Cheeks flushed, blond hair windswept, Gwydion crumpled his saddlebags in his large hands. His breeches and shirt were rough with travel.
I lunged forth, my fingers curling around Gwydion’s arm and smiled at him with all the warmth I could muster from my shock. “Oh Husband! I did not know you would be arriving or I would have—”
“Would have what?” His eyes, brightened by the ride, snapped dangerously, hovering between absolute wrath and that courtier’s façade he had been bred to maintain. Wrath vanquished veneer, and his mouth disappeared into a thin sneer.
Liem snatched the tense moment between us to slip away, but I halted him with an introduction. “Liem, this is my husband, Gwydion. Gwydion, this is Queen Erina’s son, Emir Liem.”
Gwydion bobbed a terse bow, a calm mask swiftly displacing fury. “I am honored to make the acquaintance. Later, I invite you to join me for a glass of wine but for now I beg you, Emir Liem, to leave me and my wife. It has been many a moon since I have last seen my bride.”
Ever innocent, ever oblivious, Liem obliged Gwydion with a nod and a complicit wink. “The romantic hero returns. Of course.”
Gwydion followed me into my room. I urged Gwydion to make himself comfortable on a bronze velvet chaise.
He grabbed my wrist. “I see you are pregnant. Why didn’t you mention it?”
I wrenched my hand away. “I did not wish to commit to it to paper before I knew for certain that the child would be healthy.” I pulled the curtains open wide to reveal a panorama of Nyneveh sandy stone houses, gleaming temples, and zigzagging streets. I dodged away in search of the maid, thanking the Seasons for the brief respite to collect my nerves. I took a steadying breath, mentally filing back Gwydion’s few letters; none had made any mention of a visit and yet here he was.
“Where are you hiding, Selene?”
Reyal finally appeared, cap skewed and chest heaving. The sight of my irritated face sent her stuttering. “I apologize your Highness, I apologize. What do you need, Emira?”
“I pay you to be available within a second’s notice during certain hours of the day and I pay you well, do I not?” I chided waspishly. “Does it seem utterly unreasonable for you to keep your part of the bargain?”
“No, your Highness.” She ducked, shamefaced.
“Do not let it happen again.” I smiled to take some of the sting from my reprimand. “Now, bring me some warm wine, tea, cheese, bread, chicken; enough for two and search out Miri and tell her to turn the bedsheets.” Miri was a second maid I had employed.
As Reyal rushed out the door, Gwydion came in, clapping mockingly. “Very well done. Taking queenship to heart I see. Glad of it.”
“Bugger off.”
Candidly, he added, “You will not have much say in governing at any rate. I hope you have not forgotten in these passing months, that I shall be running Ghalain.” He pinched my cheek. “Don’t worry. The household will be all yours to manage.”
“Oh, thank you so much.”
He pulled off his boots and sank tiredly into the bed. “Tell me, what you have been doing in Nyneveh. Whose support do you have?”
I had spent the last several months paddling in the deep pool of court intrigue, struggling not to drown. Frankly, I was satisfied that I had not yet sunk. “Ferdas is representing Aawset and I believe he shall vote for me. Aunt Lyra seems likely as well.”
Gwydion snorted with disgust. “You have been here for three months and all you have managed is a friend from childhood and your father’s sister—and them not even for certain? I cannot imagine why I thought you could have handled this on your own.”
I was stung. I would welcome advice, but Seasons, his belittling was unnecessary. My father had never spoken so to my mother, however they fought. “Emir Liem seems likely as well, and he’s the Queen’s son!”
He raised an eyebrow. “So, two young men and your own aunt, all three uncertain. It appears that I misjudged you: you truly are a mastermind of intrigue.”
“I have won the support of the Thirds Council and of Queen Erina as well!” I protested. How could he not see that I was slowly building up support, shoring the weaknesses that came with my age and lack of experience by winning the approval of important Ghalainis? And I told him as much. Gwydion might not have thought so, but I needed Queenship and was serious in my pursuit.
“Yes, yes, as wonderful as all that as, neither Erina nor the Thirds Council have a vote. Most people are betting that Quenela will be Ghalain’s next queen. Tell me, whose support does she have?”
I felt like a petulant child. “Hadil is her firm supporter and Kaladus almost certainly as well.” I brightened. “But Kaladus has not attended an Assembly meeting for months—Kershid suspended him from the first one for being rude to me and gave me the right to invite him back.”
