The Axe and the Throne (28 page)

Ethel had only just left her, yet it felt as though Annora had been sitting alone for an eternity.
This is idiotic
, she told herself.
I am not a blushing girl in need of support.
She believed herself to have calmed after forcing a deep breath, but true relief only came when she saw Ethel returned with a comforting look on her face

“We have all done it. The plates are so shallow. I'm an imbecile for not warning you.” Ethel dipped a cloth napkin in her glass of water and handed it to Annora.

In time, the stain was reduced to a mild blotch, difficult to see without knowing it was there, but the dress was still ruined.

“Now you cannot protest when I insist you get more clothes.”

“I suppose you are right,” Annora agreed, realizing she was thankful for Ethel's ability to find a reason to celebrate a near calamity. Remembering how the girl had sparred with Cassen, however, Annora resolved to not underestimate her.

Annora put a piece of the bread in her mouth, determined to start pleasant conversation when her chewing was done. “Do you see your parents often?” Annora forced herself to ask upon realizing she had swallowed the bread, too busy thinking of what to say to have made note of the taste.

“No. Not as often as I would like. My mother comes to visit about once a month, my father as often as every week. Whenever he is summoned to the Throne.”

Annora assumed she was speaking of Alther. There was no cordial way of gaining clarification on the matter.

“What was life like in the Spicelands. Do you remember it well?” asked Ethel.

This was not a topic Annora wished to discuss, especially not in public, but they were so far down the table that none were near enough to eavesdrop.

“I am sure it is little different than what you have heard.” Annora did not believe that to truly be the case, but it seemed more polite than accusing her mistress of ignorance.

“I have books that say your people are savages, that they fight naked with each other using wooden spears, and marry hundreds of wives.”

Annora finished a mouthful of corn, delightfully sweet as she'd hoped. “Do your books speak of any people other than your own that are
not
savages?”

Ethel paused to think, then smiled. “You have a point, but I still wish to hear the truth.”

“Our men can be savage, and they fight with spears, as do the men of this kingdom if I am not mistaken. But not in the nude…not unless it is very hot.”

Annora feigned seriousness for a moment, then showed a trace of a grin causing Ethel to almost spit out her water.

Having recovered, Ethel pursued further. “Do they really marry so many wives?”

The way in which she asked let Annora know how abhorrent the prospect was to Ethel.
What would you think of me if you knew I once wished to be one of those wives?
“Our kings marry many.”

Annora put a blind spoonful of food in her mouth. It was her adversary, the stew, which was actually quite good. The meat was tender and the broth was rich with flavor. She could not say for sure if she would ever have the courage to get it again, nor anything with such potential to spill over the edges of these plates.

Ethel's eyes widened in disbelief. “I did not believe it when I read it. Hundreds even?”

“I am sure on some island there is a king with near a hundred wives.”

Ethel shook her head, disapproving, and Annora felt strangely offended. “And your kings, do they not share beds with multiple women? Is it less offensive that they do not call them wives?”

A sickening wave of self-reproach immediately swept Annora. It might have been a perfectly appropriate question, had Ethel's grandfather not been the king. Annora could scarcely believe she had been goaded into such a gaffe during harmless conversation.

“I am sorry,” Annora said before Ethel could respond, looking downward and finding her appetite had left her.

“You should be,” said Ethel. “But only for apologizing. And you are right. Our kings are little different it would seem. I am naïve for having believed otherwise.”

They sat unspeaking for a good while, both picking at their food but not eating much. Annora broke the silence, answering questions that Ethel surely would have liked to ask. She had no desire to, but it did not feel right, already being so indebted to someone she had just met and was supposed to serve.

“I was thirteen when my father sold me to Cassen.”

Ethel looked dismayed. “
Sold
you?”

“I do not know what else you would call it. My father received a heavy purse, and I was shipped here with no say in the matter.”

It was Ethel's turn to be apologetic, but she did so without words.

“It was possibly for the best. Cassen treats us like daughters, that much is true. I have a better life here.”

Ethel nodded in solidarity and did not press her further, nor did Annora offer more explanation. It had not been her intent to gain Ethel's pity, and having done so made her feel somehow dishonest. Truth be told, she pitied Ethel. Her complete lack of friends was evident at this point. Annora could not help but wonder how difficult these meals must have been for her, forced to come here without companionship, sitting alone at the end of a table as far from the stares and teasing as she could get. Dining here with a friend was hard enough.

“Your father may have done such a thing, but you are not Cassen's property. Slavery is forbidden in these lands, and no man can own a woman.”

