The Hidden Queen (2 page)

“O
ne. Already—and he was Anghara’s.”

Rima, Red Dynan’s widowed queen, paced her chambers, lacing restless fingers in and out of one another in palpable frustration.

“How, my lady?”

“Poison, they think. The healers who tended him say he died in great pain. And now there are six in council. And I can be sure of only two.” She looked up, her eyes haunted. “How long, March? How long before some poisoned sweet is handed to Anghara? I cannot be with her constantly, I cannot protect her all the time, not while I am trying to save her throne!”

March, the queen’s man from long before her marriage, stirred from where he stood staring into the leaping flames on the great stone hearth. “It might not be too much longer,” he said carefully. “There has been other news.”

“What? When? Why wasn’t I told?”

March smiled, an indulgent smile from an old retainer for a mistress he had known from her cradle. “You are the first to know, my lady. The messenger arrived less than an hour ago.”

Rima crossed the room and stood before him. She had to look up at his face; she had always been physically frail, small-boned, almost bird-like. In moments of tenderness, Dynan used to call her his little sparrow. But there was that in her face right now, which would make many a man twice her size tread lightly. “The message?”

“They are coming. They are coming here, for Miranei, for the throne. Sif will never be content with less, not with the army behind him. We knew this would happen.”

“Damn Kalas!” murmured Rima, looking away into the fire. “Now, when I needed him most, he lies dying. He would never have given Sif the army.”

“They won the second battle,” March pointed out. “Perhaps Fodrun knew what he was doing.”

Rima made an impatient gesture. “Tath!” she said. “They have always been a thorn in our side. Our men were not that wanting. If only Fodrun hadn’t lost heart. If only…”

They both knew if only what. If Dynan had lived…But if Dynan had lived, Sif would have still been waiting for his chance. Now at least he had declared himself, as openly as he could; his first act of defiance was to claim his father for himself, and for Clera, his mother. It was to Clera’s manor that the messenger bearing the news of Dynan’s death had gone, not to Miranei. Rima had known of it, probably as it had happened; she was Sighted, and gifted that way. She had known, perhaps, that she would never see Dynan again when she had girded his sword on him for this battle. But Sif had sent her no official messenger. What she could not have foreseen was just how fast things would fall apart at Miranei, after one of the squires had galloped from the battlefield at Ronval to gasp out the news of Dynan’s death and Sif’s bid for the kingdom.

Rima had always been very good at hiding her feelings. Her court face was a carefully cultivated mask, pleasant, pretty, interested, a little abstracted—people said a lot in the presence of someone who seemed not to be listening half the time, and not fully comprehending what she heard even when she did pay attention. They had always thought her weak, the council lords and those who jostled for favors at Dynan’s flanks. But here, in the presence of someone whom she trusted and who would not have been fooled for an instant with her court pretenses, Rima allowed her true feelings to percolate across her features. March, watching the play of emotion there, smiled, a little grimly. The court was about to learn how badly they had underestimated Dynan’s “little sparrow.”

“They have accepted Anghara as queen, in full council,” Rima was saying softly.

“And when they see Dynan’s own banners on the moors before Miranei?” said March.

Rima glanced up briefly, acknowledging the question as one she had pondered herself. “I must get them to seal their vows. In writing. Now, while I can still control the council. You say nobody knows of Sif’s coming as yet?”

“Nobody, my lady.”

“Good. Make sure the messenger is rewarded for his trouble—I am sure he is another whose interests do not lie with Sif—but don’t let him speak to anyone until I have done with the council. Where is he now?”

“I told him to wait in my chambers, my lady.”

They exchanged conspiratorial smiles. “Keep him there,” Rima said, “for the time being. And tell the stewards to convene the council. Now, within the hour.”

March made her a slight bow and turned to leave. Her voice stopped him even as he reached for the door. “March.”

“My lady?”

“Which of Anghara’s ladies do you think we can trust?”

March considered this. A little too long; Rima’s mouth thinned. Had it really come to this? That she couldn’t find one of her daughter’s ladies who would be loyal to the future Queen of Roisinan? But March met her eyes steadily enough. “I would think Lady Catlin, or Lady Nessa. I would keep Lady Deira as far from any secret plan as I could.”

