BRAITH
Braith stood before the throne room doors, staring straight ahead at the pattern of the wood.
“Your Majesty?” The guardsman manning the door leaned down to catch her eye. “Are you well?”
Braith closed her eyes and swallowed hard. “No, I am not. I think I might be sick.”
“My lady.” Cameria’s voice came from Braith’s left. “Please, how can I help?”
“There is nothing,” Braith said faintly, her eyes fluttering open. “I simply must . . . enter.” She pressed her hands against the unforgiving oak door. “Can I do this, Cameria? Can I be Tir’s queen?”
The guardsman knight and Cameria shared a glance around Braith.
“How can I possibly? They don’t want me—Braith, the daughter of Gareth the Usurper.”
“Braith.” Cameria’s voice carried an urgent note.
Braith turned to her friend. “I don’t know if I can do it, Cameria.”
“You must.” She forced Braith to meet her eyes. “Do you remember what Yestin said to you at luncheon?”
“He told me not to let them out-shout me because I’m a woman.”
Cameria smiled. “Yes, he did say that. Do you remember what else?”
Tears glittered in Braith’s eyes, and her breath rattled. “He said my name is Braith En-Gareth, but I will reign like Caradoc—with strength, kindness, and goodness.”
“Yes. And you shall. You have it in you—and you always have.”
Braith drew a deep breath, pulled herself up to her considerable height, and nodded to the guardsman.
He and one of his fellows pulled open the door and announced her arrival. “Her Royal Majesty, Queen Braith En-Gareth, presiding over Queen’s Council, session one.”
A hundred pairs of eyes stared back at Braith. Repairs to the throne room were still in progress—repairs rectifying the damage incurred during the battle that had unseated her father. Her father, who was never meant to be king in the first place.
Braith lifted her chin, looking past the scaffolding and fresh paint and new wood.
“The committee chose you,” Cameria whispered as they entered the room.
Some of the two hundred eyes looked friendly. Others curious. Still others glared. Glowered.
Braith steeled herself and strode down the silver carpet before her. New, just like her reign. She had walked on this carpet a thousand times before, but then it had been green. And purple before that, when Caradoc II reigned.
She glanced at Yestin, seated at the council table.
Reign like Caradoc.
She passed the table where she once met with her father’s councilors. Now, seated around it were nine men and one woman Braith had appointed but two days ago, including the former First General. Her gaze roved to Sir Fellyck, an underlord of some of the villages surrounding Urian.
Fellyck had a reputation for his outspokenness, but he was popular with the people. Perhaps the only reason he never landed in Gareth’s dungeons. Gareth would have had unrest on his hands if he had removed Fellyck.
Braith needed his support now.
She reached her throne, the one in which she had always sat, now moved to the center of the dais and standing quite alone. No throne for her father. No throne for her mother.
Braith claimed her seat and met the eyes of her people. The court bowed as one, as they always did for their monarch.
A good sign? Mere habit? Who could say?
“Thank you. And welcome.” Braith cleared her throat. She pulled herself straighter, as if the point of a blade were at her back.
In a way, it was.
But when she spoke again, her voice rang out true and strong. “Let us begin. Forgive me for the novelty of holding my first council at evening. After all we’ve experienced recently, I trust we will survive the oddity of this as well.” She smiled, and a ripple of laughter rolled through the court. “I have called the council because urgent news has broken today, and I did not wish to delay in sharing this with my people. It is grave, indeed, but I trust in Tir’s resilience, even in these dark times.”
Braith paused.
“This morning, Gareth Bo-Kelwyd was discovered dead in his cell.”
Three seconds of absolute silence followed her declaration. Braith’s fingers whitened around the arms of her throne.
Then the room exploded in a roar.
A few rogue shouts rose above the din. “Justice!”
“Murder!”
“Who has done it?”
“Lies! Produce the body!”
