30
The Wheel of Stars
“It is most generous of you to meet with me, Queen Miriamele. I am humbled by your kindness.” The astrologer, resplendent in midnight-blue robes covered with silver stars, bowed so deeply that Miri thought an expensive tapestry had been thrown over a footstool. “It is seldom that the importance of our art is fully understood.”
“Please rise,” she said. “You are welcome, Oppidanis. In truth, it’s Duchess Canthia who spoke well of you and asked me to see you.”
He nodded rapidly. “The Duke and Duchess—in fact, the entire Honsa Benidrivis—have been steadfast patrons of the astrological arts for as long as anyone can remember.”
Except for that time Benigaris threw one of your people off the balcony for telling him something he didn’t enjoy, Miri thought, but of course did not say. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“Just a little word here and there to help me, Your Majesty. I am constructing a chart of your family and their royal destinies as the stars foretell them, as I already have done for Duchess Canthia. Have you seen the Benidrivine Wheel?”
“I’m sorry, the Benidrivine . . . ?”
“The wheel of stars. Forgive me, sometimes I forget that not everyone I speak to spends his day poring over old histories and such. We call it a ‘Wheel’ because the stars move in circular motions around the world, which is why their influence is both constant and predictable.”
“Ah. No, I’m sorry I haven’t seen it. I’m sure it is very fine.”
“Modesty forbids me from agreeing, but I can say it is my best work. May I ask you some questions, Majesty?” He lifted the great bag that sat beside him onto his lap, then pulled out rolls of parchment. “I know much of your own family history already, my queen, because of course your mother was born here.” He unrolled first one parchment, then another, frowning as he studied them. “But although I know that your husband is himself descended from old Erkynlandish royalty—Eahlstan Fiskerne himself, as all know, the famous Fisher King—I confess that information about that family and its history are in short supply here in Nabban.”
Miri shook her head. “I’m afraid you may be digging a dry well, sir. I do not know many details from before my husband’s own life began, because he was an orphan. His father was Eahlferend, a fisherman. His mother was a palace servant named Susannah who died giving birth to Simon.”
“And your husband’s name was originally Seoman, yes?”
“Yes, but most call him Simon, the Westerling version of the name.”
“Of course, of course.” Oppidanis was busy scratching notes in the margin of his parchment with a lead stylus. His fingers were gray from obviously frequent practice. “But what about the history of Eahlstan the Fisher King himself? There is a famous story that he married some kind of water-witch. Do you know the truth?”
“A water-witch!” Miri could not help laughing. “I have never heard such a thing! Where did you learn that?”
“It is in many old histories,” said the astrologer a little stiffly. “We do not make things up, Your Majesty. We strive for accuracy at all times. In fact, it is a famous story, and I am surprised you have not heard it. It tells that Eahlstan met a beautiful woman who was bathing in a lake, and fell in love with her. It was only later that he found out she was the daughter of a river god.”
“Please, Oppidanis. I see you wear a jeweled Tree around your neck. You are an Aedonite. Do you also believe in river gods, like your long-ago ancestors?”
“Often there is a germ of truth to be found in even the oldest and most unseemly stories.” The astrologer looked like a hurt child, as if he might bundle up his charts and notes and hurry away in tears.
Miri reminded herself she had promised Canthia to give the man an hour. “At least, nobody can say the tale is false,” she conceded. “The Hayholt existed in Eahlstan’s day, but there were few other settlements in Erkynland bigger than villages, or at least so I have been told. The person you really should speak to is Lord Tiamak, our royal councilor. He has been writing a book about the Hayholt and its history and knows far more about ancient Erkynland than I do.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty. I know Lord Tiamak only by reputation. I wrote to him once but received no answer. Perhaps you can put in a good word with him for me . . . ?”
“I would be happy to.” But he probably still won’t answer. Tiamak has time for all kinds of scholars, but I do not think he is particularly fond of astrologers.
She gave Oppidanis the full hour, answering every question to the best of her ability, although she could tell he was frustrated by how little she knew. The Nabbanai had always been far more interested in their ancestors than Erkynlanders, as was obvious in any great noble house in Nabban, where masks and statues of their illustrious dead covered the walls and lined the hallways. And of course, Simon’s ancestors, however royal their bloodline, had been unlettered people living a life of hunting and fishing, meeting in loose tribal groups to choose their leaders while the Nabbanai were at the height of their sophistication. Where would Simon’s people have hung their ancestors’ death-masks? From the trees? Before the church came to take Erkynland back from the pagans, who would have kept records of marriages and births?
