When Eleanor first heard that Princess Fayr had sent out a wide summons for suitors, her reaction resembled panic. “Suitor?” Eleanor cried. “The princess wants a suitor? But I can’t court the princess, so what good does that do us?”
The King-Wife stood on a bridge over the Churning Lake with her noble Scholar, Rebeka. She had discovered some time ago that the bridge between her Mansion and the central sub-station provided an ideal place to contemplate difficult problems. The stirring waters of the lake provided a rhythmic sound that was not too blatant to disrupt the steadiness of her inner metronome.
A funny smile played on Rebeka’s lips. She had such ripe lips, so very red and swollen, that Eleanor wondered if the Scholar used some unnatural tool to produce that effect. But what bearing did that have on the matters at hand? “Yamair is full of strapping young men,” said Rebeka. “I’m sure you could find one to your suit your purposes, if you wished to.”
“Hm.” Eleanor paced back and forth over the planks of the bridge. “Provide a suitor myself ...”
The issue struck more emotions within Eleanor than she cared to acknowledge. It had been several hours since her last sip of Discipline, so she could feel those emotions aching within her. More than anything, this situation reminded her of the frustrating fact that she and King Byron had never managed to produce a child together.
The Earth Mechanic knew that they had tried, again and again and again. To remember their various attempts made Eleanor’s loins tingle with warmth even as her blood burned with shame.
In her mind, the purpose of sex was to create children. To accomplish this efficiently, it should only be practiced at certain times of the month and the act itself should be quick and clean. After years of performing sex this way, however, Byron had not been able to impregnate her. Before he left, he suggested they try a different method. He said they should try taking their time, saturating their bodies with sensation before the final culmination, and perhaps this would make them more fertile.
Eleanor found the theory ridiculous, but for the sake of making an heir, she had been willing to try it a few times. She could not meet Rebeka’s eyes as these memories replayed in her mind. She thought of the way Byron would kiss her slowly, for minutes on end, folding his lips around hers, and even slipping his tongue into her mouth. She remembered how he grabbed her breasts and pinched her nipples between his fingertips, rubbing and tweaking incessantly, causing heat and moisture to rush between her legs.
“King-wife?”
Eleanor took a deep breath and tried to dispel such thoughts from her mind. The roar of the wind against the water reminded her of where she was and what she was doing. Byron had been gone for more than three months now, and she missed his touch with a terrible ache. But why? She looked upon their many unions together as a miserable failure. Why would she want to try it again, when she knew nothing would come of it?
“Why provide a suitor?” snapped Eleanor at last. “Why arrange a marriage at all? Yamair should not have to court Dearen. What can we gain from them?”
Rebeka batted her thick lashes rapidly. “They have money, your Majesty. A great deal of money.”
“And where did that money come from? It came from other kingdoms paying for safra. Safra is the only produce Dearen has to offer, and we want none of it.” The realization seemed to strike her suddenly. “Yamair wants none of it!”
“You make a valid point.” Rebeka contemplated this revelation with due graveness. “I think what you are saying is that Dearen ought to court us and not the other way around—in a fair and synchronized world, that is.”
“Yes!” Eleanor paced across the bridge with increased fervor. “Yes that’s exactly it!”
“Unfortunately,” said Rebeka, “this is not a fair and synchronized world, and whether Dearen deserves its wealth and power does not affect whether they have it. Therefore, we must take precautionary measures against the fact that a union between Dearen and Vikand could endanger our security in the future.”
“A union between Vikand and Dearen.” Eleanor reeled slightly and reached out to balance herself on the railing of the bridge. “Earth Mechanic save us.”
“The Earth Mechanic has placed you in a position to save us.” The firmness of the Scholar’s voice made Eleanor look up with surprise. Rebeka’s curvy and pleasant face now had a hardness to it, like the statue of a pagan goddess from Vikand. “The next move is yours to make.”
Eleanor shuddered a little at this blatant realization. More than ever, she wished Byron was here. “Perhaps I should wait for Byron to return. He’ll know what to do ...”
