White Star (7 page)

Vembar had seen the reports that the odium were ravaging the countryside. They would be hard pressed to—

He sighed, took a deep breath, and tried to relax. He was supposed to be resting, not worrying himself into a knot. Time enough to work. This night and the next day should be focused on Gloriana. Already the vultures of the Court were circling, looking for ways to insinuate themselves into her councils and favor. He’d have to keep an eye on the Archbishop especially.

The door of his chamber opened, and Lady Arent entered. He smiled at his old friend “I thought I’d come to see if you are doing as you should. I’m glad to see you are resting,” Arent said.

“Escaping the fervor, more like.” He gestured to a straight chair by the bed. “Sit and talk to me.”

She left the door ajar, as was proper, and came to sit beside him. The firelight reflected on the angles of her face, made much starker by her hair being pulled back in a tight bun. He’d known her for years, her and Auxter. Though many might see severity, Vembar knew her better than that. He could see her pain. “How go the preparations?”

Arent grimaced as she sat. “I set every one of the Court ladies to sewing a dress for Gloriana. Keep them busy. But there is only so much twittering I can tolerate.”

Vembar chuckled. “Has the bickering started yet?”

“Oh, yes.” Arent rolled her eyes. “They’re all trying to figure out ranks and family honor for the procession and harassing the Herald. Thank the Lord and the Lady I’m not involved with that decision.”

“Tired?” Vembar asked gently.

Arent said nothing. She dropped her gaze to her lap.

“Gloriana said she’d offered a royal funeral for Auxter, after the coronation. She said that you declined the honor.”

“So many died.” Arent didn’t look up. “It doesn’t seem right to honor him over the other dead. Besides, he would have hated the idea.”

“I think you are right,” Vembar murmured. He paused for a moment, waiting.

There was a soft hitch in Arent’s breath.

“It’s quiet in here,” Vembar continued softly. “It’s dark and warm, and there is no one about. Tell me the truth, Arent.”

She didn’t lift her head. “My head knows he’s gone, Vembar. But my heart . . . I keep thinking he’s back at the farm, training the warriors down by the forge. When I return, he will want all the details. . .” Her voice trailed off, and then she looked up at him with tear-filled eyes.

Vembar pushed back the thick blankets and swung his legs over the side of the bed. It took a moment to stand and pull down his nightshirt, but he managed it.

“Vembar,” Arent began to scold, but Vembar held up a hand. He walked slowly to the door, and managed to grasp the handle without leaning on the damn thing.

He looked out at his guardians. “The Lady Arent and I are going to speak privately. We are not to be disturbed.” He saw them nod in response as he shut the door and secured the lock.

“Vembar”— Arent moved to his side and offered her arm— “what will they think?”

He took her arm, and let her guide him back to the bed. He sat with a sigh of relief, then pulled on her arm until she sat next to him.

“With any luck, they will think we are making mad, passionate love.” Vembar smiled at her.

Arent looked at him, her eyes wide with surprise.

Vembar raised his eyebrows, planted his feet on the floor, and pushed. The bed frame rocked back, gently squeaking.

Arent clapped a hand over her mouth, smothering her laugh.

Vembar waggled his eyebrows, and let the bed ease back so it creaked again. “It would help if you’d moan a little.”

Arent’s body shook as she sat there. But then, as he’d known it would, the laughter turned to sobs. He put his arms around her shoulders as she buried her head in his chest and clung to him like a child.

Grief rose in his own throat. He held her, and said nothing. There was nothing to say, no words he knew that would ease the grief. She’d weep, and then the needs of the day would press in, and she’d dry her eyes and see to them.

But for now, he’d offer what comfort he could. He held her close and let her cry.

«
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Orrin
thought it fairly sparse, as royal coronations go. He’d half expected to be dragged through the streets behind the Chosen as the last living enemy of the victor.

Instead, they’d brought him down to the throne room fairly early, and secured him in an antechamber. The double doors were open wide, giving him and his four guards a prime view of the ceremony.

The fact that the Lady Bethral could see into the room from her position beside the throne was not lost on him. She knew her business. He’d been stripped down to tunic and trous, bare of foot and chained tight at the wrists.

Not uncomfortable, but he wasn’t going anywhere. There was a leather belt around his waist, with a chain leading to each of his four guards.