Braith’s face did not change. This was expected. They had prepared for it, she and Cameria and Yestin. The loyalties of the courtiers were revealed by their shouts—those who had been struggling to accept Gareth’s dethroning shouted curses; those who had been loyal to the true king celebrated and cheered. More than a few courtiers looked lost, unsure whether they should say anything.
Wisdom in these times.
After a long while, Braith held up her hands, calling for silence. “I know this is troublesome news for many of you. I know some will view this as justice, but I remind you the Tirian justice system requires a trial. Gareth Bo-Kelwyd, knave though he was, ought to have been afforded the same rights as any Tirian.”
There was muttering among some of the nobles.
“We must launch an investigation into Gareth’s death. If he was murdered, the responsible party will be held accountable.”
She held up her hands again. Yestin Bo-Arthio caught her eye from the council table and offered an encouraging nod.
“I understand some may view this as a waste of resources,” the queen continued. “But Gareth Bo-Kelwyd was a poor king because he thought he was above the law. He did not respect Tir. I do. If someone dies under suspicious circumstances, the law demands that death be investigated. I plan to obey Tirian law. Just as I expect my people to obey Tirian law.”
“Majesty?” Sir Fellyck said from the council table. “May I speak?”
“Yes, Sir Fellyck.”
Fellyck rose and addressed the court as much as his queen. “Of course, we all respect the laws of the land. But perhaps this latest occurrence is an answer to our prayers.”
“Our prayers?” Braith’s eyebrow lifted.
Fellyck bowed. “Of course, Majesty. I only mean that trying Gareth for high treason would have been a great source of heartache—for you, my queen, and for Tir, and a great drain on our resources besides. Perhaps, with the avoidance of such a public affair, Tir can begin to heal from her wounds.”
“Death is a poor salve to bind a wound, Sir Fellyck. Especially murder.” Braith rose and descended the dais to look Sir Fellyck squarely in the eyes. “Please hear me, as I’ll not repeat myself again. I know what kind of man my father was. But he was under the care of the palace—under my care—until such a time as his trial could be held. We shall hold an investigation to determine if Gareth was murdered. If so, we shall discover who is responsible for Gareth’s death, and that person will be held to account. Am I clear?”
Fellyck lowered himself into his council chair. “Unavoidably, Your Majesty.”
Yestin offered another slight nod. Braith returned it.
But just as she reseated herself on her throne, Fellyck’s voice sounded again. “I apologize for my impertinence, Queen Braith. But I suppose your desire to hold a trial for the party responsible for Gareth’s death, if there is one, proves Her Majesty does not have an aversion to trials. I had wondered.”
“Aversion?” Braith frowned. “Why would you wonder such a thing?”
“Do we not have another important prisoner languishing in the dungeons at this moment?”
Braith sucked in a small breath but said nothing.
Fellyck showed convincing meekness. “Oh, have you forgotten, Your Majesty? Surely not. I know the business of the queen is varied and weighty, but surely she has not forgotten about Dray Bo-Anffir, her father’s closest advisor.”
“No.” Braith’s voice had lost half its strength. She well remembered his pitiful, wasted appearance last she had seen him. She remembered what sounded like remorse in his voice. Remorse, and perhaps a deep longing for redemption. A longing for something other than who he had been.
And a longing for Braith that she would never fulfill.
Yestin rose from the council table. “Dray remains in the dungeon. Perhaps Her Majesty will set a date for a trial.” His eyes were sympathetic but firm. This was right. This was necessary. Inevitable.
Braith found her voice again. “Yes. Dray will stand trial. As soon as the investigation into Gareth’s death is complete.”
“And the charges for Dray Bo-Anffir?” Fellyck was relentless.
Braith swallowed. “High treason.”
Braith shifted on her throne and turned to Sir Ethyn, the noble who had just been petitioning her. “I understand your province has been hit hard by the riots.”
Ethyn inclined his head. “Majesty, we need soldiers immediately. Aid. Something.”
