia, as a sign of the good-will between our kingdoms. I spoke of the people’s gratitude and confirmed that good-will. Mercia called this the most joyous day of her life, returning home with her son and grandson.

I dared crane my neck to search the stopped column that curled from the palace gates across the crowded square. I saw Anders on horseback and glimpsed grey ears. One of the elders discreetly poked me for having missed my cue.

“Dear guests, please take refreshments and rest before tonight’s banquet to welcome the Aethlings-dóhtor home,” I said. The crier would remind the goodfolk of tomorrow’s celebrations and to balance their accounts for Equinox. I could clear out of the gate now and let the rest of the procession into the gate-yard. They came, leading their horses, and quickly filled the space. I could see… I craned again, climbed the two little steps to the palace’s double doors in searching the milling horses.

I heard a cry, my only warning. Frida caught me in a hug. “At last!” she cried. “Oh, so long! Oh, look at you! So beautiful!” Frida put me at arm’s length to survey the jewels, the gold.

Tears streaked her cheeks. I kissed them away on both sides, not wanting her to cry even if it was joy. “Thank you. Thank you so — for all you’ve done,” I managed to say before the question I had to ask fought its way out. “Where’s Rafe?”

“Kate!”

Frida let me go to turn and hug Kiefan. Tight. I took a deep breath of him, freshly scrubbed and shaved with lavender soap. “I missed you,” I murmured, near his ear.

/ safe / warm /

I’d never have guessed he felt as safe in my arms as I did in his.

Kiefan gave me an extra squeeze and let me go. He still wore black, but with Suevi green layered underneath, peeking under loose sleeves and at his collar. His sword was Woden’s, once again, its moon-white pommel under his hand.

His smile was his own as he kissed me. “I missed you.”

“Where’s Rafe?” I asked again. “He’s gotten past his shyness?” Through the bond, Kiefan had told me that Rafe had clung to Frida when they first met. He’d only said that they were improving, after that, and the muddle of Kiefan’s emotions had been difficult to sort. Save for a deep wanting to understand his son.

“Rafe’s a sweetling. He loves everyone.” Frida slipped her arm in mine.

“He was cautious at first,” Kiefan answered me, “as befits a prince. But as he assisted me in my correspondence, each night, we developed a mutual interest in quills.”

“Quills?” My brows rose, then crinkled together.

“The barbs must be carefully stripped before you cut the nib,” Kiefan said. “It takes a great deal of practice. A great many feathers.”

I breathed a laugh, picturing my son stripping a feather down to its spine with clenched baby fists. But he wouldn’t be so small any more. He’d been six moons old when I left and now his first Lambing-day was in just a week off — my breath caught, finally spotting them.

Around the edge of the gate-yard walked a grey-dappled warhorse, tossing his mane each time he wanted to bite an unwary guest and was tugged back. Anders kept Nipper in line as they looped past the palace gates and as they went some of the officers called well-wishes. Nipper pranced to a stop before the open palace gates. Anders waved toward the crowd outside, got a dozen waves in return and a cheer for the Knight Protector. A small hand flew up to do the same.

My throat knotted. Rafe straddled the saddle’s pommel, leaning back against Anders. The hand that held Nipper’s reins also held him close by the chest, but I breathed easier when Anders had both hands back on my baby. At a touch, Nipper’s stride lengthened and he circled to the palace’s front doors.

Rafe was so big. My hands covered my gaping mouth. He was in black woolen cotes, socks, little leather shoes and oh, his hair was still downy-fine and so wild. Needed combing. It caught the sunlight and turned gold.

Anders stopped Nipper and grinned at my wide eyes. Rafe threw up both arms. “Ga-ma!”

Frida reached to take him and kiss his cheek. “Papa took you riding! Such a big boy!”

“Papa?” Rafe echoed her, turning toward Kiefan. Waving, he repeated, “Papa…” Then he stuck his fingers in his mouth.

“Your Mama’s so glad to see you,” Frida told him, carrying him to me.

My hands flew from my face to reach for him. Rafe looked at me, his grey eyes innocent.

“Give Mama a kiss.”

