The Royal Demeanor - Reaconia Chapter 8

The Royal family of Reaconia deal with conflicts of the realm, all while facing their own personal battles.

 

Eight: The Royal Demeanor

          Nothing could get her out of bed this morning. She rolled onto her side, a ray of sun fell onto her face, making her squint. She raised her hands to cover her eyes, dreading that it was morning already. Her blue eyes opened slowly to the sights of luxury: sheer curtains of red and white swirled in the breeze of an open window, they adorned the grand bed frame, four great pillars that jutted upwards on all sides of her, twisting elegant masses of wood dyed a deep cherry hue. On top of each post, frozen images of a man and woman dancing were had been carefully carved in unique poses. Every time she saw them, she was reminded of her love of dance. Her father had had them specially made for that reason. She stretched out beneath her blankets, feeling the soft silk glide against her fair skin, cold in places she had not touched. The feather pillow under her head, one of many that surrounded her, was like a cloud trapped under a tangle of long, delicately curled blonde hair. She brushed the locks behind her and turned away from the rising sun, closing her eyes, hoping to rest a little more.

            A bird who had other plans landed on her windowsill and started singing away. It was a lovely tune, though one she did not want to hear. Annoyed, she placed a delicate hand over her ear. The muffled melody still continued, followed with a tapping. She sighed and a groan escaped her lips. The tapping was the only thing that filled her head, she could not think or dream of anything else, even with the covers pulled up over her head. She grasped a golden ruffled pillow in her hand and, in a flash, tossed it towards the window; it bounced off the wall, nowhere near her target, and slid across the floor. Her goal was attained when the scared bird flew away, she collapsed back into her bed, arms outstretched to either sides of her, she closed her eyes again and took a deep breath, relaxing into her surroundings. Her gown was pulled up around her thighs and she tucked her bare legs again under her burgundy silken comforter, and began to pull it up when the frightened bird came fluttering back, singing its song. She quickly grabbed another pillow and, angry, covered her face with it, pressing down with her hands. She screamed into it, releasing her growing anger. The little thing was ruining her peaceful morning. She tossed the pillow aside and looked at the little bird. It was a rotund little creature, with blue and gray feathers that it ruffled with its beak. It stopped only to lift its head high and whistle. She watched it for a moment, with anger in her eyes, immediately hating the small animal.

            “You've spoiled everything,” she whispered to herself. She laid there and listened until it burned her ears. She shrugged and decided it was time to finish this.

            Everything must end eventually. She thought to herself, kicking herself free of her sheets. She flinched as her dainty left foot touched the cold stone, which was stained a deep red, its texture rough. She slowly brought her right foot down, adjusting to the temperature. She then stood, her white shift falling around her ankles. The soft gown was a simple thing, as silky as the bed she had just left. It was modestly sheer and tight fitting around her torso, but flowed elegantly around her long legs. She adjusted her mantle, which draped against her back. She pulled it across her shoulders and twisted her hair out of the way, letting it flow down her back in a curl. The robe was delicately knitted and expertly crafted; it was white, with golden trim and stitches that flourished the edges in a flowery arrangement. It even had a train, outlined around the bottom in white and gold lace, which matched the collar and the cuffs around her sleeves. The garment shimmered as she walked, tying the front with a silken ribbon, equally embellished. Even in sleep she felt like a princess.

            She glided towards the window, stepping from rug to embroidered rug, avoiding the cold floor. She walked past walls covered with textiles portraying bold, heroic knights and stories of bravery and love. Gold arches and beams surrounded each image, framing them gracefully. To her left, across from her bed, was a fireplace, huge and gilded and mirrored. It was the main focal point of the room, the light from the dying embers making every nook and corner sparkle. Above the fireplace, on a red curtain, was her family’s emblem: a blazing sun with a crown. Her mother, daughter of the last king, Byron Beauvoir, inherited the Crown sigil, and when she married a Sease from the Suites with a Sun as his crest, it became a Crowned Sun. Her eyes followed the sewn flames upward. They curved in the folds of the flowing drapes to the peak of her ceiling, where a chandelier of crystal hung, gleaming.