Braith measured her words. She did not wish to reveal that at least half her army had deserted when Gareth fell. Stars, some of them were leading the rioters.
“I understand your plight. I will do all I can to aid my stewards, governors, and lords. You have my word.”
Would it be enough?
Sir Ethyn bowed, though he offered none of the wheedling thanks the lords were so prone to offering Braith’s father.
“Is that all for petitions?” Braith asked.
Yestin glanced at a piece of parchment before him, then nodded to the queen.
“Very well. I should like to begin our investigation, then.” Braith signaled to a guardsman at the back of the room.
Two men entered the throne room. Just two. It had been all Cameria could manage to round up on such short notice.
Murmurs sounded.
Fellyck watched as the men approached the queen. “What is this?”
“Colormasters,” Braith said. “I know Gareth enforced deeply restrictive policies on such weavers, but I intend to restore them to the positions and functions they once held.” Braith nodded to the two colormasters. “If you please, gentlemen, you may begin to recreate the scene you observed in Gareth Bo-Kelwyd’s cell this morning.”
One colormaster, an aged man dressed in peasant clothing, hesitated at the tabletop. The other, younger and wearing the finer garb of one who lived in the palace as the second son of a courtier, allowed his fingertips to light.
Braith stood and walked down the dais. She put her hand on the arm of the older colormaster. “It is all right. You will not be harmed. You have my word.”
The man nodded once, then his fingers, too, lit up.
The younger colormaster was already sweeping his hands above the table. Strands like paint spilled out, and he directed them with ease. Before many moments passed, an image took shape—a dark cell with a large man’s body lying in the middle.
Braith closed her eyes. After a short breath, she opened them again and began to examine the evidence.
The older colormaster swept his fingers over the image on the council table. He added detail the younger man missed. A particular shade to the eyes, a clump of straw clustered in one corner of the cell, markings on the body.
After a few moments more, both colormasters stepped back and bowed. It seemed their work was complete.
Braith nodded slowly. “Thank you very much, indeed.” She stared at the image they had created—so real, it was as if they were standing before the scene in person. “This.” She pointed to the markings around her father’s throat. “Was he . . . strangled?”
“I believe so, Majesty.” Cadwyth Bo-Balas, captain of the palace guard, had joined the councilmen at the table and was examining the picture alongside the others. “Do you see his eyes? The broken vessels there.” He cleared his throat.
How awkward he must feel to have this discussion with the dead man’s daughter.
He glanced sideways at Braith, then continued. “That suggests strangulation.”
“Indeed.” Braith leaned closer, and sure enough, the older artist had filled in that detail.
“Majesty?”
Braith sighed a little. “Yes, Sir Fellyck?”
“This is all well and good.” He held up the piece of parchment he had brought to the council meeting. “But if it pleases you, I have other items I’d like to discuss.”
“Oh? And what be they?”
“Well, I’d first like to address the sticky matter of Sir Dray Bo-Anffir.”
Braith’s voice hardened. “Oh? I thought we had already discussed that matter.”
“The council is well aware that you and Sir Dray had a relationship of a personal nature.”
“Indeed!” She fought for control. “I was unaware of this personal relationship.”
Of course, Dray had made no secret of his desire to wed her, but that was not her fault.
General Bo-Arthio cleared his throat. “Sir Fellyck, may I point out that Her Majesty has given us no reason to suspect she would not be fair and evenhanded with any prisoner who stands accused, no matter who he is? Let us not forget she stood against her own father when he was in the wrong.”
“Indeed.” Fellyck’s voice sounded full of icicles. “And what do you know of this, Bo-Arthio? Could you hear council meetings from your hideout? Have you been eavesdropping at court these last thirteen years?”
“That’s enough.” Anger laced Braith’s words. “General Bo-Arthio has been appointed to this council the same as any of the rest of you, and I will not tolerate disrespect. Disagreement and discourse are encouraged, but disdain is not. Now, in answer to your original question, Sir Fellyck, Dray will be brought to trial before the council and myself, just as any other prisoner. But we will see to this matter you have interrupted first.” She returned her attention to the art on the table.
