12th of Iohan, 1019 N.F (e.y.)
The humidity was stifling.
Recha’s dress clung to her entire body. Her fluffy velvet skirts gripped to her legs, her lace cuffs made her neck and wrists itchy, and no manner of shaking her sleeves would loosen their strangle-hold around her arms. The weight of her broach pressed her blouse against her collarbone. Sitting rigid, with her back off the coach seat, kept her corset from strangling her. The brim of her cream-colored hat protected her from the Easterly Sun’s glare, yet a ring of sweat already tightly sealed its inner lining around the circumference of her head.
That rain’s ruining my entrance parade! Or rather, the humidity it left behind was.
Manosete was muggy and steaming after two days of intermittent rain. The breeze coming off the Desryol Sea stood no chance of drifting through the city’s harbor and outer buildings to reach the inner city. Thus, Recha and her armies were forced to march through the hazy cobblestone streets while the city’s denizens watched from doorways and second- and third-story balconies.
She peeked out through the coach’s window at the closely stacked, brick buildings. The bricks had lost their bright, orange hue centuries ago, leaving the clay a dull patchwork of browns and darker tans.
She picked out a few faces peering over the edges and through their balconies’ iron bar railings. Mostly the young, curious faces of children, unable to resist the beating drums and the soldiers’ pounding bootheels and had to take a closer look before the cautious hand of a parent dragged them back inside.
Recha smirked at three children hanging on a balcony’s railing with their arms over the side. Two boys flanked a girl and competed for her attention by pointing down at the soldiers below. The girl instantly spotted her carriage and pointed excitedly.
At least someone in this city is excited for my arrival.
Although, she was entering as a conqueror of sorts, thus it was a bit much to expect the city masses to spill out on every street corner to cheer and wave. At least, that was what Cornelos, Hiraldo, and all her other officers had remarked when she’d discussed how her entrance into Manosete should go.
The downside of having military-minded officers around her was that they all thought of the best ways of securing the city and ensuring her safety rather than making her entrance the grandest show the people of Manosete had ever seen. Therefore, she was stuck riding in a commandeered carriage, whose origins and original owner she could never get a straight answer for, instead of riding at the front of her escorting column behind all the standards they had taken at Ribera’s Way.
She took a deep breath and ran her fingers through her hair laying over her left shoulder.
Sharp, metallic pings of horseshoes against the cobblestones cut through the steady beat of marching feet bouncing off the close-set buildings. The cordon of soldiers marching around her carriage like a moving perimeter opened a gap, allowing Cornelos, in full armor and regalia as her commandant, to pull his horse alongside, matching the carriage’s speed.
“La Dama!” he said loudly.
“Commandant,” she replied, “is something wrong?”
“No, La Dama. We’re a few blocks from the Plaza de Dente, and General Galvez has sent back his initial report. The plaza is secured, and the city’s delegation appears to be in place, as agreed.”
“Very well.”
The rain had provided the perfect lull for Baron Esqava to take her conditions back to the rest of the officials and barony in the city. After the first day of waiting, she’d feared they would stubbornly hold behind their walls and force her to implement her strategy of marching around the city. However, agreeing to relinquish the Borbins’ corpses to the church resulted in a swift capitulation several hours later.
The sight of their marqués and his heir dead must have been enough. She rubbed her eyebrow with a finger. I wonder if one of the madres had the same idea?
It made sense for the church to prevent needless bloodshed, yet it still left the question of which one suggested they make the request. That madre could be a useful future ally, both in the city and the church.
She glanced out the window and saw Cornelos frowning at the buildings. “You certain nothing’s wrong?”
“Hmm?” Cornelos snapped around. “No, La Dama. It’s”—he glanced back at the buildings—“these close buildings make me uneasy, is all.”
Recha sniffed sharply. “Which is why all of you put me in this box, need I remind you?”
“It is for your safety,” Cornelos reassured her.
She waved her hand dismissively. “Just tell me when I can get out. It’s suffocating in here.”
The parade continued. The rocking of the coach, the marching footfalls, and drum taps all kept time to remind her she was still moving. Her eyelids drooped, getting lost in their harmonizing cadence.
A seizing chill rocked her shoulders, and she took a deep breath, blinking rapidly to snap herself out of it.
Too bad I’m expected, or this would be the perfect time to nap. Especially since there were no cheering crowds to wave to.