Rima smiled despite herself. Deira was an elderly gossip, to whom one could entrust any rumor one wanted spread around Miranei and the surrounding countryside within the space of a single day. The warning was well-placed. There was an equal warning in March’s words, though, in the two names he had omitted to mention. Those who might sell Anghara, if they had the chance. Rima considered the two ladies March had named for a brief moment, while he waited patiently by the door for further instructions. “Catlin,” she decided finally. “Send Lady Catlin to me. And make sure Anghara is attended by Lady Nessa at all times, when Catlin or I are not with her.”

“Yes, my lady.” March took a moment to gaze at the queen with something like pity. There was desolation in Rima’s eyes. She had already suffered a sundering, one beyond repair; she was contemplating another at that very minute, one which could well be instrumental in saving her daughter’s life. For nine-year-old Anghara had never been as vulnerable as she was right now, with a stronger claimant than she on his way to tear her from the throne she held so precariously.

By the time the council was assembled, grumbling at the haste, Rima had set a great deal into motion. She swept into the room clad in royal robes of scarlet and ermine, glittering with gems. She knew very well that any direct order she gave this dangerously unbalanced council might all too easily be ignored—at worst, they could rise up against her, against Anghara, there and then. But she knew how to play them; the judicious show of a little royal splendor was never wasted. With a mixture of courtly deference and a delicate pulling of Dynan’s rank, Rima did not find it hard to lull them into believing they had been sweet-talked into adding their signatures and seals to the document she had already prepared—the least of things, merely a declaration of succession. They woke up abruptly at Rima’s rather grim chuckle as she picked up both the original document and the copy she had also given them to sign and proceeded to read to them what they had just agreed. They, the undersigned, council lords appointed by King Dynan of blessed memory of the Realm of Roisinan, lawful king in unbroken descent of the Kir Hama dynasty, undertook to preserve and protect the successor to King Dynan, his only heir and legitimate child of his marriage, against all comers. They agreed to accept her as their sovereign queen. It was more than a simple declaration, it was an oath of allegiance.

“Majesty, was this really necessary?” protested one of the lords, one Rima was far from sure of. She could see beads of sweat gathering on his forehead.

Yes. Yes! You have already chosen a different master. Let’s see where you go from here.
“I believed so, my lords. None of you forget for a moment, I am sure, that the princess is still very young.” It was a sharp little gibe—of course they couldn’t put from their minds that, technically, they were ruled by a nine-year-old. One or two councillors had the grace to look abashed. “There is one more thing I would ask of you. Would you please follow me?”

They did so, not without grumbling, but she was still queen and Miranei was still her court. They stopped abruptly as they entered the Great Hall. Openly displayed on a purple cushion was the crown of Roisinan—and next to it, sitting very still in a chair only one step down from the dais on which stood the throne of Miranei, the princess they had just sworn to uphold. Anghara Kir Hama sat straight, not touching the back of the chair, her dignity almost frightening in one barely turned nine. She watched them enter with calm gray eyes, meeting no lord’s direct look but seeming to encompass them all with her still, royal gaze.

“What is this, majesty?” one of the lords asked. “The princess? The crown?”

“Yes,” said Rima, and cold steel rang in her voice. The lords looked at her, surprised. This was not the gentle queen they had learned to know. This was a she-lynx from the mountains, and on the dais was her young. The time was past for preening and purring. The claws were out. “We must wait for her crowning, her formal crowning. But today you, the council of lords, have all set your names to a document naming Anghara as Queen of Roisinan. And today the council of lords will witness her first crowning. You, the council, will crown her. Once bestowed in this way, we all know the crown cannot be taken except by a usurper. And if it is so taken, you will all bear witness that it is worn by a false claimant. Lord Egan, Lord Garig, if you will.”

One or two of the lords had glanced back at the door through which they had entered, but it had been quietly closed behind them. So were all the other doors. Rima noticed their furtive glances and smiled. “All doors are barred from the outside at my command,” she said, “until this ceremony is over, and until I give the word. My lords, your queen waits.”