The stones of the floor were cold under his feet, but the throne room was hot, what with all the people crammed within. The Archbishop was looking flushed, wearing resplendent robes of gold and white and crimson. Orrin smiled grimly. That fat bastard had other reasons to sweat. He didn’t see the High Priestess.

Trumpets sounded a fanfare, and there was a stir in the crowd. His guards craned their necks to see.

A young woman came into view, dressed in white and wearing red leather gloves. She approached the throne and knelt on the lowest step of the dais. A choir started to sing a hymn. Orrin narrowed his eyes.

That chit had defeated them?

She looked so young kneeling there, practically glowing in the white dress. He could see the birthmark, framed by the white silk. That was Red Gloves?

He didn’t believe it.

Three people stepped forward then, and Orrin’s heart beat faster. The old man had to be Chancellor Vembar. Orrin grunted in surprise to see him alive. Ezren Storyteller stood straight and tall, looking better than the last time he’d seen the man. But it was the lady in white and gold robes who drew his gaze.

Lady High Priestess Evelyn.

He caught his breath at the sight of her. She, too, stood straight and tall, shimmering in the light of the thousands of candles, her white and gold robes reflecting the light.

Her hair was tied up, forming a white, thick glory about her head. Every inch a perfect priestess of the Light. As she tucked her hands within her sleeves, Orrin caught a glimpse of her silver ring.

If, in fact, one answered for one’s choices in life, Orrin Blackhart knew he was damned. But there was one thing he’d done right and well, and he was fiercely glad of it. He’d saved her. He didn’t think it would count for much in the balance. But it mattered to him.

It hit him then, hit him hard. The striving was done; the battle, over. Death was here, waiting, and part of him welcomed the possibility of oblivion. It settled in his chest, an odd sense of peace. Let it be done, then. He was ready. Oh, but to look on her. He stared, drinking in the sight, ignoring the prayers and the rituals, until he heard the Archbishop’s ponderous tones.

“People of Palins, behold your Queen!”

A loud cheer filled the room, echoing over the crowd, as the young woman, crowned and anointed, sat upon the throne. But Blackhart had eyes for one thing only. Evelyn’s smile.

The room quieted, and the young queen drew herself up to sit tall and straight on the throne. She raised her hands, and started to remove her gloves. “I am the Chosen, restored to the Throne of Palins. But Red Gloves is no name for a queen.” She held up her right hand, and began to tug off the glove.

There was a gasp from the crowd, and then a buzz of talk as she took off the first glove and began on the second.

“From this day forth, I shall be known as Queen Gloriana.” Another rousing cheer from the people crammed into every nook and cranny.

Gloriana held the gloves in her hand. “But let it be known, far and wide, that these gloves shall ever sit beside the Throne of Palins, to be taken up in times of defense and war. Ever shall the Sovereign wear red gloves when she wields a sword in defense of her people.”

She placed the gloves on a small table set by the throne, probably just for that purpose. Orrin suspected that the idea was Silvertongue’s.

The girl continued. “This day marks a new beginning for Palins. But there is much work to be done before we can truly celebrate. So for this night, let us mourn our dead, hold our loved ones close, and offer prayers of gratitude to the Lord of Light and the Lady of Laughter.”

The Archbishop shifted his weight, and drew Orrin’s gaze. For the briefest of moments, the man appeared displeased about something, but the look was gone in an instant.

“Next year, after we’ve worked together to restore our people’s and our kingdom’s prosperity, we will truly celebrate.”

That brought a rousing cheer. Oh, sure, promise a festival. Orrin snorted, and two of his guards turned grim faces toward him. “Your time is coming, bastard,” one growled. “Save me from your breath, then,” Orrin replied. A blow rocked his head back, and he tasted blood on his lips. The man had a hand raised for a second strike, but another grabbed his arm. “Lady Bethral said no harm. She’ll take your head with his.”

The man stepped back with a snarl, and turned away to watch.

Orrin had to wait until the ringing in his ears cleared before he could focus. The new Queen seemed to be making appointments to her Council. He didn’t really pay much attention until one name was called.

“Lady High Priestess Evelyn.”

That got his attention, as Evelyn curtsied before the throne. Orrin’s lips curved up slightly when he saw the small silver ring on her right hand.