She checked outside the window and brightened.
The closely built dwellings were replaced by large, spacious, two-story buildings of cut, white stone and clay-slated rooves. They each bore an official look about them, with pillars flanking their double doors and curtains visibly hung in each wide window. Spaces wide enough for coaches and carriages separated the buildings with walkways to side doors interconnecting them.
Finally—Recha smiled—we’ve reached the plaza.
The buildings fell away no sooner than she’d thought that. To her right and left, companies of her pikemen from the First Army stood in squares, along with rows of calleroses behind and between them.
“Company!” a distant officer shouted. “Right!”
The company of musketeers escorting her carriage broke away, wheeling as their officer instructed to join the rest of the parade at rest. Ahead of them, she rode upon a company of calleroses, each displaying one of the captured standards taken at Ribera’s Way. The standard held in front of them all was Borbin’s, held lower than hers, of course.
Her carriage began to turn before she could survey more of the plaza, and she rode under a great shadow, a looming column too tall for a tree yet too straight to be a mountain.
We’ve arrived.
She prepared herself, straightening her skirts, tugging on her sleeves, fluffing her lace, wiping the traces of sweat off her forehead, and hiding any damp strands of hair she found.
Her carriage slowed, and her cordon of soldiers broke away, quickly rushing ahead. Recha pulled back so the waiting delegation wouldn’t see her hanging out the window, gawking like a girl entering society.
The carriage came to a stop and rocked, and she counted the seconds and listened, catching every near and approaching footfall in the expecting quiet.
Cornelos opened the carriage door then stepped aside with his hand out. She took it, more for show and a little added security of not slipping in front of whatever delegation waited to greet her. She stepped out into the freedom of the open plaza and onto a black carpet with gold tassels rolled out from the first steps of the leading to the Hand of the West to her carriage door. Two rows of her soldiers stood at attention down the carpet with their swords raised in the air over it.
A divided crowd filled nearly half the Hand of the West’s wide steps, six slabs of carved granite, the weight of each likely unimaginable to compose the foundations of the grand structure they sat upon. The base of the tower was constructed in a large octagon. The Easterly Sun’s rays shined in a multitude of sparkles against the obsidian sides of the tower, reaching like the stars twinkling in the night sky, while windowless bottom floors in the sun’s shadow were black as pitch.
Half of the crowd blended into that pitch. Five straight columns of soldiers in full, black, ornate plate armor and helms stood at attention. Each of their halberds bore black feathers around their axe heads, and upon each of their breastplates was engraved in silver an outreached hand, its fingers splayed out.
In stark contrast, a delegation from the Church of the Savior made up the other half the crowd. All their clothes were pristine white, from the deacons’ suits to the deaconesses’ and madres’ dresses. On the bottom step, waiting in front of their respective delegation, was Madre Caralino and a helmetless soldier with his fist on his sword, obviously an officer.
Recha took a handful of her skirt to prevent from tripping and marched under her soldier’s swords. Cornelos closed the carriage door behind her and followed. The thud reverberated through the open plaza, joining rhythmic pounding of troops from the Second Army marching in from the north. The carpet, meanwhile, muffled her heels and those of Cornelos’s and her four guardsmen trailing her.
“Madre Caralino,” she greeted warmly, “it’s good to see you again. I understand you, or the church itself, aided the barony in the city to come to accept my terms. I’ll be forever grateful for that.” But not so grateful to be swayed to rule at your whim. She restrained the thought and held her hand out, smiling as sincerely as she could.
“The Savior leads all who humbly accepts his guidance,” Madre Caralino recited, taking her hand. It was wrinkly and aged yet lacked calluses that evidenced any hard, grueling work.
Recha squeezed back to show she wasn’t put off before letting go.
“And I would be remised for not saying so,” Madre Caralino added, “however, the church’s voice was not raised in blind faith to gain your support, La Dama, but in thought of all the innocent people of this city who you did make clear might suffer should your terms be rejected.” She folded her hands and pursed her lips.
Oh? I’m to be scolded now, am I?
“Explaining the harsh realities of war isn’t a sin, Madre,” Recha retorted. “Neither was explaining the measures my armies and I are willing to take to bring this campaign to a swift end. As for the people of Manosete, they have nothing to fear. Every one of my officers are under the strictest orders that there shall be no looting or sacking of any kind. And if any soldier commits them, or any other heinous crime, they will be severely punished.”