There were those who still contemplated some sort of escape, but the two lords Rima had named glanced warily at one another and began walking toward the dais where Anghara sat. She had turned her head slightly to look at them, and their spirits quailed at the piercing power in her eyes. So unexpected in a child—eyes which seemed to see past the lords’ council robes, expensive jin’aaz silk from Kheldrin, and into the sins festering beneath in their souls. Lord Egan was the first to look away. Lord Garig had declared openly for Anghara; that was partly why Rima had named him. He looked at the child with love and loyalty. But even he could not bear her direct gaze for long. Her eyes, the same gray as Rima’s, were all Dynan’s in that moment—the blood in her veins was royal, by the Gods, and it showed.

Rima shepherded the remaining four lords closer, so they might miss nothing. Lord Egan picked up the crown and could not prevent a scowl as he turned to hand the jewelled treasure into Lord Garig’s waiting hands. He did so in silence; but Garig suddenly felt moved to say a few words, to legitimize what ought to have been a rite of royal pomp and panoply with a few phrases of ceremony. He lifted the crown he held high over Anghara’s head.

“With this,” he said formally, lapsing into the high tongue of all ritual, “we accept thee as our queen, Anghara Kir Hama, daughter of Dynan. We hold thy life and safety above our own, and we pledge our lives to thee in this place today. May the Gods bless and protect you.”

The crown touched Anghara’s bright hair and rested there for a few moments—then Garig lifted it away, with something like reluctance. It was not his place to crown her properly; but it was written in his face how much he wished Anghara could walk from this room his queen in more than just his dreams and wishes. Rima could see his expression, and also the daggers Egan’s eyes cast at him over the crown as he received it back. She suddenly wondered if this little charade of hers would cost Garig his life.

None of this had been rehearsed; there had been no time, and Rima had to rely on Anghara’s natural awareness of what was going on. The girl now startled them by suddenly rising from her chair. She might have been small-boned, like her mother, and still a child, but at that moment she had the presence Red Dynan had commanded.

“Thank you,” she said to the two lords who had leaned their hand to her “crowning.” She included them both in her thanks, but the smile hovering in her eyes was for Garig alone. Garig suddenly saw the means to cement the ceremony he had just performed in terms that would bind the lords irrevocably, far more so than Rima’s document. He dropped to one knee before the child-queen, lifting up his hands to hers, palms together. He caught her eye, this time fearlessly, and she read there his intent and raised her own small hands to cover his.

“I, Lord Garig, do swear fealty and allegiance and do take thee as my liege lady and my queen…”

This Rima had not planned, and the blood rushed to her face as she realized what Garig had done. Now he had sworn, they would all have to, or be instantly proclaimed traitors. The ancient oath might not mean much if Sif knocked on the doors of Miranei, but it was honor-binding. Rima blessed Garig for thinking of it, wondering how she ought to reward this most loyal of lords, while it was still in her power to do so.

She focused once more on the dais, where Garig had completed his oath and been raised by Anghara. Egan’s color was also high, but not from joy. His face was thunderous. Still, under the challenging gaze of Lord Garig and Anghara’s serenely expectant smile, he stumbled onto his knees and forced out the words of the oath of allegiance as though through clenched teeth. All the same, he had done it. When he rose, the next lord was already stepping onto the dais to take his place. Rima sought Garig’s eyes, and he met her look across the heads of the file of lords waiting for their turn at the oath taking. He gave her a barely perceptible nod, approval of what she had done, acknowledgment of her gratitude, which must have blazed from her eyes like a beacon. He looked away again, at Anghara, who stood less than half the height of the burly men who bowed before her but seemed to tower over them as they approached. Yes, thought Rima, she would do. She had it in her, the queenship; only why, in the name of all the Gods, did Dynan have to die before his daughter had turned fifteen? They would have accepted her then, even with Sif hovering in the background like a bad dream. But she was still a child, especially now, in the afterglow of Sif’s martial exploits. They would look for confirmation of the right to rule Roisinan in Sif’s abilities on the battlefield, not in the quiet qualities of a girl-child who had never lifted a sword…