Still, when the time was up and Canthia returned to hover politely in the doorway of her own retiring room, Oppidanis seemed satisfied. He bowed deeply before he left, making profuse expressions of gratitude, both to the queen and to his patroness, the duchess.
“Do you see?” Canthia asked Miri when the astrologer was gone. “Is he not a most scholarly and pleasant man?”
“Yes, certainly. I hope I’ve helped him.”
“Ah, but I hope he will help you, too!”
Miri was puzzled. “How so?”
“By telling you what the stars have in store for you and your family, of course. Before my dear little Serasina was born, or before I even knew I was with child, Oppidanis told me, “A great joy will come to you soon.”
Not overwhelmingly specific, Miri thought. “How clever of him. Now, is there anything else I must do today? I feel strangely tired. I confess, dear Canthia, that waiting to sign the covenant with Lector Vidian and all the leading families feels like a great burden when I wish very much I could be back in Erkynland at my husband’s side. You and the duke have been kind and generous hosts, but I long for home.”
“Of course you do, with all that has happened.” Canthia tactfully did not mention either Idela’s death or Morgan’s frightening disappearance, but for a moment an awkward silence hung in the air.
“Just so,” Miri said at last. “Ah, it is so warm today! If there is nothing further expected of me today, I would like to rest until the evening meal.”
Canthia’s sheepish look told Miri that an hour or two of blessed sleep was not going to be the next stop on her pilgrimage. “Oh, forgive me, but I fear there is one more thing.”
“Oh, Canthia, not truly, is there? I am hot and I am weary and my temper is as short as a puffin’s neck.”
“If it had been anyone else, well, be certain I would have said no—”
“Oh, Usires give me strength, is it the lector? I do not know if I can sit still while he goes on again about his gout, or how the Sulian Heresy is running wild in Erchester.”
“No, no.” But Canthia still did not want to look Miriamele in the eye. “No, I’m afraid it is my husband’s brother who wishes to speak with you.”
It took her a moment. “Drusis? Earl Drusis has come to speak to me? I thought he went off east again after his wedding.”
“He rides back and forth between Chasu Orientis and Dallo’s house, like St. Tunato, always moving, never sleeping.” The duchess frowned. “But Tunato the Pilgrim was doing God’s work. I wish I could say the same for Drusis.”
Miriamele sighed loudly. Her ladies were all out trying to find breezes in the shaded garden, and even Canthia’s baby was off somewhere with the quiet young Wran nurse, so there was no need to hide her frustration. “Is there no way I can escape this fate?”
Now Canthia looked more like one of Miri’s own court ladies when they browbeat her into something—contrite but determined. “I wish there were, Majesty, but I confess I cannot see how it would not be considered an insult. Earl Drusis has waited for no little time already, and he is the duke’s brother, even if he has now tied his fate to the Ingadarine House instead of his own.”
“Very well. I will meet him somewhere a little less womanish than here, however.” She saw Canthia’s look. “I mean no offense, but I speak from experience. Men like Drusis generally underestimate our sex, think us only fit for babies and sewing. I do not want to make underestimation any easier for him than I need to.”
“Saluceris is gone for the day. You can meet Drusis in the throne room or the duke’s study.”
“Your husband’s study sounds like a good choice. The earl’s voice is loud, but it will not echo so much there. First, though, I truly, truly must splash some water on my face and tidy up a bit. This heat is dreadful.”
Jesa looked both ways down the passage before carrying little Serasina into her room and laying her down on the bed. The child was sleeping, so Jesa set a cushion on either side of her to keep her from rolling.
Jesa had never grown used to having her own bedchamber. For a girl raised in the close quarters of her family house on Red Pig Lagoon, packed with all her brothers and sisters into one small room at night, not to mention the additional, constantly rustling population of insects and mice and snakes who made their homes in the thatch roof, it was sometimes hard to sleep by herself. Still, at times like this she was grateful for the privacy.
Checking Serasina one last time—the little face was pinker than usual on this hot summer’s day, but the child did not seem uncomfortable—Jesa took the loaf of bread she had pilfered from the kitchen and wrapped it up in a piece of oilcloth, then pulled out the bag she kept hidden in a chest under her clothes.