“So. Quenela has behind her Viziéra’s immense mercantile wealth, Darsepol’s mines, and Chandon’s army of fighters. And you have only possibilities—and weak ones.”
“Yes, but Quenela cannot have Kaladus’s vote. At least, I hold him in my hand.”
“There is that,” he said fairly. “And something else.” He smirked.
I opened my mouth to ask, but there was a quiver of sorts in my belly, a languorously furious movement, both luxurious and urgent. I gasped in awe. “It moved.”
Gwydion scanned the room alertly, eyes bouncing from painting to bench to rug in search for the cause of my shock. “What moved?”
Laughing, I grabbed his hand and placed it upon my stomach. There was another tiny thrust. “That! Look, it knows its father.”
Shadows of suspicion skittered across his face, shattering the light mood. “Its father or cuckold?”
My elation soured. This was Gwydion after all. I looked at him levelly. “Of the two of us, I am not the one who has issues with monogamy.”
Perhaps he too thought of his pari lover and grimaced. His frown changed into a smile when the babe jumped beneath his hand. “A little warrior.”
“A fine heir,” I said, feeling that with Gwydion’s royal aspiration no better comment could be tossed in. The hunch was proven correct when Gwydion pulled me down onto the bed and kissed me tenderly on the mouth. It was unlike anything he had ever imparted, replete with respect and sudden affection. While many a wife would have melted beneath her husband’s apparently loving ministrations, my mind was calculating how to best use this newfound affection. I had to take my advantages where I could. And I knew better than to trust him.
Reyal and Miri entered, one carrying glasses and a jug of warm wine, the other a platter of cheese, bread, and roast chicken. They disappeared as quietly as they had materialized.
“That one on the left was quite a pretty thing. Where do you suppose she sleeps?” he asked around a mouthful of bread and cheese, dispelling the moment between us as easily as he had brought it to be.
“I do not know if the Queen would approve of such an arrangement,” I responded primly, turning a slice of tangy cheese between my fingers.
Taking a draught of the wine, he said, “Ah, Seasons bless the Queen but I do not know how much longer her opinions will matter.”
It was rude, but it certainly wasn’t an incorrect assessment. “And how is it that you have left the front to attend upon me in Nyneveh?”
From his seat, he swept a dapper bow and unfurled the package in his hand: the war standards of Viziéra and Darsepol. “I come to you, Emira Selene, with word of victory against the combined forces of Quenela and Hadil. With the two of them here, it was only a matter of time before the leaders in their stead failed. I am proud to announce that following a glorious charge at dawn, led by yours truly, we crushed their combined forces. Ballads will be sung of it, I’m sure. I left the forces under Kay and Farzal’s control to bar against any future incursions—although I do not think Quenela and Hadil will try anything for some time.”
“Do Quenela or Hadil know?”
His smile matched my own. “I believe, milady, that you are the first to
receive this news.”
Although the three of us had been in Nyneveh, besides my brusque conversation with Quenela at dinner months ago, we never addressed that our forces were pitted in war, electing to maintain a polish of cool politeness.
I so desired to break that mask.
I grabbed Gwydion’s hand. “Caught by surprise, we can probably maneuver a pretty treaty out of them.”
I ordered a carriage from the stables and the obliging driver took us to Quenela’s newly purchased townhouse in a posh Nyneveh neighborhood. A thin gloss of late winter ice still varnished houses and streets. Under the cold burn of the sun, the effect was blinding. Gwydion used the ride to lay out his instructions. My puppet master had returned.
The driver stopped before the small marble palace that was Quenela’s townhouse.
“We should not be too long!” I called as I strode up the frozen steps.
He grinned, his green eyes crinkling. “At your pleasure, milady!” He waved a packet of papers. “I’ve got letters from my sons to pass the time.”
I rang the large brass bell, which was answered by a tall, thin maidservant. Straight grey hair slid out of her mobcap. “Good day, marm.”
“Is Emira Quenela within?”
“Yes, milady.”
“Please tell her that Emira Selene and Lord Gwydion are here to see her on urgent business.”
Opening the door wider, she stepped aside to allow us entry. “Of course. Please wait inside.” She indicated a small sitting area where gilt and mirrors were arrayed as if they were the plainest mortar and brick.
“She will probably keep us waiting for hours,” I complained, pulling off my woolen gloves. Gwydion impatiently tapped the hilt of his ceremonial saber.
I was wrong. She kept us waiting for one hour, during which time I was hard-pressed to resist the temptation to pocket the jeweled baubles and trinkets that littered the tables. At least the maidservant had lit a fire in the stonework hearth.
