King Callie: Callie's Saga, Book One (35 page)

“Patta, however,” Fenwyn said, “That woman is a whole other pit of snakes.” In a way, Caliandra almost pitied Patta; after Iaen had dismissed her, she felt cast adrift, and would have done anything to take him back.
Perhaps that is her reason,
she thought,
to prove her love is greater than Ostre’s, by saving his life.

CHAPTER
SIXTY-TWO

Marrol’s anger had long since faded, by the early hours of the morning. Instead, he was left with only regret, and fear - both feelings he was deeply unaccustomed to. After so many years of being close to it, and being its deliverer, the Shade waited for him with arms outstretched. Knowing his hours were numbered - being able to
count
them - that was… it was an odd feeling. Each vanishing second was a grain of barley, added to the Shade’s store - and soon, the harvest of his life would be complete.

At first, he regretted everything, and wished he could change.
How could I have been so foolish, so untrusting? Why did I think I would have ruled better than the one chosen by the axe?
Marrol asked himself, as rats scrambled across the stone floor. He’d given up tugging at the chains that bound him. There was no hope left. The only person who could have done anything to save him, Talwyck, had voted against him. A brother’s love, indeed. He regretted not listening to Rionn, and valuing his friend’s advice above his own instincts. Twice, he’d betrayed himself. That was at the core of how he felt, in the cold, musty prison: betrayed. By his own wants, by those who cared about him, by Fate itself.

Marrol looked down at his left forearm, at the healing wound where he’d drown the sword across it. He’d thought it would help him keep his power, like all his actions. Instead, he’d only cut himself - no one else. And he would have done it again.
It is a waste to worry,
he thought. His actions were inevitable, like an executioner’s falling axe. What was there to regret, when he would have done nothing differently, and he was only scolding himself for acting according to his nature? The moon hung high in the night, and the chill wind that blew through the small peepholes made it difficult for him to sleep. The hours dragged on, and he tried to occupy them with thoughts of his life - but as his mindfulness faded, that too became difficult. He had no anger anymore, just the rising anxiety in his chest; soon, he would be dead. Nothing could stop it. No man or woman -

No
, he thought.
Neither of them will help me.
Ostre had forsaken him. And it was Patta who’d gotten him caught by Kells. She probably relished the chance to have in chains, after what he’d done. He’d not heard a damn thing from her, or seen her… all those years together, for nothing. Worthless.

He’d thrown her away, and then, when he needed her most, she was gone.

I deserve this
, Marrol thought, his mind dazed from the lack of sleep.
I deserve all of this.
It was well into the next morning when the guards came to him, and his mind was easily distracted. It was almost for the best; he didn’t want to be fully aware of what was happening. It would ease the dread, and numb him for what was to come.

CHAPTER
SIXTY-THREE

Caliandra had never thought she could walk so tall in her life. She'd never been so conscious of the straightness in her back as she walked along the marbled floor of the temple, surrounded by Barrish nobility. Foreign dignitaries, too, were in attendance – another emissary from Kersik, who had arranged to bring Mas’s servants home with his own retinue, the ambassador of Silenia, an Erimeni duke, or at least, the closest thing to, according to Fenwyn – lined the temple floor, standing at attention. Some with particularly shocked looks on their faces... just as she'd hoped.
The pants were the right choice
, she thought.

Everything was going according to plan, and she had never been more proud in her life. It swelled in her heart, and animated her steps; her boots made long, graceful strides across the white marble, and her ceremonial robe trailed behind her, the fur and velvet dragging on the floor. She did her best not to smile, and to keep her face firm. It was not a wedding, but a coronation. All the same, she felt a similarity between the two; she was to be wed to power and responsibility, sworn to her duty, and blessed in the name of both Yom and the ancestors she held dear.

The aged priest stood at the far end of the temple, under majestic swaths of purple fabric hanging from the ceiling. Sweet incense drifted in the air; it all but begged her to slow down, and savor the moment. She paused before the priest, to kneel and make the sign of the Circle.