Madre Caralino’s expression softened to a thoughtful frown. Her eyes narrowed judgingly.
Not wanting to drag this out, Recha stepped closer and softly added, “And I’ve also kept my agreement with the church. Not one member of the Viden de Verda has stepped foot in the city, nor will they put any of the barony, their guards, city officials, or members of the city’s garrison to the question. And no enclave of theirs will be allowed be built in this city. Just like Zoragrin, in my home marc, Manosete will be given the same protection and providence to the church.”
Madre Caralino’s lips tightened with every word until her face was as white as her clothes. That agreement had been between the church and Recha, and likely not something they’d shared with the barony. Recha knew the cult would be a source of great contention and, therefore, offered her terms to the madres on how they would be favored while the cult’s influence excluded from the city while they had waited for the city’s delegation to arrive a few days ago.
Of course, that won’t exclude me from using the Viden entirely. Most of the Orsembian barony may be cowed now, but some will plot. When that happens . . .
“Welcome to Manosete, La Dama Mandas,” Madre Caralino finally said, dipping her head. “Baron Esqava, along with all the heads of the residing barony and city officials, await you in the tower, as requested. Before that”—she motioned to the officer beside her—“may I present Gualdim Coriel, Grand Commandant of the Last Guard of Desryol.”
A sharp clang stung Recha’s ears from the Grand Commandant snapping his plated heels together. His dark, arching eyebrows accompanied his deep, brown eyes in giving her a wary, guarded look, never blinking as he gave her a respectful nod. Strands of gray dusted the edges of his black beard around his narrow face, leaving only the suntanned edges of his cheekbones and pointed nose exposed.
Of all the soldiers she had observed since entering Manosete, from the gate garrisons to guards outside a few of the baronies’ city houses, he appeared the least defeated and resolved to surrender than any of them, him and the soldiers behind him.
“La Dama,” Gualdim said in a surprisingly nasal voice, “the city’s garrisons have laid down their arms to you. The church has opened their chapels to you. It is my understanding that the various city officials and barons, once loyal to the Marc de Borbin, have agreed to submit themselves to your rule. But know this!” He stepped forward, head high, jaw and beard jutting forward, and chest proudly puffing his breastplate out.
Recha’s guards all reached for their swords and moved to put themselves between her and the Grand Commandant until she raised a hand to stop them.
“We are the Last Guard of Desryol!” His bellow reverberated through the plaza, punctuated by the soldiers behind slamming their halberds’ butts into the granite steps. “Our allegiance belongs only to the monarchy of Desryol and only by royal decree will we kneel and obey. The Hand of the West is our charge, the last true symbol of the Desryol monarchy. We do not serve this city. We do not serve, nor have we served, any marc that held dominion over it.
“We did not serve the Borbins. We will not serve you. You may have this city, but to peacefully enter this tower, the Last Guard demands that you uphold our terms and creed.”
Sweat dripped off Recha’s eyelashes. It squeezed through her tightly pressed palms she held together so as not to ball them at her sides.
Is this a joke? Or a scheme? Her jaw ached in protest from her clenching it while she inwardly railed. This city is mine. One gesture from me, and a whole company of musketeers can put that ceremonial armor to the test! I can shut all of you in there and wait a year to see if you’re still—
She took a deep breath to calm and remind herself that she had just promised Madre Caralino and the church she wouldn’t sack the city. If she ordered anything like that here, with more of her troops marching in, her soldiers could interpret it as the city resisting and begin plundering it. There would be no way of putting that fire out.
“Which are?” she inquired reluctantly.
“That the Last Guard be allowed to uphold its duty,” Gualdim began to list. “That we keep are arms and station here at the Hand of the West. To keep it manned, guarded, and preserved until the monarchy of Desryol is restored. That you do not demand we swear fealty to you, nor demand we serve you in any military fashion.”
“All that bluster just to keep your station? A station I find miraculous still exists, considering the line of Desryol is over a hundred-and fifty-years dead.” Recha’s jaw loosened, and the corners of her lips curled. She would have laughed if it wouldn’t have come off as arrogant.
The fall of the Desryol monarchy was a history lesson most nobles learned in an afternoon and then quickly forgot thereafter because it became less and less relevant with each passing year. Chroniclers recorded that the last Desryol king divided the kingdom into four equal parts among his four children—three sons and one daughter—instead of following the law of succession. Not a month after the old king had died, the children were already at war with one another, which eventually claimed not only their lives but the entire Desryol bloodline.
