The servant dropped to her knees, not willing to insult her queen by yanking her hands free and not willing to presume she could touch royalty, as her lax but trembling hands attested to. She lowered her head between her upraised arms, hoping that by maneuvering herself as close to the ground as possible she could prevent herself from being offensive in any way, even though she had not been the one to initiate the touch. There was a loud sound of movement as everyone else followed suit, dropping to their knees in respect and reverence. Their experience was that any failure to kowtow to their leader with perfection could mean attracting a negative sort of attention.
Ambrea’s first instinct was to raise the woman from her groveling position and demand that the others also stand, but this was her first visit to court, her first day as ruler, and it was important that she be paid homage and expect others to show their respect, that courtly etiquette would be followed. If she flouted those sorts of traditional understandings, she was inviting insolence or perhaps criticism from those among her nobles who were conservative and traditionalist. But neither would she let them think they were dealing with royal blood of the same mien as her father, brother, and uncle. She was not spoiled, was not full of herself, and was not best pleased when others were placed lower than her boot heel.
Slowly she bent her knees, crouching before the prostrate woman, folding the woman’s hand between both of hers and pressing against the chill of her fingertips.
“And what do you think of your new mistress, divine worker?” she asked softly, reaching to touch the servant’s chin and raising her eyes up to hers. “Does it even matter to you? You think that all rulers are the same, none of us able to understand how hard you work to provide for your family? Your ever-hungry children?”
“No, great lady, I would not presume to know your mind. We know so little about you.”
“That will change. Hopefully for the better.”
Ambrea rose up to her full, graceful height again. Rush was overwhelmed with a curious sense of pride in her. He didn’t know why it should matter to him one way or the other, but it seemed to. Just as it seemed to matter that she continued to reach for people along either side of the corridor. She spoke to each person she touched, giving them small reassurances, knowing they were mostly too awestruck or baffled to speak anything of value to her this time around. But if she made a habit of this, she would soon be inviting commentary, remarks, and even arguments. Eventually she would begin to hear those whom she didn’t want to hear, perhaps some who would hurt her. Rush was eaten up with curiosity about how she would react to that.
But at the moment she was bowing her beautiful head near the head of a young woman. Her gleaming goldenred hair was lovely with its simple circlet of Delran platinum and a small clip of gems shaped into a flit-flyer holding it back and keeping it from fluttering hither and yon, as it had done in the forest. She had not bound it or braided it in any other way, and Rush realized that there was something significant to this, some kind of symbolism. He recalled Suna’s volatile reaction to his having cut her hair. Now, as his eyes drifted from one side of the hall to the other and caught sight of women self-consciously and hastily trying to tie up their hair, he realized they were worried about their hair being longer than the empress’s. The understanding crystallized when one of the Imperial Guards suddenly grabbed a woman along the wall who was too distracted by her new mistress’s actions to be more aware of her lacking etiquette. He jerked a dagger out of his belt, one of the many decorative pieces Rush saw at the waists of all the guards and all the nobles.
The guard threw the woman down at his feet, yanked her by the long chestnut sheaf that was her hair, and brought the blade into play. If Rush understood the rules, all that she was guilty of was wearing her hair longer than her queen, a perceived affront. Correction might require the guard to shear off only about a foot at the end. But instead he placed the blade against her scalp and began to saw at the blameless tresses.
“You will hold!”
Rush reacted when he saw Ambrea leap toward the violent guard. Decorative it may be, but the blade was clearly very sharp, evidenced by the blood that began to run down the exposed length of the common woman’s neck from the harsh tactics of the careless guard.
Rush leapt for the guard over Ambrea’s head, grabbing for his hand and the blade within it, yanking it up so hard that the pop of the man’s shoulder socket echoed in the suddenly silent hall. Rush disarmed the man just as he began to scream out with pain. But the Tarian would not be satisfied until the guard was pinned to the floor with his neck under Rush’s boot and his twisted arm pulled back tautly.
Ambrea reached for the sobbing woman, using her bare hand to staunch the flow of blood from the mean cut on her scalp. The empress hushed and soothed her subject, hugging her tightly as she blinked back obvious tears.
“You will hear me now,” she ground out in a loud, angry voice, a sudden terribleness entering her eyes and steel etched in the frown of distaste marring her lips. For the first time, Rush could see the determined blood of her father shimmering to the surface. “The next soldier to lay a hand on a woman—on any subject of my realm in such a way—will answer to me with their lives. This is the end to all senseless brutality in this realm! Between noble and commoner, between subject and empress, between one person and another. I swear to you, I will not have it!” She turned an angry eye toward the Imperial Guards standing outside the palace receiving room. “Fear for your jobs, gentlemen, for you are in no way assured of them! You all as well!” She was shouting toward the nobles awaiting her in the inner room. “There will be new elections, elections where the people will have their true desires met, not the desires of my father, my brother, or my uncle appeased! Those of you who are honest, who are an honest representation of the desires of this land, will have nothing to fear, but believe me when I tell you that the desires of this country are much, much altered now. My Tarian will take control of my Imperial Forces and will clean house there as well. He will set very high standards, and you will meet them or find yourselves begging at the interim offices for assistance in feeding yourselves and your families. But until such time as these things can be put into motion, you will question your every act and impulse. You will wonder what might please or displease me hard enough to stay your hand against such senseless brutalities!”