“And my other matter?” Fellyck insistently held forth his parchment.
“Yes?”
He pursed his lips. At least he seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “Your Majesty, I mean no disrespect, but your unorthodox succession to the throne requires some discussion.”
Braith stared at him.
“Tir accepted your father’s own rather unorthodox succession because King Caradoc’s will seemed explicit and clear. But that was the first time Tir has been ruled by a man of no royal blood. And this . . .” He gestured to Braith. “Again, no disrespect. But not all the riots in the streets are on account of your father, Majesty. If nothing else, further inquiry would protect you from speculation, coup attempts, and a whole host of other unsavory possibilities I’m sure Your Majesty would not like to face.”
Braith’s gaze dropped back to the table. She stared at the image of her father’s body. “Very well. I will remind you I was chosen by the committee. But we shall open such investigation and discussion after the case of my father’s murder has been looked into to my satisfaction.”
Fellyck bowed. “Thank you, Majesty. And do make haste. The oak doors of this palace are only so strong.”
Braith waited until the throne room was mostly clear before she sat and dropped her head in her hands. She lifted it at the sound of approaching steps.
Yestin bowed. “Majesty.”
“Yes, General. How goes the preparation for your voyage?”
“I believe the captain and his, ah, crew have it well in hand.”
Braith smiled. “Never fear. I have commissioned a naval commander and his men to accompany my rogue weavers on their journey.”
“I’m glad of it. I’m sure the Bo-Lidere boy is a fine sailor, but the others . . .”
“Yes. I suppose they are the greenest sailors a queen ever commissioned.” Braith’s smile fell. “My first council was a disaster.”
Yestin’s eyes were kind. “I’ve seen far worse in my time.”
“I just thought . . .”
“It would be easy?”
“I suppose I thought it’d be easier without having my hands tied by my father and his whims. I thought when I had more authority . . .” She sighed. “Foolish, I know.”
“Optimistic.”
She gave a short laugh. “Well, General Bo-Arthio, I’m afraid that after one council meeting on this throne, I’m beginning to understand my father’s iron rule more than I ever did sitting in that chair.” She nodded to her former seat at the council table.
“Yes, Majesty. Understand, perhaps. But not support.”
“No, not support.” She glanced at him wearily. “Let us never hope so.”
Yestin offered his arm to Braith. “I have no worries about that, Majesty.”
Braith rose and accepted his arm. The two strolled toward the throne room door. “You have more faith in me than I do in myself, General. But I shall endeavor not to disappoint you.”
A guardsman opened the door for the queen and her advisor.
Yestin remained silent as they walked for a moment.
“General, might I ask a favor?”
“Of course, Majesty.”
“Would you escort me to the palace gardens? I long for the days when I was freer to wander there. Even then, I felt like a bird trapped in a cage. But now . . . I cannot recall when last I enjoyed the sunshine and fresh air. Would you mind terribly staying with me?”
“Not in the least, Queen Braith. It’s my honor.”
Braith smiled. “No need to stand on ceremony, General.” They descended the palace stairs. “I know you’re busy with your preparations, but somehow I cannot bear to return to my chambers. Preparations for our next council are all that await me there.”
“It will come easier in time.”
“Is it strange that I rather hope not?”
Yestin lapsed into silence as they cleared the stairs and crossed through the crowded palace foyer toward the front doors.
“It will become more familiar,” Yestin said at last. “You were born for this.”
Braith’s eyes misted. “That is kind of you to say, General.”
“I mean it.” He led Braith toward the palace doors. “Your blood may not be royal, but it is diplomatic, and I think that is better.” He gestured Braith forward.
But before they could take another step, a shout sounded nearby.
“Down with Gareth’s line!”
Braith spun just in time to see a dagger flash toward her.