With the royal bloodline ended, the lesser nobles turned to carving up Desryol among themselves, beginning the Era of Campaigns and diminishing any importance to the old monarchy with each campaign season. Save for two things: the city of Manosete and the Hand of the West itself.
If this guard has survived for so long, Recha considered, maybe they’ll have their uses.
“I’m sure those terms can be agreeable,” she said.
“And one more,” Gualdim added.
Her lip curl deflated, her patience running out. “What?”
“That you do not proclaim yourself as queen of Desryol simply from holding dominion over the city. It takes more than holding a city to be royalty, as I explained numerously to Si Don Borbin.”
And he left you alive, did he? Recha pursed her lips and rubbed the sweat from her brow. The heat and pressing matters made the decision easier to run through in her head.
“I’m not here to proclaim myself queen, Grand Commandant,” she retorted. “Only to take charge of this city as further proof of my claim over Orsembar. Nothing more.”
They stared at each other for a few minutes. He likely was trying to gage if she was lying through intimidation while she merely sweltered. After all, she found little intimidating on this day.
“Very well,” Gualdim said, nodding, “the Last Guard will not defy your possession of the city nor bar you from the Hand of the West. The plaza is yours.”
“Thank you,” she replied.
She turned to Cornelos. “Carry on, Commandant Narvae.”
Cornelos clicked his heels together and raised his hand to signal.
A bugle rang out from the north end of the plaza, and ten drums rapped furiously. Everyone turned to face a twelve-foot-tall flagpole of the same obsidian stone as the tower. The bugle sang out in cadence with the drums changing to keep time to accompany the soldiers raising Recha’s standard high into the air. It was the largest banner she had, yet she could tell the pole could hold one double its size.
I’ll need to commission a larger banner sewn.
“Now”—Recha smiled at the delegation after the bugle played its last note and the drums fell silent—“shall we get out of this heat?”
~~~
“Presenting!” Cornelos announced, shattering the silence and making her jump. “Her Excellency! La Dama Recha Mandas, Marquesa of Lazorna and Marquesa of Orsembar!”
That might have been a little too bold. We haven’t taken it all yet.
She smiled, nonetheless, and wore it proudly when two members of the Last Guard pushed open the grand black door open with a teeth-grinding creak.
The inside of the Hand of the West was as luxurious as the outside was marvelous. Recha’s gaze climbed higher and higher, taking in its vaulted ceiling that stretched three more floors and could swallow her largest ballroom in Zoragrin twice over. Its floor was covered in lush, red carpet. Rich wooden paneling covered the walls for two stories before giving way to the black stone of the tower. Seven golden chandeliers lit the room in candlelight, yet only a quarter of it was filled by the city’s assembled barony and officials, awaiting her behind a long table of cypress wood, its polished red shine matching the carpet. It was also terrifically cooler inside the tower, by nearly twenty degrees, she would wager.
The Last Guard members took positions beside the door, and Cornelos and her guard took it as the signal to enter. Recha calmly followed. Her guard entered more as a show of power and authority than need for protection.
While scattered among the barony were calleroses, she had no fear of them. Her terms required that the officers of their guard attended this surrender and offer lists of those calleroses who would remain under the barony’s patronage and those who would be dismissed. None of them held the same resolute stance Gualdim and the Last Guard held.
The city’s delegation stood out in their array of fine clothes, hats, armor, and parasols. Their bright and light colors created a mosaic of lace, silk, and cloth against the room’s paneled walls.
Anxious faces greeted her as she entered. Peering out from under the brim of her hat, if a smile was returned, it was tight, several trembling, as if on the verge of screaming.
Baron Esqava and Sir Anes stood beside chairs on the other side of the table with stacks of papers, ledger and record books, and bottles of ink and quills laid out in front of them. Baroness Perti stood behind her husband, timidly watching behind her fan like the other day. One item on the table caught Recha’s eye—a silver case around the same size as her pistol’s cleaning kit.
Verdas’s payment. She licked her lips, eyeing the case, and was tempted to demand Cornelos seize it immediately. Begrudgingly, she stomped it down. After all, there was etiquette to follow.