“We offer you our formal thanks, Lady High Priestess Evelyn,” Gloriana said solemnly, “for all your services to this Throne and our people.”

Well, she had the stuffiness of a queen, that was certain.

Evelyn inclined her head with a smile. “My Queen, I did little. Others did far more.”

Gloriana shook her head, her crown glittering in the candlelight. “Your humility is refreshing, Lady High Priestess Evelyn. You are the most powerful healer in the land, and you treat noble and peasant alike. Without your aid, many more would have perished.” Gloriana took a deep breath. “For this, we grant you a boon from this Throne. Ask anything of us that you wish, and it will be given.” Orrin’s breath caught. A priceless reward, that was certain. It caught everyone by surprise, if the silence in the throne room was any indication. Once again the Archbishop’s face twitched. Orrin’s eyes narrowed as he noticed that the fat little man looked almost green with envy, and the look he was giving Evelyn bordered on rude. Yet there was a hint of something else there, envy and . . .

“My thanks, My Queen. You are kindness itself.” Evelyn was speaking, and Orrin’s eyes were pulled back to her. “May I think on this?”

Gloriana laughed, and Orrin saw the formality melt from her face as she leaned forward. “Aunt Evie, I know you too well. You will ‘forget’ to ask.”

The entire crowd laughed, and Evelyn smiled and shrugged. “For all that, My Queen, I beg to be allowed to contemplate your offer.”

“So it shall be, Lady High Priestess Evelyn.” The girl looked fairly pleased with herself, even as she grew regal again. “Now our Council has been named, and the work must begin. Our first task is to abolish slavery and make reparations. Wherever possible, we shall return our people to their homes and restore their lives. Will you join with me, my people, to rebuild this land?”

The crowd exploded in a roar of approval.

The joy faded from the young Queen’s face. “But we must first deal with a more serious matter. Bring forth the prisoner.”

Evelyn
felt the crowd around her shrink back, as if to avoid the stain as Orrin was brought forth in chains.

One look at his lean frame, dressed all in black, and she lowered her gaze. There was no denying his guilt, but the sight saddened her. She caught a glimpse of his bare, pale feet against the stones.

“Blackhart.” Gloriana’s voice was grim.

Evelyn’s gaze returned to the man. Orrin stood tall and proud, and matched grimness for grimness. “Chosen,” he said calmly.

“Warder, read the charges.” Gloriana met Blackhart’s eyes as Bethral prepared to read out the charges against him.

Lady Bethral stepped forward, a large document in her hands. “Orrin Blackhart, late of the Black Hills, hear now the death warrant brought against you by Her Gracious Majesty Gloriana of Palins.”

Evelyn looked down at the floor. She should rejoice that an enemy— a foul, evil man— was being brought to justice. So why did she remember the look of loyalty in his men’s eyes when he’d won their freedom?

A movement caught her eye, and she looked over at Ezren Storyteller. His eyes filled with concern, but she shook her head slightly. He gave her a wry look, then turned back to face the condemned man. She saw the slight edge of gray under the sleeve of his tunic. He’d been reluctant to wear the manacles, but she’d seen the relief in his eyes when he’d put them on. She wasn’t sure it was a final solution, but it was helping him now.

She hadn’t mentioned Bethral’s name.

“For Orrin Blackhart did willfully send assassins against the Good King Everard, Queen Rosalyn, and Heir Apparent Hugh, and did cause their deaths. Further, he did willfully send assassins against the Council of Palins as they sat in session, and caused the murders of the High Barons of—” Bethral’s voice rolled over the heads of the crowd, reading out loud and clear the list of his offenses.

Evelyn offered a silent prayer for all those slain that fateful night.

“For Orrin Blackhart did willfully make war upon the Baronies of Summerford and Athelbryght and Farrentell, caused whole towns, villages, and farms to be set to the torch, murdering the innocents contained within, and offering the men, women, and children to rape and slaughter.”

Evelyn had known that the evils committed by Blackhart were long and deep, but the list seemed to go on forever.

“For Orrin Blackhart did cause to be raised and sent forth the odium against the High Barons, and caused wanton destruction of fields and farms, crops and livestock, to the detriment of the people and the Crown—”