“I advise against it, King-wife.” Rebeka’s expression softened once more. Her dark eyes caught the sunlight and sparkled. “You can make this decision on your own. You told me yourself that safra has swayed Byron’s decisions too much, already. Perhaps it is best that our kingdom has reached this crossroads while you steer the carriage. Perhaps the Earth Mechanic intended it that way. You can lead our kingdom forward, King-wife, into a new relationship with Dearen. You have come to a powerful conclusion just now. We don’t need Dearen. Dearen needs us. Now we just need to make them realize it, and get them all to beg.”
“I ... I ... I suppose you’re right.” Eleanor’s mouth felt very dry all the sudden. She struggled to push a swallow down her throat. “But Vikand will offer her suitors. And many of our kingdom’s own Synergists will no doubt seek her hand, as well—with or without my permission. How can I rival that, when Byron and I have no heir of our own?” She lurched a little with the pain of that confession.
“You don’t need an heir, King-wife.” Rebeka stepped forward, setting down her parchment and pen, approaching the King-wife with open hands. The wind pulled her black hair from the knot on her head and lashed it against her cheeks. “You have produced so many great things in your lifetime. Almost any two people can create a child. But no one can make the things you can.”
The strength of these words stole the breath from Eleanor’s lungs. She looked upon Rebeka as if upon a savior. Her words offered such seductive wisdom, a release from her guilt, a recognition of her own power that tempted her to seek more.
As if to illustrate, Rebeka reached out and pressed her palm to Eleanor’s chest. Eleanor should have flinched with surprise, but she did not. “The decision is not mine to make,” said the Scholar, almost whispering. “It is yours, Eleanor. You alone can figure out what to do now.”
Eleanor’s heart pounded against Rebeka’s hand. The physical contact seemed to create a bridge of energy between them, filling Eleanor with strength. She wondered if Rebeka felt the same way. “Yes,” she breathed. “You’re right. My inventions are my true legacy, my greatest creation. But how do I get Princess Fayr to understand that?”
Rebeka wilted, her hand slipping from Eleanor’s chest.
Eleanor’s heart sank. She sensed she had let Rebeka down, somehow, and hurried to correct her mistake. “Perhaps it doesn’t matter what the Dearen princess thinks. I must speak reason and see if I can spread my inner drum to any of those poor, muddled souls of Dearen.” She stared into Rebeka’s eyes and saw her own fears reflected there. “But … but … they’re not the only challenge. I must figure out how to deal with the other Synergists, too; is that what you’re thinking?” Eleanor resumed her furious pacing, now wringing her hands in front of her. “But how? How do I ... ?”
“You pointed out the problem yourself,” said Rebeka. “You said that the Synergists may leave to court the princess, with or without your approval.”
“Yes. And it is not my place to forbid them. In fact, if I did, it would only make me look more desperate.” She came to an abrupt stop. “Therefore, I must personally approve at least one of them.”
Rebeka’s gentle smile sent a thrill through her heart. “That seems wise, King-wife!”
Eleanor nodded emphatically. “Yes. The Synergists maintain their freedom, but only one of them will have the King-wife’s own blessing. Oh, Rebeka!??
?
Her arms wrapped suddenly around the Scholar, gripping her tightly. She did not even think about the action before doing it; she just acted. And that was exactly the sort of behavior she abhorred.
She drew back almost as quickly as she’d lunged forward. Even so, the brief embrace left a powerful mark on her senses. A spicy aroma that the Scholar seemed to exhibit lingered sweetly in her nostrils. The warmth of Rebeka’s body had seeped through the fabric of Eleanor’s shirt-sleeves and lingered there.
“I, uh ... I thank you, Scholar, for your ... wisdom.”
A splash of pink suffused Rebeka’s cheeks. “This wisdom was your own, Majesty.”
Eleanor patted at her bound hair. A few strands had escaped in her excitement. “Well. Pride leads to negligence. Therefore ...” She didn’t know what else to say. “I should get to work.”
She straightened her clothes and pushed up her chin. She strode forward, past Rebeka, and then paused once more.
“Well?” said Eleanor. “Are you coming?”