Cornelos led her to the single chair awaiting her and pulled it out for her as her guard took up places behind her. Instead of sitting, she remained standing, letting the silence drag. The city’s delegation waited silently, expectingly.
“Thank you all!” she proclaimed. “Not just for presenting yourselves here today, but also for agreeing to my terms. I have already given this pledge to the church; however, I also wish to make before all here, as well.
“As my soldiers claim control of the city’s garrisons, it is my pledge that there will be no sacking the city afterward! I intend that Lazorna and Orsembar be together as one from this day forward.”
She turned to Baron Esqava and Sir Anes and said, “Shall we begin, gentlemen?”
“Of course, La Dama,” Sir Anes replied instantly.
“As you command, La Dama,” Baron Esqava nervously added.
Recha smoothed out her skirts then sat, allowing Cornelos to push in her chair under her. She waited as the two men sat and noticed the conspicuously empty third chair beside Baron Esqava.
“Are we missing someone?” she asked.
Baron Esqava frowned and lowered his head. “Begging your pardon, La Dama, we intended for Sir Varqos Estvia to join us, but he has resigned his post as Commandant de Guardia Policia, and we didn’t feel it fitting that he attend.”
“He was due for retirement, La Dama,” Sir Anes quickly added, his reassuring tone strenuously forced. “He and many of the others found this change too great for them and accepted your gracious offer to resign from their posts.” He patted the stack of parchments next to his ledgers, the stiff paper crinkling under his bony hand. “We hope your terms still stand that, so long as the city is surrendered and peace ensured, there will be no reprisal against them.”
Recha pursed her lips at the stack. That’s more than I thought there’d be. Means more replacements to find, more time needed to return Manosete to normal . . . more local administration to take up my time. Can’t go back on my terms now, though.
“Absolutely, my terms still stand, Sir Anes. Those officials who wished to resign during this transition will suffer no reprisals.”
Sir Anes physically deflated from relief. His shoulders rose and fell, and he patted the stack of resignations, as if comforting an old friend.
“Thank you, La Dama,” he said, sliding the stack to the center of the table. “All other officers are still willing to serve and continue at their posts. These”—he spread the numerous ledger books about him—“are the ledgers for the marc and its holding bankers, all the city’s accounts and its holding bankers and, as you required, Si Don’s private accounts that we could find.”
Once he had everything spread out, the old financer began opening the ledgers, revealing page after page of tightly compacted writing and letters that, at first glance, gave Recha a headache. Sir Anes, however, stood from his chair, stooped over them, and pointed at the pages, as if preparing to go line by line through them, much to many of the people in the room’s silent, pleading dismay, by their expressions.
“Now”—Anes pressed his finger into one of the books—“this shows the remaining treasury of the marc for—”
“Sir Anes”—Recha raised a hand, the first sign of surrender she had made to any Orsembian since her campaign had started—“with all respect, all appears to be in order. My staff can go over it more thoroughly with you later. I think it best we continue with these proceedings.”
“Are you certain, La Dama?” Sir Anes asked with a disappointed, drooping frown.
“Quite certain.” She waved him down.
Sir Anes folded his clammy hands together and sat back down with a begrudging nod.
Recha motioned at the ledgers to Cornelos and, a few finger snaps later, a couple of staff officers came to the table to gather up the ledgers.
“And Sir Anes,” she said once the officers had slid the ledgers over to the side, “until those resignations are filled, I will expect you to take on more responsibility for the city as the senior remaining city official.”
Sir Anes perked up. “Of course! I am honored and at your service for the good of the city, La Dama.”
We’ll see about that.
“I know it’s going to be some time to fill all those offices; however, I will need a list of capable candidates to fill them within a week. And, as for the markets, I expect them reopened in two days.”
Sir Anes’s face paled. “La Dama, are you sure you can’t give me more time? Candidates can be found, I assure you, but . . . some may wish to . . . observe your rule. And as for the markets . . . two days are—”
“Necessary, Sir Anes,” Recha said sharply. “New ruler or not, the people must eat, and to eat, they must have food. To have food, the markets must be opened. It’s the best way this city can be restored to normal life, and the sooner that happens, the best. Understand?”
Sir Anes’s mouth worked, likely searching for a reasonable excuse to buy more time. After a minute of enduring her hard stare, he accepted his fate. “Yes, La Dama.”