            The sights distracted her until she once again heard chirping come from the window. She darted towards the bird and with a wave of her hand, shooed it away, the ball of feathers flapping its little wings into the distance. The splendor of the city caught her eye. From her window, the entire east side of the town below could be seen, a collection of houses and shops and streets sloping downhill until it met with the ocean, which was a brilliant array of colors in the rising sun. After a sigh, she reached out of her window to grab the shutter to her left, folding it in, the same with the right. A small latch in the center bonded them together and her room became much darker, the only light coming from tall candelabras and a red glow from the fireplace. She turned and headed back to her bed, not letting anything else distract her. No birds or light or woven pictures, just the inviting idea of more sleep.

            She climbed onto her bed, crawling on her knees through the mountains and valleys of cloth, her mantle trailing behind her. She grabbed an exposed corner of her comforter and rolled, wrapping herself like a cocoon, she came to a stop and smiled; it was little moments like this that made her feel like a child again. A yawn forced its way out, and with an exhale, she closed her eyes and let her mind go blank, easing into welcomed darkness. The warmth of her blankets surrounded her perfectly and her breathing became heavier.

            This time there was a knock at the door and her eyes shot open. There was another knock, followed by the click of the handle and a squeak of the large oak doors. She rolled in bed so that she faced away from the visitor; a blonde curl fell across her eyes. She dreaded to hear her mother’s harping fill the air, full of demands and expectations and selfish inquiries; but instead, a soft voice, almost a whisper, called out.

            "Memora, my princess, it is well past daybreak. Would you like help dressing, miss" she spoke as she entered, her heels clicking on the polished floor.

            A relieved smile swiped its way across Memora's face. It was her true and dearest friend. She rolled again to greet the girl, becoming more entangled in her silks. She laughed and tried to kick free.

            "Emmy," she said, struggling, "perhaps you could help me get free? I seem to have gotten into quite a predicament!"   

The girl laughed and, out of habit, covered her mouth to hide it, as if it was wrong to do so. "What in Trea's name are you doing, Memora?" she exclaimed, running over to the bedside. She grabbed a corner and started pulling. The sight of the girls' situation was too ridiculous for either of them to bear, and laughter filled the room. Memora kicked and struggled as Emmy pulled, both with as much strength as they could muster in between laughs. Memora finally got her arms free and simply sat up in bed, the blanket still wrapped around her body, a mess of curls flowing around her.

            "Some help you are," she said, chuckling.

            Emmy mocked back, "Freeing you from a growing tangle of blankets is not in my job description, my lady." Memora stuck a tongue out in reply, to which Emmy returned, tottering over to the window. She pushed open the shutters, allowing the light to once again flood into the room. Memora turned her head in protest.

             "Must we get ready so soon?" she complained. "We still have the whole day to do so." She then looked at her confidant, who appeared to have been awake for quite some time. Her jet black hair was done up in a fine array of braids, pinned with white jewels of perfect contrast and shine. Even more impressive was the ivory gown she wore which stood out against her fair brown skin. The dress was a shimmering white, trimmed with light blue ribbons and gems that swirled around her when she walked. There was rouge on her cheeks and a color around her eyes that was their exact shade of blue. "What is the occasion?" she said. "You're very fair this morning, Emmy."

            "Your mother called upon me early this morning to help her, there are many court hearing and trials this day. You have been summoned to attend…"

            Memora rolled her eyes; she hated the politics and listening to dignitaries argue over who's opinion was right. She wanted nothing to do with it and would rather stay in bed talking with her friend.

            "Must I really go?" she asked, just to complain. She knew, though, that she would end up sitting on her chair to the left of the throne, listening to affairs of state, throwing her voice in, about once every hour, when her opinion was valued.