; in her small moment of introspection, she glanced down once more to admire the blue doublet, with inlaid jewels and pearls - as well as the soft, embroidered pants she wore. The ones that drew so much attention, for their subtle rebellion.

Around her, the room thrummed with excitement; and though she herself wore a great deal of makeup, caked on in layers, she'd never seen so much on the faces around her. It seemed that the sheer amount could keep a theater company in business for years. As she stood up, she saw Lady Ostre close to the front, standing with Fenwyn and Josske; Kells was nowhere to be seen, and neither were their children. Caliandra could not blame him. Ostre had worn something decorative, yet fresh, like spring itself, but Caliandra could see the contrasting sadness in her eyes. Josske wore a white-and-gold leather jerkin over his grey doublet, and kept a hand on Ostre’s shoulder; Fenwyn, in his green Minister’s robes, gave Caliandra a proud nod, and it brought a smile to her face. Her mother stood close to them, and though she looked lovely, her scowl of disapproval marred her appearance. That hardly surprised Caliandra. What did, though, was Iaen.

Caliandra wasn’t sure he’d come; she’d invited him out of spite, knowing that it’d be uncouth of him to refuse a request of the King-to-be. There he was, with
her
- Lady Tara Dugal - beautiful as ever, and yet both of them were awed by her presence. At first, Caliandra felt a tinge of fear at the sight of them, but once she truly looked at their faces, swelling pride took root. Iaen had made a wise choice, yes, but Caliandra knew that in her heart, she’d transcended him. It hurt far less to think of him - especially now, when she was about to be crowned King.

The priest beckoned her forth, and Caliandra walked forward. Next to him, an ornamented guard struggled to hold Peacebringer upright; he'd leaned it against his body, to counter the weight. She almost cracked a smile. In her hands, it felt almost weightless. She glanced over his clothing; silk robes, finely inlaid with gold, and eight gold rings – as mandated by the occasion. He raised his hands, and his voice rang throughout the temple.

“Behold Caliandra, successor to the throne,” he said. She stood tall, and held her head high. “On this blessed day,” he stammered, “We come to pay our respects to the crown, and those who’ve ruled us before with wisdom and courage. Today, we wish to welcome Caliandra Feor, daughter of our beloved King Rionn, who has been chosen by the axe before the Council and Regent, to take our throne. Stand before me, Caliandra.”

Caliandra took three steps forward, and could hear them all perfect in her ear; she could hear the robe dragging on the floor behind her, she could hear it rustle, and drag, until it stopped. A flood of nervous anticipation rushed through her body, and begged her for movement; she would not obey.

“Raise your right hand, and repeat what I say,” he asked. She obliged, and raised her hand. “I, Caliandra Feor, promise to uphold the proud traditions of our kingdom... to defend it from those who wish us harm, and to represent it with pride - and when I do pass from this world, I trust in those who come after.”

“I, Caliandra Feor, promise to uphold the proud traditions of our kingdom, to defend it from those who wish us harm, and to represent it with pride - and when I do pass from this world, I trust in those who come after,” she said. She echoed the priest's words to the letter.

He spoke again. “I swear to ensure just and fair rule; to promote growth, but not at the expense of my people; To root out the evils who threaten our way of life; To lead with pride, and not to falter.”

Caliandra took a breath. “I swear to ensure just and fair rule; to promote growth, but not at the expense of my people; to root out the evils who threaten our way of life,” she said, pausing to swallow, “To lead with pride, and not to falter.”

The priest smiled, and motioned to the guard next to him, who leaned the axe forward. The priest made a brief circle over it, with his hand, and then gestured to Caliandra. “Then I offer you the Peacebringer, which has chosen you - let it serve as a reminder of your duties and your station, and never leave your side.”

She took it gladly, and felt the familiar thrill; like the embrace of an old friend. Her hands lingered along the axe's head, but she remembered the words she had to speak next. “I take the axe in good health, and promise to honor those who have held it before me,” she said.