“But the law—!” The soldier squeaked in protest for only a second before Rush pulled his wrist up tighter, forcing enough pain into him to choke off any further argument.
“The law, as I understand it, states that no woman may wear her hair longer than the highest-ranking female in the royal family. It also is quite clear that there is a forgiveness period of one week if that ranking female suddenly changes her style or length. Punishment,” she said in hard, cold disgust, “is a fine and a warning, then a public shearing if that fine and warning go unpaid and unheeded. You didn’t even think to verbally warn her! And a shearing is done with a laser trimmer, not a sharpened blade! You will not play fast and loose with my laws so that you can be a bully and a brute!” She leaned forward toward the man, whose face was pinned hard to the floor. “I have a bigger bully and a meaner brute, as you see.”
“Yes, great lady,” he gritted out.
“You are relieved of your duties, soldier,” she told him.
Rush let go of the man, his numb and dislocated arm falling hard on the floor. The young man fumbled to get to his knees, flopping around like a fallen hoofed beast, a long line of spittle dripping from his lips and onto the floor.
Ambrea watched him with a careful gaze as he struggled to keep from puking in his pain. Rush knew even before it happened that compassion would overcome her anger. He couldn’t suppress the strange, full feeling that blossomed in his chest as her eyes warmed and softened. He wanted to jump between her and the proven-violent man as she leaned toward him, reaching out a hand to touch her bloodied palm to his stubbled cheek. As far as Rush was concerned, it was akin to painting herself
with honey and dangling herself in front of a wild kabrea. Utter insanity. But he had also come far enough with her to know when he was needed and when he would be interfering.
“Perhaps, my Tarian bully,” she said to him in a loud voice, “this is a flaw of his trainers and not the man himself?”
“I doubt it, madam,” he said with a dark frown. “All these soldiers were trained in the same manner, and none of them took a blade to an innocent woman. None of them created the opportunity for themselves.”
“True.” She pushed the soldier’s chin up, forcing his eyes to hers, searching his gaze for … who knew what she was looking for. Rush wouldn’t presume to know her mind at this point. She was always and infinitely surprising to him. And more and more beautiful, it seemed, with every passing moment. There was something ethereal and angelic to her as he watched her bend close to the head of the suffering and undeserving soldier. “What say you, misguided boy? Is it nature or nurture that makes you what you are?”
She was able to glean her answer only from the eyes she was gazing into. He was unable or unwilling to answer her. Most likely he was afraid at his own unsure footing, unable to guess what he could do or say to please this new and strange sovereign who would be so different from those most recently come before her.
“It’s my experience, madam, that this particular kind of initiative is a mark of a bad nature,” Rush said darkly.
“So would many of my people say about you,” she countered with a small smile as she flicked mischievous bright eyes up at him.
“Not that they’d be wrong,” he remarked with a grin.
“No indeed. But I have faith in you, my lord. I have faith that you can train a better nature into this young man.”
She looked back at the soldier. “But first,” she said softly to him, “you must make amends for your brutality. You will be servant to this woman, once you are well, until she is satisfied.” She indicated the injured female, who immediately looked fearful. But Ambrea soothed her fear. “If he so much as touches you, or even speaks to you in insolence, he will forfeit his life. For as long as you feel is necessary, you will hold this power over him. When you come to me and release him, he will go into retraining with my Tarian friend here. Between us both we will teach him to respect others because one never knows when power between two individuals might shift. Perhaps from there he will progress to learning that one must always treat others as one would wish to be treated themselves. And then, perhaps if my hope is fulfilled, we will teach him true empathy, and true wrong versus right. Perhaps then he will never want to be so brutal to another again simply because he has learned how wrong it is.”
She then handed the guard and his victim off to the imperial medics who had arrived. Rush held a hand down to her and helped her back to her feet. A quick-thinking servant had appeared at his elbow with a tray bearing a bowl of fresh water and a clean cloth. Rush guided her hands to the bowl, where she could rinse them. But instead of handing her the cloth, he took on the task of drying her hands himself, slowly moving the absorbent, slippery silk over her every single finger until all traces of blood and moisture had been blotted away.
He didn’t realize the reverence he was using to do this until he looked down into her upturned face and saw the bemused little smile touching her lips. He suddenly became aware of the utter silence in the hallway and that all eyes were on him. Including the eyes of his teammates. Rush became uncomfortably aware of the realization that he was supposed to be playing a part, though the definition of that part was being made on the fly. However, he knew very well that the way he was touching her could potentially be misconstrued as something far more intimate than would be healthy for her young reign. In truth he hadn’t meant to.