No,
thought Annora.
Nor can naivety be cured during a single meal.
She smiled in thanks at the sentiment.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Crella, how pleasing to see you again.”

Crella had waited at the door while a pair of lady servants fetched the man of the estate. He was dressed in the richest of cloth; a thick velvet in deep hues of royal blue and purple constructed his doublet and matching trousers. Crella found herself wondering how someone would be able to remain cool under such extravagant and unnecessary luxury, but quickly scolded herself for thinking the way her husband would.
I am a highborn Adeltian. Of that I must not forget.

A glance around the anteroom made her almost cringe at the gaudy display of opulence. Pleated fabric covered walls framed with molding bound in tooled leather, above which the ceiling portrayed idyllic scenes engraved into hardwood.
The room feels not unlike a coffin
, she thought, also noticing that the pleasant outdoor chill had been replaced by a stuffy heat.

It was a mystery to her how these Adeltian nobles seemed to live so much more lavishly than her, when it was she who married the conqueror, and they who were the conquered. Crella had no misgivings about King Lyell. He was a cruel and terrible man who had thrown her aunt from the heights of the Throne, but as she stared at the display before her, she could not help but wonder why it was that he did not take for himself all that she saw.
Lyell is either the most astute or idiotic of conquerors to have allowed the Adeltian nobles to retain so much of their wealth.

“How long has it been since we last saw each other?” the man continued.

He was Lord Junton. Although stripped of his title after Lyell's conquest, those of the Adeltian elite still appreciated the former viscount as such.

“Far too long,” Crella said, unconvinced by her own words. She had never really known the man, just spoken with him briefly at banquets and the like, but he had reached out to her several times to extend friendship over the past decade, an offer she had neither rejected nor accepted. He had an air to him similar to Cassen which bothered her.
Surely that which offends me in him is not that which I project myself.
She tried to put the troubling notion out of her mind. Her husband had had her second-guessing herself ever since the unexpected night they'd shared with the tea.

“I pray your husband is recovering well?” Junton motioned for her to walk beside him as they made their way down a corridor. He was a gaunt man with skin aged beyond his years. Though by no means attractive, plenty a young maiden had swooned over him due to his wealth and presumed power.

“Yes, he is a resilient man,” Crella said. “And your wife, Lady Beyla. Is she well?”

Crella had expected to meet Beyla at the door of their home, as it was Adeltian custom to be first welcomed by the lady of an estate. Crella remembered her to have been a young woman of great beauty years prior, when she had married the far older Junton, and Crella was eager to see if time had been kind to her.

“That she is.” Junton led her through a doorway into a massive room. “Your son has been a most-welcome guest at our estate these past few days,” he continued, seeming eager to change the topic. Junton turned toward his left, profiling a thin curving nose, almost comical in appearance, past which Crella saw Stephon crouched at the hearth. Her son was busy poking at the burning embers with an iron rod, making sparks fly from the disturbance.

The boy loves anything with the capacity to destroy.
It was an observation she had made before, but she allowed herself to believe it a positive trait for one who must someday rule.

“I am pleased to hear that, Lord Junton,” she said. She hesitated before including his phantom title, as it was somewhat treasonous to refer to him as such, but after all he had done for her and Stephon it was the least she could do to show her appreciation and respect. “It is with regret then, that, as I am sure Stephon has told you, we must be leaving for Westport on the morrow.” The date had been pushed back given Alther's injury, but both he and Crella were eager to leave at this point. It was unavoidable, and further delay might upset the king.

Stephon tossed the iron poker carelessly toward a corner, making a clamor and depositing more ash on the already-dirtied stone floor. Crella was appalled by the display, wondering how her son could have forgotten so quickly that he was a guest here. Junton did not seem the least bit offended, however—if anything he appeared pleased. Stephon stood, brushed off clothing that Crella did not recognize as his own, and approached her with an autocratic stride.

“I will not be leaving, Mother.” Stephon spoke with all the dignity of a king addressing a servant.

Not wishing to make a scene in front of their host, Crella merely frowned at her son.

“I will leave you two in private to discuss. It has been a pleasure seeing you again, Crella. You and yours are always welcome at our estate.” After his words, Junton exited as promised.

After a moment the two were alone in a room that seemed Stephon was far more comfortable in than was Crella. “What exactly do you mean, Stephon? And you should act with more civility when a guest in someone's home.” She spoke with caution in case anyone might be eavesdropping through closed doors.