That done, Recha turned to Baron Esqava. The young man sat back against his chair, facing the table like a child waiting to be scolded.
He really isn’t meant for these matters.
She glanced at his fellow barony behind him. Apart from his wife anxiously watching him, the rest appeared bored, like soldiers waiting to be dismissed. This is all formality to them. It’s probably going to be the same as the early days when I took over Lazorna. A lot of watching, waiting, and . . . Savior help them if I have to rely on Harquis and the Viden more than I already do.
“Baron Esqava,” she said, snapping him out of his daze, “as the marcador of the late marqués, is everything in order for the formal surrender?”
Baron Esqava lowered his head, sweat glistening off his forehead. “Yes, La Dama Mandas! We’ve prepared everything, as stated in your terms and—”
“Begging your pardon, La Dama!”
Recha snapped around. Hiraldo stood at the entrance of the room, accompanying a stout calleros in plate armor. The balding man held the bearing of a seasoned, middle-aged guard rather than a soldier. She couldn’t explain it, except that he lacked any hard edges. His eyes were soft, and she caught him swallowing under her gaze.
“My humblest apologies on this intrusion, La Dama,” Hiraldo said, “however, an urgent matter has arisen. It is of the utmost importance that you hear of this matter now. May we enter?”
Recha gripped her knee under the table to prevent her calm to crack in front of the city delegation.
No, she groaned internally. Someone’s done it. Someone fought back, or fighting back, or . . .
She swallowed a curse by squeezing hard enough for her fingernails to dig through the skirt’s fabric and leave an impression in her knee.
“You may,” she allowed, in as controlled yet slight forced tone.
Hiraldo escorted the other calleros forward, along with a trailing group of staff officers. He brought the man within several feet, pointed out where he should stand, and then took a step forward. “La Dama Mandas, may I present Estev Montez, Commandant of the Guard for Dama Emilia Borbin, formally Dama Emilia Narios of Saran.”
The name struck her like a pistol ball. Givanzo’s wife! But if the commandant of her guard is being led here, then where . . .?
She spun around to Baron Esqava, the man already slumping in his chair and refusing to meet her gaze. “Explain this, Baron Esqava,” she ordered.
“Your pardon, La Dama Mandas,” Baron Esqava said, flinching. “We understood that one of your terms was for Dama Emilia to present herself to you today, as well, but . . .”
“But what?” She arched an eyebrow at him. His lack of courage was becoming tiresome.
“Respectfully, if I might interject,” Commandant Montez slurred, “I’ve come to speak in Dama Emilia’s place. It’s not for this . . . Orsembian boy to make excuses for her, or this lot of cowards!”
“How dare you?” a baron in the back demanded.
“You insult our lieges, you Saran pavaloro!” a calleros sneered.
“The only pavaloro here is you!” Commandant Montez retorted. “You and the rest of you calleroses so eager to remain in your lieges’ kitchens while you write out fellow men-at-arms!”
Shouts, insults, curses, and finally challenges rang out. Hands flashed to sword hilts. One incensed glare from Recha to Hiraldo was all the permission he needed.
“Silence!” he bellowed, snapping the delegation back to their senses. “You are in the presence of La Dama Recha Mandas! One more challenge to violence in her presence and all of you will be seized!”
Soldiers came rushing into the room, joining her guard and the staff officers, all ready to draw their swords, as well. The sight of which, thankfully, quieted everyone down.
“Thank you, General,” Recha said. “And, while you are here, perhaps your staff officers can join mine in taking up the calleroses lists that they were asked to procure. That was one of my terms, and I’m sure the barons have had plenty of time to think of their decisions. Right, Baron Esqava?”
Baron Esqava swallowed and emphatically nodded. “Yes, La Dama. Each household has brought a list of those calleroses they wish to retain and those they have decided to dismiss. And for that sudden outburst”—he swallowed again—“I offer our humblest apologies—”
“Please, stop apologizing, Baron Esqava,” Recha groaned. “It’s becoming tiring, and you’re in an impossible position, anyway.”
She motioned toward the far end of the table where the staff officers stood. “As for all calleroses here, I will forgive your outbursts if you present yourselves and your liege’s lists to my officers now.”
The calleroses eagerly accepted that, many stepping away as he instructed without a by-your-leave to their barons. Her staff officers too quickly forgot the disturbance, taking up the lists while also taking down the calleroses’ names, their barons’ employ, and inquire about those who were to be dismissed and where each was barracked in the city.
