We smell Black Vines before we see it, the wine-sweet perfume of its vineyards permeating the air so that it seems to sparkle on the palate. But soon enough we see the town as well, and there as expected we find the waiting throng…and one lone figure standing in the middle of the Royal Tribute where it runs into the town proper: a short figure in skirts, with the pointed ears and sinuous grace of an arboreal predator. Even from a distance, I can see that she stands erect with health and pride.
“Mayor Mara,” I call as we draw within earshot. “Have you done well by your people?”
“Former-Governor Angharad Godkin,” she answers. “I have…and so have you.” She turns to Ragna and bows deeply. “Your Grace. Be welcome to Black Vines.”
Ragna’s whiskers arch. “Thank you.”
“May I walk alongside you to your lodgings?”
Ragna considers. “Are your people going to pelt me with flowers?”
“No,” Mara says.
“Grapes?”
“Certainly not!” Mara says. “That would be expensive.”
“Then please do,” Ragna says, with just enough relief to be noticed. Mara’s eyes sparkle and she puts a hand on the side of her queen’s mount. Together we process through Black Vines, which is looking far more prosperous and its people more content than when last we arrived. But then, Mara’s had time to undo the oppression and injustices that corrupt former mayor Candahar visited on his own. The work appears to have healed her spirit also: she looks much better. I am glad to see it.
As with Crossroads, Ragna vanishes into a room with the mayor. I am left to my own devices, so I let the sunny streets lure me out of the inn and into the bustle of a town excited to be hosting their queen. I notice my men among them: Nedwin’s given them liberty, then. Probably in shifts…I don’t see enough of them for the Master General to have turned the whole army loose. It’s gratifying to have competent subordinates.
Still, there is only so much walking I’m willing to do. I delight and surprise some of the townsfolk when I soar up from among them and into the sky; with a wave to their upturned faces I ride the perfumed winds upward until I spot a red roof, a large field and a single milk cow wandering the fence’s edge. And then I can’t resist. I land just outside the farmstead and knock on the door, once-twice-again. There’s no answer. I wait a little longer as the cow watches from the pen.
“I suppose he went to town with everyone else,” I tell the cow.
The door creaks open for Tam Vinter’s father, who peers at me and then grins broadly. “Great Winged Spirit…have you brought me more manure?”
“No, sir,” I say. “Only a queen.”
“You bring useful gifts, Great Spirit,” the farmer says, amused. “Come in, Godkin Lady. Have some fresh milk, if you’re so minded.”
“I’d be delighted,” I say.
The farmer serves me the promised fresh milk along with crusty, dense slabs of bread spread with thick dollops of butter. There’s jam made from pale wine grapes and a hard orange cheese so delicious I wonder if I could import it, and both pair so well I alternate bites. Over this ambrosial repast, the farmer and I talk…the easy casual talk of weather and crops that I belatedly recognize as kin to the conversations I overheard my parents having with the crofters of the Sunblood Cliffs. It’s rewarding and relaxing and I enjoy myself immensely, so much so that I forget to don my official persona when Tam Vinter arrives to visit his father, holding hands with Oweir. That I was surprised by this only demonstrates just how tumultuous Shraeven was; ordinarily I would have noticed their relationship long before the hand-holding stage.
At least now I know why Oweir’s looked so settled. I approve. He needed someone to stand at his side, and Tam is obviously old enough to know his mind on the matter.
“Hello, Captain.”
“Mistress,” he says, uneasy. “I didn’t think to find you here.”
I smile, though the expression on his face disquiets me. Why is he upset? “Just visiting Tam’s father. Seeing how my feather blessing served.”
“Served very well, it did,” the farmer says, patting his muzzle dry with a napkin.
“I’m…just visiting too,” Oweir says, looking uncomfortable.
Tam’s father looks from me to Oweir and rises to clap a hand on the back of Tam’s shoulder. “Come on, son. We can do our catching up outside.”
I am left with Oweir and the feeling that there’s something unspoken thickening the air between us. “Sit,” I say.
He does, eyes on the loaf of bread. Studying his face, I try to guess at the source of his discomfort. I go with my first hunch. “Spending a lot of time with Tam, then?”
“I love him,” Oweir says. That’s not it, then; he’s looking me in the eye when he says it. When he starts toying with the farmer’s discarded knife, I know we’re coming to the real issue. “I’d like to stay here.”
“In Shraeven,” I say.
“Yes.”