A run-away bag, that’s what my grandmother called it. A few times every generation great storms swept down on the Wran out of the southern seas, carrying so much rain it sometimes seemed the whole ocean had been blown onto the land. Howling winds threw down the largest and oldest of trees, even the many-rooted mangroves that lined Red Pig Lagoon and, as all Wran-folk knew, it was dangerous to remain anywhere in the storm’s path. Houses could not stand against the bunukta—the “angry winds” as her people called them—and anyone who stayed would either be crushed in their own collapsing homes or swept away and never seen again, so the Wran folk fled inland toward higher ground and waited for the weather to turn mild once more. Her grandmother had taught the family always to keep a run-away bag filled with food that would not spoil quickly and clean water, usually stored in coconut shells sealed with beeswax, as well as anything the family could not afford to lose, like the small but important funeral stones that memorialized beloved ancestors, or jewelry and other objects of fine workmanship that could not be easily replaced.
But Jesa was not interested in jewelry or even funeral stones. She wanted only food and water. She could not stop thinking about the woman Laliba in the market and the terrifying things she had told her.
“If you do not listen, it will take you too!” the old woman had warned her. “The Great Lodge will burn from the inside. I can see it! Many will die.”
Jesa knew that many things in the world wished to do ill to people. She had been told since childhood of ghants and water-badgers and river-lurkers, all of which she had actually seen—though only from a distance. But there were spirits and other evil things much harder to see, but whose dangerous hatred of humankind was well known. And it was precisely women like Laliba—the katulo, the spirit-knowers—who could sense the presence of such dangers and tell their neighbors when an unhappy ghost was haunting a village, or when a deranged spirit was roaming the swamp, looking for humans foolish enough to go out alone. And at such times people did disappear and were never heard from, or their bodies were found in such a horrifying condition that it was whispered about for years or even generations afterward.
Jesa knew better than to doubt the words of a katulo, however unexpected the warning might have been. She could read the signs around her as well, see the anger in so many people, the fear. Even in the marketplace she had seen people jump at a sudden loud cry, like a deer startled by a falling branch. Nabban was a city built of stone, but the people in it were not, and they were frightened. And frightened people, Jesa had learned even in her short life, were the same the world over: dangerous. And the great drylander city was full to bursting with frightened people.
As she slipped the last of her purloined supplies into her run-away bag, Serasina woke and gurgled on the bed. The infant tried to roll over but was balked by the cushions and let out a raspy little cry of dismay. Jesa’s heart leapt like a fish trying to climb river rapids. What about the child? What about this little one she had spent so much of the last year loving and caring for? How could she leave little Serasina, whose strange, beautiful face was so different from Jesa’s own, but still made Jesa’s heart beat like a festival drum when she saw her, or when the child’s little hand, full of trust and contentment, curled around her own.
Jesa finished and tied the bag shut. It was even bulkier now, and harder to hide in the small chest; it took her long moments to rearrange the clothes over it. She cared for little Blasis too, of course, and her generous friend Canthia, but it was this girl who truly ruled her heart, this child she could not imagine leaving.
I cannot think about it now, she told herself. And I will not leave Serasina and her mother unless I have no other choice. But I don’t want to be caught here, so far from my family and my home, when the angry spirits at last enflame these drylanders into war.
I don’t want to die here in this strange, hard country.
Earl Drusis entered the duke’s study with the ease of someone who had grown up in the Sancellan Mahistrevis—which of course he had. He wore armor, although it was obviously ceremonial: his gleaming breastplate had never seen a scratch, and his greaves and other brightly-polished metal fittings looked more like the sort worn by parading imperators than by anyone actually concerned with protecting themselves. Still, the armor and the helmet beneath his arm showed off his handsome face and figure well, as Drusis no doubt already knew. With his sun-browned skin he looked like someone had cast an exaggeratedly heroic military statue of his brother Duke Saluceris in bronze.
His bow to her was swift and short, in the soldier’s manner. Miriamele found herself both amused and irritated. “Your Majesty,” he said, “I am grateful that you made time to see me.”
“My lord, how could I do otherwise?”
“I came because I have not yet had a chance to thank you for your bravery during the wedding. I was not told all of what happened until you returned here to the Sancellan, and then I was called out of the city. But you have my undying gratitude.”