That was his cue; he threw his arms up, I took him, hugged him tight as I dared. Rafe kissed me on the cheek, soft and wet. His arms, around my neck, squeezed as tight as he could. My heart wanted to rip from my chest to be closer to him.

Rafe decided when he was finished hugging and leaned away from me. Twisting, he found Frida and reached for her. I handed him back with some reluctance but he'd be mine again soon enough. Frida carried him into the hall where cider and honeyed oatcakes were on hand for refreshments. It was already full of talk and good cheer; Saint Qadeem stood alone in an aisle from doorway to dais, waiting for me.

He was just the same as ever, in woolens and a fur-lined cloak, and yet looked different. Perhaps I looked as different, too.

I walked toward the dais. Qadeem fell into step beside me.

The driftwood throne stood on the dais, pale and sinuous. A thin cushion on the seat bore the Aethling’s crown, a heavy, braided thing clutching chunks of gemstone in its coils. A rugged thing, in contrast to the gentility of Suevia thus far.

“A good sign, that the people wish their king crowned,” Qadeem said in Englic. “The people on the Southbound Road spoke only of your kindness and healing. And of the rioting in Suthleá, and of Kiefan's successes. Not an easy birth of a kingdom, perhaps, but not so hard as some.”

“Would that there'd be no worse ahead,” I said.

“There will be,” Qadeem said, plainly. “Arcea unravels at the seams. There's founts to be taken if one has the strength. I'm the sole master of four, now, if the lamia fount can be said to be mine — I'm the envy of the world. A difficult job to have.”

He needed peace with me as much as I needed his advice and aid. “It's not only Arcea that unravels,” I said. “Have you had word from Caercoed?”

Qadeem's voice lowered. “I know Eryr Pass still stands open.”

I nodded. “As does Dwyncraig Pass. The Caer merchant ships came late this year, and under a flag of truce. Duchess Faola, of Henffyrdd, and her cousin duchess of Lancynnes, sent a letter with them. They asked for peace.”

“They asked, for themselves?”

“For Henffyrdd and Lancynnes, no more.” There'd been mention of Duchess Faola’s marriageable son and a younger pair of daughters of Lancynnes, but the most telling tidbit had been written separately. “The second note, wrapped within the first, was charmed with a spark to destroy both if it was cut by less an an elect,” I said. “Crown Ciara is imprisoned. By the saints.”

Qadeem shifted on his feet, pursing his mouth.

“Saint Conbarre ordered it. Caercoed is split in anger over it. Anger at their own saints.”

He nodded. “And the elect?”

“Must be split as well. It was Tannait who signed and charmed the note. She thanked me for sending Teleri home with her sword. The story swayed more to their cause.”

“Never doubt,” Qadeem said, “how much saints need their elect. Never doubt how badly you were needed in Wodenberg, or how we thanked the Shepherd for sending you.”

That still touched me, despite that I knew I must be careful in my dealings. Even with Qadeem. He would expect no less of me. “And I thank the Shepherd for giving me a neighbor I can gladly offer peace to,” I said. Adding a smile, I modified that to, “Once we've settled a few matters of land and kings.”

He smiled too. “Indeed. No small matters, either. You must ask me to share Temitte and give over the land we rightfully conquered.”

I stepped up to the dais, touching both my bonds as I went. They came at once, both my elect. Kiefan with a parting kiss to his mother’s hand. Anders gave Theo’s shoulder a fond cuff and left his friend at the palace door. I couldn’t help smiling as they joined me on the dais. I stood before the throne and they dropped to one knee on either side. I’d never asked them to, but they’d made a habit of returning to that moment I’d bound them.

A page stood with a tray of fresh cider, waiting for his chance to pass out the cups. We all took one.

“You must ask me to share my elect and my son, and guard your southern border,” I said. “No small matter.”

“No.” Qadeem raised his cup and his voice, switching now to Suevi. “First, a toast to the unity of Suevia and Wodenberg. To the blood of old saints and new.” He nodded toward Kiefan, who returned it. Every cup in the hall was raised to join in. “To peace in the midst of crumbling empires and troubled neighbors. May we find it and keep it.”

“May we find it and keep it,” I agreed, and in unity we drank.