            "It is important that you show interest," Emmy said, as she did every time the topic came up, "What you learn today, during the trials, as set by example of your noble father and mother, will be quite beneficial when you are to rule, Memora."

            It seemed that Emmy had that speech memorized, and Memora huffed in response. Every time she spoke like that, it was as if her mother was talking, constantly preparing her and instructing her to be a ruler one day. Memora was sick of it.

            Emmy walked over to the fireplace and grabbed the small bucket of water sitting beside it and tossed it on to the glowing embers, making a cloud of smoke that rose up into the chimney, some flowing into the room, collecting into its draped peak. She then grabbed the candle snuffer that sat on the fireplace’s ledge, and started to walk around the room, putting out the many candles.

            Memora jumped from bed, pushing the coil of blankets to the floor. "Emmy, allow me to do that. I would hate for you to smudge your dress." She stepped out of the blankets and walked over to her friend, grabbing the brass tool and continuing to stifle the candles. Emmy walked over to the bedside and grabbed the gilded chamber pot, walking over to the window to empty it.

            "I can take care of that as well," Memora said, and Emmy smiled, setting the pot on the floor.

"What would you like me to do then, princess?" she said back.

Memora hated having a servant almost as much as she hated being called 'princess.’ She knew what she was and did not need to be reminded of it every time someone spoke to her. She could also take care of herself. She only tolerated it because Emmy was her greatest friend, and it allowed them time together.

            She refused to let that bother her now; she put a smile on her face. “Let us go pick out my dress to wear today!” she said, giddily. The time they spent together was a release from the norm, a chance for them to be girls, where class and heritage mattered little. They could look at dresses and gossip and play. These moments were the highlight of her day.

            The two walked past the fireplace and through a door on the right, pushing their way through two more elaborate wooden doors under another golden arch. The adjoining room was also of great size. Two stained glass windows sent rays of green, red, and yellow light cascading over rows and lines of beautiful dresses, all displayed and laid out. Some were set up on mannequins, others hung on the wall, covered with a fine sheer cloth. Memora walked through the rows, her hands outstretched, running over silks and lace. She eyed each of them, summing them up, waiting for one to catch her eye.

            “What of this one, Memora?! The blues will do wonders for your eyes,” Emmy said, taking it off the hook and draping it over her, swaying, making the cloth twirl around her. It was quite a dazzling gown, Memora could hardly remember the last time she had worn it.

            “Will you help me put it on?” Memora said, walking towards Emmy. She untied the gold ribbon of the mantle and let the garment fall to the floor. Emmy opened a drawer near the entrance and grabbed a delicate sleek shift as Memora pulled her night gown off over her head, tossing it aside. It was colder in the room than Memora had expected and she clutched her arms in front of her chest, feeling the tiny bumps that had formed. Emmy rolled the shift in her hands and Memora raised her arms above her, holding her hair up behind her head, out of the way. Emmy pulled the chemise over the princess' blond head of hair and brought it down around her arms and shoulders, it caught on her breasts, and Emmy tightened the laces, tying a knot to secure it.

            Memora let her arms fall and went with Emmy. The two picked out a corset of fine white brocade, with shimmering white chrysanthemums embroidered in silk. She slipped it on over her chemise as Emmy tightened it. Every grommet laced straightened her back and pulled her shoulders to attention, cutting off another breath of air. She placed a hand to her stomach as she exhaled one last time, the strings as taught as they could be. She lifted her arms and stretched from side to side, adjusting to her constraints.

            They heard a faint knock resonate from the other room. Memora grabbed her mantle off the floor to cover up while Emmy went to the door to see who the caller was. She opened the door and had to look down to see a sweet, wrinkled face smiling up at her, she opened the door farther, allowing the old lady to bustle inside.