The priest then motioned to a child behind him. A young man, only a few years younger than her, emerged from the back, with her crown on a silk pillow in his hands. The priest waited until the young man brought it out; his slender fingers gripped the crown, and lifted it off the pillow, high into the air, for all to see.

“This crown is the symbol of rule,” he said to the crowd, “It has been passed down from king to king, and on this auspicious day, it will sit upon the brow of our first female king. Step forward, Caliandra, to receive it.”

She took a step forward, and kneeled, with her eyes cast humbly downward. The priest laid the crown upon her head, and she saw the brief motion of his fingers to rise. She did, and turned to face the crowd. “It is my pleasure,” the priest said from behind her, “To introduce the eighty-sixth King of Barra, King Caliandra Feor.”

They clapped, for the first half of the day was complete. This was her coronation. However, her true statement - whether or not she would execute Marrol, her father’s favorite general, the Minister of War, for his crimes against the Crown - was yet to come. And that, she dreaded.

Her decision had not yet been firmly made, but Marrol would be waiting in the town square, shackled and ready for her judgment. That was the greatest weight on her head, heavier than the crown she now bore; whether or not she could end a man’s life. If she didn’t, and kept him imprisoned, she would be seen as weak; if she let him go, a fool. Fenwyn and her mother would never forgive her - and the sole comfort would be in the chance that, one day, she might see Royth hanged for what he’d done.

But if she brought down Peacebringer on Marrol’s head, and spilled his blood… she would lose the chance for justice. Forever. Royth wouldn’t stay and allow himself to be dragged back up to Barra in chains. No sane man would. And worse still, she would have Marrol’s death squarely on her hands. It wasn’t the sort of thing a King delegated, or had the chance to; it was the King’s responsibility to wield Peacebringer, and to do its name justice. And if the price of justice was execution, it was the King who paid it.

The King’s guard were waiting for her, in their bright blue ceremonial garb and gold-leaf decorated armor, shining in the sun, all mounted on horseback. They stood at the ready, with her white horse, saddled and ready. She strode up to it with the crowd behind her and placed one foot in her stirrup; bracing the bottom of Peacebringer’s shaft against the ground, she pushed up, and helped herself onto her horse, much to the surprise of those around her - and to the disappointment of the guard who stood by, eager to help.

“Now is not the time for a King to appear reliant,” she whispered to him. The guard nodded, and backed away. Caliandra tugged her reins slightly to the left, and turned her horse towards the town of Alton, where the execution was set to take place. She hesitated, thinking she should be waiting for a signal - but then remembered that it was she who now made that decision. She brought her horse to a slow trot, and the guards followed suit; anything faster than that would look unseemly. In reality, she wished that she could bring him to a full gallop, and be done with it. The coronation was easy to bear; it was a matter of ceremony, and ceremonies were at worst tedious. They prolonged the inevitable.

Riding to town was not a silent affair; there were trumpeters, flutists, drummers, and singers who filled the air with traditional Barrish songs that glorified the King, that spoke of hundred-year reigns and bountiful harvests and the King’s infinite wisdom… and she wondered why they would speak of such things that could not possibly be true. She was only a woman, not Yom, and yet, they changed the wording of the songs just for her. Had she no great decision hanging over her mind, she might have found it flattering, but her mind was on the act, and Marrol’s pending doom.

Caliandra noticed a horse with a separate guard come alongside her own; it was her mother’s. “What troubles you?” Sophine asked.

“Nothing you can help with,” Caliandra replied, her tone distant and abrupt. It was nothing she wanted to discuss, either.

“Caliandra,” Sophine replied, softer, “I wish there could be another way, but… it must be done.”

“I know,” Caliandra said.

“The wisest choice is often the most difficult,” Sophine said. “Your father once told me that, years ago, and I’ve found it hard to disagree with. More so, now that you are the King.”