But the real truth, he admitted to himself, was that he did find her far more attractive, far more compelling than was healthy for either of them.
Rush stood in an attentive stance beside Ambrea’s throne as she sat in the royal receiving room and was introduced to what seemed like a never-ending flow of nobles. They all groveled in one way or another, many falling to kiss the hem of her dress or touch their foreheads to her feet. Rush hated when they came that close to her. He most certainly didn’t like them touching her in any way, and he didn’t like them getting within what he called “dagger’s distance” of her. But he realized he had little choice in the matter. Everyone wanted to see the new empress; everyone wanted to touch their beautiful new queen. And to be honest it was beneficial to her to have them in awe of her, to have them praising her pale beauty and her regal demeanor. If the nobles and the people developed an infatuation with her, it would make her transition far easier.
What he was even more aware of was that the real danger to her was standing a respectful distance away. Balkin was in full court regalia, making certain that everyone knew he was still in play, still ready to gain power should the opportunity arise. Yet he was keeping a proper distance from her, keeping his head down, so to speak. Rush actually had to admire the man’s ability to keep his feelings to himself. All reports had said he was very hot tempered, especially when his desires were thwarted. So either he had suddenly acquired a new level of patience, or he truly was not upset about the power shift going on around him.
Not that that made much sense either. Balkin had to know that his days of power might be numbered as his niece phased him out of her reign. Perhaps that was his game, Rush mused. Perhaps he was trying to avoid being phased out, as if keeping his head down might allow her to overlook all the injustices she had suffered under his boot.
“So, my great lady,” spoke up the nobleman who stood before her now, his respectful address full of a rather snide tone, “you think you can rule this country and all of us?”
Ambrea smiled slightly in the face of the man’s rudeness. The room, which had been buzzing with conversation, suddenly quieted. All eyes were trained on the exchange. Rush tensed beside her, but before he could step forward and cuff the little prick, she laid a calming hand over Rush’s wrist, staying him. Still, the request didn’t mean he couldn’t glare at the obnoxious man. He did so with all the pent-up energy he could muster.
“I will do my best,” she replied. “But I know I have much to learn.”
“Your first lesson ought to be that not all of us will fall at your feet, kissing your hem. In truth, some of us think you are a waste of our time.”
Ambrea had to squeeze her fingers closed around Rush’s wrist when she heard a sinister growl roll out of him. She realized he was playing a part, but sometimes she wondered if he wasn’t serious. He had her completely convinced that he could and would rip out any throat necessary just on a whim. But she wasn’t intent on ruling by dictatorial fear as her father and uncle had done. Although Rush’s display would let everyone know that she was personally protected, it was up to her to show her strength in other matters.
“And you are …?” she asked the thin-framed man whose court robes seemed to ride his frame a bit haphazardly. There was something about it that reminded her of her unfortunate young brother and the only time she had ever met him in person. How sad it was that he never had a chance to find his own footing. Perhaps he might have surprised them all and become far more worthy than she had given him credit for.
“I am Prelate Landrea, prelate over Cirqine province, the largest of your provinces, madam. The paxors of Cirqine answer to my voice and act in unison with me. Together we speak many voices on your council.”
The inference was clear in his tone and haughty bearing that her power was only as good as the council votes she managed to draw into her favor. Rush despised men like him. They existed everywhere, in all political structures, doing their best to make themselves feel more powerful by making others feel less so. They were so often more interested in throwing their power around that they forgot that their job was meant to be a voice for others.
“Prelate, I am delighted to have you here,” Ambrea said with ambitious warmth as she rose to her full hei
ght and stepped slowly down the steps of the dais, moving toward him as her hand and fingers slid away from Rush’s. He felt her leave him like a strange, bewitching sort of caress. There was an encompassing feeling of regret when she went, something oddly like deprivation. Rush tried to tell himself that it was his need to protect her and the fact that she was moving out of his range that caused it, but a deeper voice, one that was more truthful with him and a bit quieter, told him that that simply wasn’t the case.
“I trust more a voice that is bravely willing to speak against me than one that kisses at my feet and oozes false charms.” She reached to place both her hands on his shoulders, framing him with her presence. Her receptiveness seemed to baffle him for a moment, and he looked at her as though she was an idiot child. Then he recovered himself and with a rather rude turn of his shoulders he shrugged her off and stepped back out of her reach. The only more rude thing he could have done would have also broken with court etiquette, and that would be to have slapped her away. Although he was willing to be disrespectful to the very limit of the line, he was apparently not willing to cross the line into raw flouting of her authority and imperial blood. A good thing, too, Rush noted to himself as he seethed with a hot desire to bitch-slap the ingrate. Didn’t the man appreciate at all how different politics could be under the reign of this extraordinary woman?
“Madam,” he rejoined coldly, “you would do well to remember that royal blood is always easy to come by. Figureheads will come and go, but in the end it is we politicians who manage Allay.”