            “Hello, girls, I do hope you're both faring well on this wonderful day. Memora, child, you are asked to meet your father and mother at the corners come high noon. Would you like me to bring your breakfast, princess? Or will you take it in the dining hall?” The old woman secretly hoped the girl would choose the latter.

            Memora looked at the old woman whom she had known for so long: Ida DeMille, the woman from Bay City that her grandfather had hired to be the maidservant of the household when his daughter was born. Ida had helped raise the queen, and was now raising the future one.

            “That would be wonderful, Ida, if you could bring some here, and a plate for Emmy too, if you could.”

            The old woman did her curtsey and left with a bow, cringing at the thought of climbing those stairs again. “You had best be ready in time today, girl!” she said, followed by an obnoxious laugh. Memora looked at Emmy and rolled her eyes. She let her mantle once again fall to the floor and half skipped over to her bed and threw herself on it. “I will get ready when I feel like it, old hag!” she joked with Emmy, though she never, could never, mean that. She loved the old woman who had cared more for her than her own mother had, who she would go to for guidance or a spot of wisdom. She rolled onto her back and twirled a lock of hair between her long fingers in a moment of reflection. Emmy walked over and grabbed her foot, once again attempting to pull her from her bed.

            “We haven't much time!” Emmy said and Memora sat up as best as she could, panting as the corset cut off breath. “I know, Em, I am only jesting.” She stood and grabbed Emmy by the wrist and the two bolted to the closet, Emmy grabbed the farthingale and tossed it over the princess’ head, and Memora brought it down to her waist. Next came the underskirt, a plain silken thing with detail only around its bottom, frilled and trimmed in a white lace where it would be seen.

            “It looks as if I am being prepared for my wedding,” she said, eying herself in the looking glass across the room, dressed, so-far, all in a luxurious glossy white. Her eyes ventured out the window, through a yellow pane of a stained window. “Must I wear so many layers? The heat looks unbearable today.”

            “Planning on venturing outdoors, milady?” Emmy said back, fastening her skirt. Memora's thoughts turned to running through the woods, climbing through caves and flying through the clouds.

“Would that be so horrible?” she said, a little hopeful, not taking her eyes from the window. Emmy then went over near the door and grabbed the pale blue dress from the floor where she had dropped it. She separated the layers from each other and bid Memora to come to her, throwing another layer over her head. The over-skirt fell all the way to the floor and parted in the center, revealing the frilled lace below a sparkling deep blue trim patterned around its edges. There were swirls of the same color embroidered down the back and sides of the gown in intricate patterns. Emmy found the partlet to match and began to put it on Memora, when she was stopped.

            “I will definitely go without that today, Em. Much to warm for a collar. I don't care if my mother thinks I'm a harlot.” The two laughed and Emmy playfully tossed it aside and reached for the bodice. Loosening the ribbon and stretching out the back to easily slip it on, she held it as Memora put her arms through, careful to go under the delicate sheer sleeves that draped elegantly below her shoulders. She ducked her head through and collected her hair in her hands to clear the way for Emmy to tighten the strings. Once again, Memora felt constricting around her torso.

            “Remember to lace from the bottom up, it keeps the lines up here at their best.” She gave a sly smile and gestured to her breasts.

            Emmy giggled back. “I have little patience for you some days.” She undid the strings and re-laced them through the bottom grommet. Once done, she tucked the laces into the top of the bodice.

            “All dressed,” she said, and Memora let her hair down.

            “Will you be gracious enough to brush my hair for me?” Memora said. “I will grab the lead and rouge!” She walked into the other room to grab a chair. She took it to the fireplace and set it to the left of the hearth, looking into a big pane. She scooped a dollop of paste and applied it to her face while Emmy grabbed a brush and went to work.

 

.   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .

 

 

            Ida DeMille hobbled down the corridor away from the princess’ room, past great black marble pillars and under exquisite golden arches. She was getting ever slower in her old age and her feet shuffled along the floor in cozy furred slippers, which helped warm the constant chill her body seemed to have. A smile formed in her mouth and she chuckled to herself. She knew the girls would be laughing at her, as they always seemed to. She did not mind though; she actually found it quite refreshing, a bit of humor and drama around the house. Traits long gone from their Queenly mother and master. She had seen Memora every day since she was a baby, and had even helped bring her into the world. She was jealous of the girl’s youth and charms, her beauty and her spirit, though she would never tell anyone. Every day she saw the princess, and every day longed for a memory from her girlhood, and of the people in it. She struggled with the recent death of the man she used to love. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his pale face lying on the ground. She knew who he was, and what he had been to her, but could not recall a happy memory between the two, and she longed for that.

            The only possession she had from long ago was a dual heart pendant. It was a gleaming deep red and hung on a silver string tied to the belt of her apron. It gave her hope of remembering the life she used to have. The two pieces jingled together as she walked. It seemed to be the only sound in the castle, besides the rustling of her skirts behind her and the occasional pop of an old joint.

            The walks through the long castle interiors grew as old as she was and she began to dread them, but still managed to smile through it. It was becoming increasingly harder to continue her work as she aged, but after dedicating her life to aiding the Royal Family, she did not want to quit. She was stronger than that, and loved working for them. It gave her a sense of pride; surrendering her position was admitting defeat, and would be a reminder that her life was coming to a close… If only my aching joints and heavy breath would stop reminding me constantly.

            She came to the top of the stairs, a rasp in her breath, she stopped a moment to relax and rested her back against the wall, next to a portrait of a man staring to the heavens. A light was above him in the form of the angel Sabathiel, who was reaching for the man, guiding him to the light of Trea. The portrait was entitled 'Almost Home.'

            There are reminders everywhere it seems. Cannot a mind be at peace? she thought to herself. It was rumored that when a person was close to death, a light would appear above them, guiding them home. She thanked Trea for yet another day in the dark. She wondered if Buur had seen a light before he was killed.

            “Maybe Sabathiel ran off with my memories,” she said, “Get moving old lady, not much time.” She stood, placing her hands on her knees to straighten them out. She grabbed the hearts and whispered a quick prayer before staring down the stairs, knowing the way back would be much more difficult.

            A few steps down the spiraled stairs, it began to get dark and her old eyes strained to see the next step, taking each one at a time, planting both feet before stretching down to reach another. One hand followed the wall and the other struggled to lift her skirts, unable to grasp very tight. I must look the fool.

            She was grateful when a light came into view. A small torch cast a flickering glow up and down the stairs. She debated taking it with her, lighting her way down, but figured there would be too much to carry on the way up; so instead, she watched her shadow cross in front of her and continued on her circled descent. Her heart jumped when her tiny foot nearly missed a step and slipped down. She wondered how she made it through the day with how clumsy she had become. It was an unsolvable mystery.

After what felt like an eternity, the bottom of the stairs came into view and she counted how many remained. Six. I can do six more. And with that, she shuffled down them, almost expecting an applause when she touched the marble floor. She turned left down another long corridor, passing more textiles on the walls, detailing the building of the castle, a map of the known world, some ancient battle that she had forgotten the story too. She knew which order they were in without even looking up, at one time having studied them, gazing upon the pictures for hours in her youth. Now they were faded like her.