Back to something important, Recha thought, leaving the mundane work to the officers, and returned to Commandant Montez.
“Commandant Montez,” she said, grabbing his attention, “where is Dama Emilia?”
“Dama Emilia is at the villa of her late husband, La Dama,” Commandant Montez replied. “And we of her guard have fortified the grounds until we are certain of her safety.”
Recha sat straight against the back of her chair to give him a stern look more easily. “Oh, really? Was my word not good enough for your mistress that I would guarantee her safety?”
“With respect, La Dama”—Commandant Montez’s nostrils flared, taking a deep breath—“your guarantee came with only that Dama Emilia agree to your terms, but without any assurances. A simple guarantee isn’t enough.”
The sorting and soft talk among the officers and calleroses stopped. The barons and city officials became stiff in place, as if holding their breaths. A couple of Recha’s guards shifted their stances, likely preparing to seize the commandant on her command.
Instead, Recha looked to Hiraldo. “What’s the situation, General Galvez?”
Hiraldo snapped his heels together. “La Dama, when a squad approached the villa’s gates, they found them barred and the walls of the grounds manned. They have refused to lay down their arms until their mistress’s demands are heard, and currently, we have the entire grounds surrounded by now. We could take the grounds by force. However—”
“That would mean needless bloodshed.” She still had a pit in her stomach. “And Dama Emilia’s . . . demands are?”
“Upon renouncing all claims to the marc of Orsembar,” Commandant Montez began, “Dama Emilia requests immediate safe passage to Saran—”
“No.” Recha shook her head. “Finishing this campaign will take priority, and I will not be able to guarantee the safe passage westward until it is over.”
Commandant Montez cleared his throat and folded his hands behind his back. “In that case, Dama Emilia requests that she be allowed to safely remain in her current lodgings. It belonged to her former husband, after all. Along with that, she demands her guard, all which she brought from Saran, be exempted from disarming or limiting its strength. She’ll make another request for safe passage at the end of the campaign.”
Recha listened, expecting something more. They seemed perfectly reasonable requests, considering her position. However, willingness to renounce her claim to rule Orsembar because of her marriage to Givanzo and not attending in person negated the true reason Recha wanted her here.
I might as well blatantly ask.
“Tell me, Commandant Montez, has your mistress had her blood this month?” she asked.
Commandant Montez blanched. His jaw opened and closed to work out his words. “La Dama, I . . . I don’t . . .”
Numerous other men joined him in blushing or nervously turning their heads, many of the barons under the sideways glances of their wives.
“Yes, you do.” Recha snickered. “And I would expect the commandant of her guard to know. But I suppose I can rephrase.” She slid her smile away and replaced it with a hard, unflinching stare. “Is Dama Emilia pregnant?”
Of all the possible future threats to her in Orsembar, the possibility of Dama Emilia birthing Borbin’s grandchild was the greatest. Timotio was still at large yet on the run and simply needed to be hunted down. Resistant barons could be met and crushed. It was the watchful, rebellious ones who would be the most dangerous, waiting for a chance and cause to rally behind in the future. If they had the marc of Saran at their back, too, they would be the greatest danger of all.
Recha held her stare for a moment before adding, “This is the most important question you must answer for your mistress’s safety, Commandant. Depending on your answer, I can grant Dama Emilia’s requests or refuse them and order the grounds stormed this instant.”
Commandant Montez swallowed and raised his head. “To my knowledge, Dama Emilia is not with child.”
“You’re certain? It would be ill-advised to lie to me. No matter what your duty demands.”
“I’m quite certain, La Dama. Dama Emilia only spent a few nights with her late husband . . . in a marital way since they were married. If she were with child, she would have shown signs by now.”
Recha let him stand there, sweating, while at the same time allowing the others to watch. “Very well, I will allow her to remain on the grounds and keep her Saran guard if she agrees to my conditions. The first, naturally, she must renounce her claim to the marc of Orsembar in writing. If she is harboring any Orsembian dissident on her grounds, they are to be turned over to my soldiers. She is to raise the Saran banner over her grounds as a sign she has renounced her married name. If she does, I will view her as a Saran ambassador, with all privileges that come with such office. And before this campaign ends, I will need to see her in person. Can you deliver these conditions to her?”