“Emira Quenela will receive you now.”
Gwydion and I followed the maid deeper into the house, through a thick walnut door that opened to reveal a full set: Quenela, Hadil, and Kaladus, seated in comfortable armchairs before the great glass windows. A large fire crackled, illuminating a rich band of books that lined the mahogany bookshelves. Gwydion and I exchanged looks. I stifled a grin. Perfect.
“Emir Hadil, Emir Kaladus, Emira Quenela,” I boomed. “Have you received word from the front?”
Hadil’s knuckles whitened around his teacup. The dark liquid trembled. “No, we have not, Emira Selene.”
“My husband has recently returned bearing news. Gwydion, dear, if you will tell the good people.” A part of me knew that I should not gloat so, but I could not help it. After having been a thorn in our side when they should have been our friends and helpers, it was good to see their feathers plucked. My grin was even harder to suppress, but I managed it with herculean effort.
Dramatically, Gwydion unfurled the standards of Darsepol, striped gold and white with a scimitar-bearing lion in the center, and Viziéra, all blue and dotted with yellow stars.
Hadil’s sharp intake of breath and Quenela’s tight lips betrayed their shock. Kaladus eyed his new allies shiftily.
“Two dawns ago, we met your armies on the Field of Maidan. After hours of bloody warfare, after the death of hundreds of good men who will never return to see their families for the sake of your follies your captains gave me your pennants in submission,” I declaimed. I had to say, I was enjoying the drama.
“In light of this victory, let us move towards a peace. We can hammer out a treaty at this very moment. Our terms will not be heavy—we are not asking you to rebuild Aquia. I have no desire to beggar or punish the either of you.” That was a lie, but a diplomatic one. “I want to show you that I am sincere in my good will. We demand reparations, the precise figure we will have our stewards send you, paid over five years, and an oath to never attack Aquia. In perpetuity.”
Quenela finally unfroze and whispered instructions to a a waist-coated servant. “The reparations are a natural component of the treaty, although once your steward sends a figure, we will negotiate. However, I cannot vow that my emirdom will not attack yours long after our deaths, even after our memory fades from the lands.”
I made a show of pondering as I watched them. Hadil’s bluff features had fallen into an almost comical dejection. Kaladus seemed bored by the proceedings but I wondered if I read a twitch a regret; perhaps he thought he had thrown his lot in too hastily. Quenela’s expression, however, was bitter, her trouble swallowing the end of her aspirations for Aquia readable. She sat rigidly in her high-necked gown.
She called for a carafe of warm, spiced wine and for the next hour, we argued over figures and amounts and duties. The men would contribute occasionally, but it was ultimately a contest between mine and Quenela’s wits. Gwydion was content allowing me to conduct these proceedings and I found coming into a situation at an advantage rendered negotiations almost delectable. In Quenela’s tilted sapphire eyes, I could read the same thirst for rulership that was beginning to kindle in my own breast. Despite what hinged on this agreement, what had led up to it, she was enjoying this process as much as I was, eager for the satisfaction of a bargain well-struck.
If she wasn’t such a cow, we might have had a lot in common.
“Very well then,” I finally agreed. “A peace to exist between our principalities, good for one hundred years. As for the reparations, three hundred gold denars for the family of every man killed, one thousand for every farm razed and a figure for the amount lost in revenue. I shall have my stewards send you the precise numbers.”
It was not as much as I wanted, but it was more than I had ever thought to get from Quenela. And it was a mighty step up from the debacle of our first meeting, months ago.
“That seems…reasonable. But if the figure is exaggerated, I will demand reexamination,” she warned.
I drew Kaladus aside, away from Quenela’s ears. “I bear you no ill-will, Cousin and I should very much like it if Aquia had Chandon’s support in days to come.”
His weaselly face lit with understanding. “I see. Yes, I believe it is possible that Chandon can look upon Aquia favorably.”
I sank into a curtsy. “Then, I look forward to seeing you at the Assembly this week. Think kindly of Aquia and me in the coming days, Cousin.”
Kaladus’s mouth tightened. “Thank you, Cousin.”
I bowed to Quenela. “If we are finished here, I will take my leave. Good day to you.”
Her haughty face set with chilly dislike, Quenela nodded her farewell.
Flushed with victory, and with Gwydion’s gratingly approving gaze at my back, I signed the accord, ending the conflict between Aquia and Viziéra.
Or so I thought.