Miriamele smiled and nodded, but could not resist poking such a handsome but stiff target. “Have you had any luck yet discovering who would want to do such a thing? Who would dare to send armed men to disrupt a wedding at Count Dallo’s own house?”
To his credit, Drusis did not look ashamed or guilty. If, as Miriamele suspected, the whole thing had been arranged by Dallo himself, the earl made a good show of seeming not to know it. “No. But I can promise you that when I find out, someone will be very unhappy that I did.”
They made small talk about the man to whom the room had once belonged, the old duke Varellan, father of Drusis and Saluceris. Varellan had been a largely ineffective ruler, only gaining the throne because his older brother Benigaris killed their father and then died a usurper’s death himself, so there was not much to say about him and the discussion soon trickled into silence.
“I sense there is something else you want to say to me, my lord,” Miri ventured at last. “Please, feel free. Today this room is mine, not your brother’s. Everything will be for my own ears and no one else’s.”
Drusis nodded. “Very well, Majesty. Yes, there is something, but I must say first that I mean it in no other way but as your loyal servant.”
“Go on.”
He scowled, but Miri knew it was not aimed at her so much as a grimace of general frustration. It was a habitual look of his, as though words were always a poor substitute. “Simply this, Majesty. You must leave Nabban.”
“What?”
He shook his head. “It is not a threat, I promise you. You are of our people by blood, but you have been a long time away in the softer, kindlier lands of the north. You do not understand this place.”
She could not help smirking slightly at the idea of the north, especially blizzard-scarred Rimmersgard, as soft and kindly. “And what will my lack of understanding cause, my lord?”
“It will cause nothing. It will do nothing. And this idea to have the Ingadarines and the Benidrivines and all the rest come together to sign a pact with the blessings of Lector Vidian will do nothing either. Nothing will change, except that the argument will grow sharper and take longer to be settled.”
She gave him a hard look. “It seems to me that it is up to the signatories—and that includes you, Earl Drusis—whether such a pact will work or not. Are you saying that you have already decided not to abide by it?”
“This pact, this . . . covenant . . . is naïve.” Color came into his cheeks, turning the sun-browned skin brick red. “It is meddling by outsiders and it will only make things worse.”
“Explain, please.”
“You and your husband—” he began loudly, then caught himself. “The High Throne believes it can change the nature of men by words. That is foolish, and also dangerous. Here in Nabban we have settled our problems ourselves for centuries. Sometimes those problems were solved by a change of rulers. Other times, by giving more power to the families in the Dominiate, or by taking some away from them—usually the better idea of the two, because that place is full of those who desire success without risk. When my ancestors were shedding blood in Nabban’s wars the ancestors of the Dominiatis Patrisi were selling faulty goods to the imperatorial throne and starving the troops in the field by failing to deliver what they had promised.”
“But we are not making an agreement solely with the Dominiate,” she said calmly enough, though she did not at all enjoy being treated like a fool who did not know history. “We are bringing together all the family houses—yours and Dallo’s, but also the Claveans, Sulians, Doellenes, and Hermians.”
“Nothing good was ever done by talking,” Drusis said firmly, “and the only treaties worth signing are written after the fighting, when who has won and who has lost is clear. And on top of it all, you are bolstering my brother’s hand at a very bad time, when his cowardice is the greatest danger to this country—to your entire High Ward—that there could be.”
“You talk of the Thrithings, I assume, but I find it hard to believe that a man who was almost attacked at his own wedding by other Nabbanai could make that claim.”
Drusis shook his head and did not speak for some moments as he struggled to contain his frustration. His size and obvious anger made Miriamele wonder whether meeting him in private had been a bad idea. She was not frightened, but she was no longer comfortable.
“Do you remember the last war with the Thrithings?” he demanded.
She looked at him flatly, searching for temperate words, though she was growing angry. “Yes, Earl Drusis, I do. My husband led our armies in that fight, you might remember.”
Her unhappiness seemed to escape his notice. “Exactly. The Thrithings-men had spilled over your borders as they currently spill over ours, attacking and pillaging and murdering your citizens. And your husband led an Erkynlandish army—”
“Not just Erkynlandish. The Hernystiri and the Rimmersmen fought beside us.”
“Yes, yes,” Drusis said, clearly impatient with the interruption. “But when they had finally broken the grasslanders’ resistance, instead of going on to solve the problem, they simply turned back home again. Your husband never bothered to make common cause with us, when Nabban would eagerly have undertaken a second attack in the south. Together we could have crushed the horsemen, but instead we let them all ride away again, barely chastened. Which is why we have them on Nabban’s doorstep today, in greater force than ever.”