“Of course, La Dama,” Commandant Montez replied instantly.
“Excellent!” Recha smiled. “She has two days to make her decision. Until she does, no one will be allowed in or out of the villa. If she still refuses to accept my terms or hasn’t decided until then, I will order General Galvez to take the villa by force, disarm all inside, and take your mistress into custody. You’re dismissed.”
Commandant Montez jerked from the pointed dismissal. However, neither Recha nor Hiraldo gave him leave to speak more.
Recha turned back to Baron Esqava, the matter settled. Hiraldo motioned for him to leave, and after clicking his heels together and a sharp nod in salute, the commandant followed the general out.
Recha took a deep, showy breath, encouraging others in the room to relax. “It can be such a joy to talk to soldiers. They give you a few direct comments, you retort with a few direct ones of your own, and that’s that. No beating around the bush.” She chuckled, and a few of the barons joined her. All she got from Baron Esqava, though, were a few twitches from the corners of his lips.
“Hopefully, that was the most exciting part of today,” she said. “Shall we continue with the transfer, Baron Esqava?”
“At once, La Dama,” Baron Esqava replied. He went into a flurry of straightening the long declaration in front of him, a piece of parchment three times as long and twice as wide as a normal parchment sheet, with every word written in a flourish and half of it blank for signatures. “We’ve prepared the declaration, as you requested. All who sign this today not only surrender Manosete to you, but also acknowledge you as the rightful marquesa of Orsembar, pledging our loyalty to you and your laws.
“And also . . . in accordance with your terms of surrender, we offer you”—he slid across both the declaration and the silver box—“the hieratical artifact to lordship of the Borbin family.”
Recha raised her eyebrows and gingerly took the box, ignoring the declaration for now. She set it in her lap, running her thumb over the box’s latch.
One more piece toward Elegida’s freedom.
Unable to contain herself, she opened the box, and her mouth opened. She was greeted by a violet glow that leaked out of the box to cast its light about her. It came from a jagged shard of metal laying crossways to fit its container. The shard’s length equaled her hand and was just as wide.
She studied it, struggling to clearly recall her uncle’s heirloom that she had given to Verdas three years ago and had cursed herself ever since for getting mere glimpses of it before giving it to the spirit. This shard had edges running down it, as if a blade of some kind. The violet glow came from a foil running down its center that shimmered like glass or crystal rather than steel.
What . . . is this?
“La Dama?” Baron Esqava called. “Is everything to your liking?”
She snapped the lid closed and snapped back to the importance at hand. “Yes,” she replied, placing the box back on the table close to her. “I couldn’t be more pleased.”
She picked up the declaration and sat back to read it. She heard the voices of Esquire Valto Onofrio and his wife, Golina, both in her head, reminding her to read it slow and twice over. Everything appeared to be order at first glance. Manosete was surrendered, every baron who put their name to the declaration swore fealty to her as the Marquesa of Orsembar, their lands, cities, and towns all coming under her protection. She read it three times just to be sure there wasn’t any hidden language, no triggering clause that gave them a way out of their pledge.
“Everything appears to be in order,” she finally said, happily, laying the declaration on the table.
Cornelos slid a bottle of ink and quill to her. She readied the quill and, hovering the ink-tipped feather over the parchment, glanced up at all the frowns of the barons and officials watching.
“I know this feels horrible to all of you,” she said comfortingly. “You feel like you’ve lost. As if everything all of you have strived for and worked toward will now amount to nothing. But work with me a few years, and I’ll show you what we can do together. Trust me; I may demand a high price for loyalty, but I’m not half as greedy as Borbin was.”
She failed to see any comforting smiles or accepting nods. At least I can say I extended the offer.
She returned to signing her name, making it as large, grand, and with as many flourishes as she could without being flamboyant. Once satisfied, she blew on it and sprinkled some sand to help it dry.
“Who wishes to sign next?” she asked, holding out the quill, wearing the largest grin in her life.
In the year 1109 N.F. (e.y.), La Dama Recha Mandas, Marquesa of Lazorna, conquered and absorbed the Marc of Orsembar; the first time in over fifty years one marc completely conquered another. Later historians would mark the conquest as the end of Desryol’s Era of Campaigns and the beginning of the nation’s wars of reunification. However, those who lived through them would call them by another name—the Wars of the Bloody Marquesa, the second of three events marking the Year of Upheavals.