He’s still not looking at me. “What about the Salt Caves?” I say.
“I’m only a threeblood, Mistress,” Oweir says. “And I’m not the heir to the Caves. They won’t need me.” He sucks in a breath. “The Godkin…I’m only a threeblood. And I lived with that all my life, the burden of being less-than-good-enough, and the need to marry properly and...” He trails off, gathering himself. “And then we come here and find out that it was all a lie? Every abuse my family suffered in silence, every prejudice….”
“I know,” I say, my voice gentle.
“Working with the mongrels, I guess I saw…I don’t know. It’s like the wreckage we left behind. But here they don’t do that. They don’t…don’t make that kind of mess.”
And it healed something in his heart, I see, to find a place where the cruelties that shaped his childhood are as nothing. So it is a concession and not an argument when I say, “They make different kinds of messes.”
“Yes,” he says, grateful that I’ve understood.
“And this has nothing to do with you having dead here?” I ask, keeping my voice gentle.
“Of course it does,” Oweir answers, meeting my eyes finally. “But it’s not the only reason.”
We’re silent then, a less burdensome silence now that he’s relieved himself of his secret.
“What are you planning to do?” I ask.
“I’m not sure. I was talking with Tam, thought we’d take up merchanting, or come here and help with his father’s farm…something different from all this.”
“All this being your military duties,” I say. “Which you cannot up and leave without finishing your term of service.”
His head jerks up. “Mistress, please—”
I sigh and pour the last of the milk into my cup. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to keep you if you want to go.” Thinking of my words to Mara not far from this spot only a few weeks ago, I say, “I need no heart-lamed captains.”
He has the grace to look embarrassed. “Mistress….”
“Enough, Oweir,” I say, as gently as I can for how tired I feel. “We’ll go through the motions of cutting you loose before we leave Black Vines. You can stay.”
He hesitates, then says, “Ma’am…I’d prefer to ride to the border with you.”
I glance at him, meet his steady gaze. We’ve almost made it through our entire campaign in Shraeven and he wants to see it through, and even though I’d prefer to deal with replacing him sooner rather than later I respect that desire. I smile. “All right, Captain. To the border. Now do your Mistress Commander a favor and go fetch back that farmer we chased out of his own home.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
* * *
The following day we resume our journey, heading down the Royal Tribute to Shraevensgate. I suppose I look distracted, riding, because that evening as we’re making camp Donal appears at my side.
“A spar?” he asks, casual.
I am standing outside, waiting for my tent to be erected. “You can’t be serious.”
“I assure you,” he says. “I’m very much serious.” At my askance look, he says, “Shall I swear by the yellow eggs of the blue-headed bull?”
“Not if you really mean it,” I say. I study his face. “You do really mean it. Why?”
“A duel made you queen of the Godkindred,” he says. “One that you would have lost had your opponent not been susceptible to spiritual attack.”
“I’m not planning on fighting any more duels,” I say.
“Of course you’re not,” he says.
This time I scowl at him. “I mean that. Queens don’t duel. They engage champions to duel for them.”
“Perhaps,” he says. “But queens can be the target of assassination attempts. Angharad—you’re an army officer. No matter what you become afterwards, that history will remain part of your legend. You understand?”
And that simply, I do.
“All right,” I say. “But don’t make me look too bad.”
“Not at first,” he agrees with a glint in his eye.
So, we spar that night, and we are observed by some and those some carry the story to the many who didn’t see it, so that the following night there are more or different faces. My joints protest the abuse, but my spirit refuses their complaints. Donal is right: I may be getting old and I may no longer be as quick as I used to be, but this is part of who I am…and as long as I am queen, this is part of who I’ll be.
Queen Angharad Godkin I, former army officer and winner of the pivotal duel of our religion’s history, should always know her way around a sword…and be able to prove it.
* * *
The bridge we built outside Black Vines is still standing: that’s no surprise. It’s the ferryman’s shack that inspires my peal of laughter.
“Gods!” Gavan exclaims. “You’d think they would have put that much effort into the bridge!”
“Oh no,” I say, amused. “The new tollman must be housed in comfort.”
Ragna huffs, ears flipping back. There’s no question of which project she would have prioritized.
“They’ll fortify the bridge, I hope,” Oweir says.
“We’ll fortify the bridge,” Ragna says, and rides after her heralds with their snapping banners and triumphal fanfares.
Fortunately, we don’t have to pay the toll.