Miriamele could feel herself reddening too at hearing a long, painful war described so dismissively. She took a sip of wine before speaking. “First off, my lord, you have made light work of facts. The Thrithings-men that spilled over our borders—some clans warring with old Fikolmij in the High Thrithings—attacked our citizens, slaughtered livestock, burned villages. But here in Nabban you have moved your citizens onto their lands—lands that used to belong to the Thrithings-men. That is not the same.”
“Pfah. A trick of language.”
“I have not finished, sir. You also talk of crushing the horsemen between Nabbanai armies and our own. Where would the rest of the Thrithings-men have gone while this ‘crushing’ took place? Might war have not spilled out in all directions, destroying much more than the outlaws would ever have done? And what of the grasslanders’ women and children, along with the rest of the Thrithings-men who had nothing to do with the fight?”
“You talk as if they were civilized folk,” said Drusis, scowling. “They are not. They are vermin, breeding until they are everywhere and then stealing from others to feed their young.” He made a visible effort to regain his composure. “Majesty, no matter what you think of me, we are on the same side. You have a mission to bring your High Ward and its laws and benefits to all men—why not the Thrithings-folk too? If you worry for them—which I think is foolish, but it shows your womanly heart is kinder than mine—then why not bring them under the sway of the High Ward like you have all the rest of us? Whether we wanted it or not.”
Miriamele stood. “My lord, you keep talking of things that I know very well, as if I were some innocent girl from the farm country instead of a queen. My grandfather’s High Ward came about because he defeated every country that tried to conquer him. Instead of enslaving them, he made them a part of his kingdom. When he defeated Nabban, did he dissolve the Dominiate? Did he destroy the last imperator’s family after the Battle of Nearulagh? No, he didn’t—because that was your family.
“After Ardrivis surrendered, my grandfather, King John, gave rule over Nabban to your great-grandfather Benidrivis under our royal ward. Your people were not enslaved. I daresay most of the ordinary folk, the farmers and shepherds and merchants, noticed no change at all, except perhaps for the better.”
She walked toward him. “If the day comes when the choice is between our own freedom and that of the Thrithings-people . . . well, on that day we will talk again, you and I, and perhaps I will agree with you. But not today, Earl Drusis.”
He stood his ground, and not only mastered his rage but even looked a little contrite, which surprised her. “Your Majesty,” he said, and to her surprise dropped to one knee, “let us not part on these terms. We argue about the words that might be written in a book of history someday, but what happens now is all I truly care about. It is not just Nabban that is in danger if you stay and force this foolish policy on us, these pacts and treaties that cannot survive the way things truly happen here. You put yourself in danger, too. There are currents flowing here you cannot even see, let alone navigate. We have always solved our own problems here. ‘Sometimes a family must bleed to live,’ is one of our oldest sayings. I beg you, even if you care nothing for anything else I say, believe that my concern is not just selfish.”
“I never thought so,” she said, but did not find herself entirely convincing.
“An empire must grow or die, even the High Ward. Even now our ships have begun to find ways through the Southern Straits that have been denied us for so many centuries. We may find new lands there, or the people or creatures living there may find us, but either way, things cannot remain the same. Peace never lasts.”
“Saying peace never lasts, or that an empire must grow or die, is like saying that only birth and death matter,” she told him. “Most of life is what comes between—the simple hard work of living. I think women may understand that better than men.” She reached out a hand toward him, bidding him rise. “Know this, my lord Drusis. You have your duty, as you see it, but so do I have mine. Just because it is a woman’s heart that beats in my breast does not mean my bravery or my belief is any the less than yours. I will do what I think best for the High Ward and for Nabban. I can do no other.”
He rose, kissed her hand quickly, then bowed again, once more as brisk as any field commander after a hasty conversation with a superior officer. “I hope I never have the opportunity in future to say, ‘But I warned you,’ Majesty. I bid you good day. Please give my brother and sister-in-law my good wishes.”
After Drusis had gone out, she stayed in the duke’s retiring room a long time, looking at the paintings hung on the wall, reminders of martial triumph and military splendor. So few of them, she thought, no matter how gory, ever showed the blood of the innocents that was always spilled when men came together to fight over their noble causes.