“I will not be leaving for Westport. The place is a slum not fit for the heir to the Adeltian Throne. You've said so yourself. Cassen has arranged for me—”

“Cassen?” Crella interrupted. “I told you to stay away from that man. He is not to be trusted.”

Stephon gave her a conceited snort. “Mother, please. I would hardly call him a man, and believe me when I tell you, the
duchess
is no more immune to my charms than are any of the flippant girls that compete for my affection.” The shrewd smirk Stephon wore appalled her. It was true, Stephon was received quite well by the young women at balls and events, but what else could be expected from the only boy with both Adeltian blood and a claim to the throne? As for the prospect of him charming Cassen, the thought revolted her to the point of losing control.

Crella's palm met Stephon's cheek with a crack, and she waited for him to retreat like he always did and submit to her will. But this time he did not. Without moving his head from the way it had been turned from the slap, Stephon slowly raised a pointed finger, pausing dramatically. He still did not look at her while he addressed her, as if his doing so might provoke him to violence.

“Mother, I will forgive you that, your final assault upon me. You are a woman, and as such are given to rash bouts of stupidity and childishness not befitting your advanced age.” Now his eyes met hers, and she saw his fury. “But I warn you, should you attempt to strike me again, you will not enjoy the consequences.”

Crella was too taken aback to respond. She studied her son, desperate for some sign of the little boy she once knew. She flashed to the memory of the time she had first noticed his behavior changing from pure innocence to questionable morality. Crella had a fondness for bantam wolves, a breed of stunted dog that grew to the size and likeness of a wolf pup and no larger. As a child, she had always had two or three of the long-haired canines in her care, and that had continued until Stephon was a boy of six years. He'd come to her swearing vengeance on one of her pets, promising to skin it for nipping his hand. Crella tried to explain to him, not for the first time, that no animal likes to have its tail yanked, but in looking in Stephon's eyes she knew her words had no effect. She decided it would be best to give away her pets rather than risk the inevitable escalation.

“Cassen has spoken to the king and arranged for me to remain in Eastport as his apprentice. I will learn to do what Alther cannot, manage a city. I will no doubt teach Cassen a great many things as well, but I will not be fool enough to show him all my tricks. Lyell was quick to agree, knowing full and well that left with Alther, I would learn nothing.” Stephon paused a moment as if to ponder the depths of his own intellect. “I may have done our kingdom a disservice by not striking him with something more substantial than a vase. I understand your desire to not look a harlot, but continuing to pretend that he is my father is unforgivable.”

Crella could not bring herself to comprehend Stephon's comments. How he was able to so nonchalantly accuse her of adultery and speak of murdering his father, she could not understand. She had never before known Stephon to wish to injure Alther and had believed her son had only attacked him in her defense. Cassen, Junton, or both were likely manipulating the boy to best suit their own schemes.
I should never have sent him here.
She wanted to slap him into sense, but she now truly feared his retaliation.

“And on the subject of Redrivers men, are you aware of what
His Grace—
that disgusting old man—did at the most recent ball? To my half-sister, your
daughter
?” Stephon spat the question as if his mother had somehow been complicit.

Crella had heard of it and was equally disgusted; however, she saw no reason to push her son further down this destructive line of thought. “He merely danced with the girl, as fathers often do with daught—”

“How
dare
you make excuses for that deviant,” Stephon interrupted, raging. “Blood relation or not, that is his granddaughter, and he made advances upon her as would any suitor. It is repugnant. I would not blame the Adeltian masses, should they revolt in reaction to a deed so poorly done.”

There were ears everywhere, and her son was openly speaking treason—a thing normally best dealt with by turning heel and distancing oneself from the speaker. Crella still could see the face of her servant executed for the same crime, her expression frozen in despair, her eyes forever accusing Crella of being her informer. How much more gruesome a sight would it have been had she seen it in actuality and not only in her imagining? Would she force herself to witness Stephon's impalement?

Crella drove the thoughts off, along with her fears of his potential for reprisal. “You do not know what you are saying. Your words are not your own. You have been made to believe things—”

“I have been made to believe things? Is your hypocrisy boundless
?
” Stephon now had a dangerous mirth mixed with his fury that threatened assault.

“Your grandfather is
the king
,” she said, meeting his fury with her own.
Strike me if you must, but you will hear my words.
“And you will respect and obey him so long as he is as such.”

A mischievous and sinister smile spread across Stephon's face. “I would not expect that old man to rule for so long as you might think, Mother. I know a great deal that you do not.”

Just as he'd finished his statement, Crella heard a heavy pounding at the door punctuated with authoritative shouting.