            A delightful aroma filled the air as she walked closer to the castle kitchens, and her stomach growled. She ebbed her thoughts of eating, knowing it would still be some time before she got her share, maybe she would sneak a bite before her journey back up. She opened the great wooden doors to the sights, sounds and smells of a great kitchen hard at work. The people behind the fires and the ladies kneading the dough had become her closest friends over the years. She greeted them individually as she walked in. Sisal was another elderly woman with a tough wrinkled exterior, almost never smiling, except when beating the dough with her wooden pin. She seemed to find great enjoyment in it.  Chanoa was a younger lass who took expert care in the setting and placement of the dinner ware, lining every silver plate and goblet and utensils perfectly, like out of a portrait. Madrey was in charge of the pots, boiling eggs, potatoes, and fruits and vegetables of all sorts. She had a mouth on her that a priest would damn, but she never paid much mind to it.  Arles was a large man, almost as wide as he was tall, with a great red beard that always seemed to have food in it. The man could sweat more than anyone she had seen in her life. He was in charge of the fires. Stoking and managing them, he rarely said a word, choosing instead to grunt on occasion. Finally, she saw Imani. He was almost a boy, a tall lanky young man with jet black hair and darker skin than Emmy's. He was from the Suites, and barely spoke a word she understood. He always was muttering to himself, but he had the most genuine smile, which Ida very much appreciated.

            She went to Chanoa. “I need two arrangements on a silver tray right away.”

            “Right away, ma'am.” was all she said before scampering off. Ida loved Chanoa's ability of always being pulled taught like a string, always uptight and stressed and never knowing when to relax. It was fun to play with.

            “And Madrey! I need those plates filled to the brim, mostly fruits, our princess knows how to put that food away.” That comment resulted in a grunt from Arles and the crew laughed. Imani simply smiled. Sisal raised her wooden stick above her head and slammed it to the dough. A fine white powder scattered. She smiled too.

 

            “That girl should teach her coxcomb mother a lesson,” Madrey said. She sucked in her cheeks and made herself look gaunt in mock of the queen, and the five others where hysterical. Even Ida failed to stop her laughter; she spoke through Sisal's cackling.

            “That mouth will get you into trouble yet, Madrey, just you wait! Arles, the second oven needs to be lit by high noon. There'll be a feast tonight after the hearings,” she said.

            Grunt.

            Chanoa brought the trays over, correcting a high-wrought fork that was bumped out of place. Madrey scooped a serving from each pot, filling the plates with boiled chicken and onions, battered eggs, and fruits of all kinds. Sisal tossed over two chunks of a fine loaf and Imani brought over two brilliant silver goblets poured high with summer white wine, followed by a splash of juice squeezed from oranges. It was a custom they did in the Suites: the perfect morning beverage.

            “Ta very much, my sweetling,” Ida replied, as she did every time. It made the young man blush, giving a faint red tint to his dark skin. 'Sweetling' seemed to be the only word he understood, and he bowed and smiled repeatedly. Ida reached under her dress and grabbed a loop that was sewn into the hem and put it around her wrist, clearing her feet and leaving both hands free to carry her tray. Madrey signaled her over and Ida scooted to her, only so the old woman could flick the fork out of place again.

            “It’s the simplest damn things,” she said.

            Ida looked over to Chanoa, who was polishing a dish so hard it looked as if her hands would bleed.

            “You’re going to get that poor lass fired,” Ida said, and Madrey shrugged giving an evil smile. Flames erupted behind her as Arles lit another oven. Chanoa jumped back in fear.

            Grunt.

            The two old ladies shared another moment before Ida turned to leave. The last sound she heard before the heavy doors closed behind her was another thwack of the rolling pin and laughter. Every time she saw them she was reminded of how much she loved her friends in the kitchen. But once again, she was walking in silence, shuffling past pillars and portraits. She tried to hurry on her way back up, knowing that her arms would get tired quickly carrying the large tray. She watched the juice swirl in the cups as she walked and her eyes wandered to her hands. The frail bony things grasped the handles as tightly as they could, purple veins snaking through her skin and tiny brown dots speckling the surface. Another reminder, she thought again.

            She turned a corner to head to the stairs, and a movement of shadows on the floor caught her eye. She looked up to see a profile outlined in light. It was a man standing in front of a large golden-stained window. He looked to her and she stopped and, while being mindful of her tray, did a curtsey as low as her frail old legs could take her before they started to shake. A kind, deep voice spoke out to her.

            “I will tell you what I have been telling you for nigh on five and twenty years, Ida: Please, stand up.” She heard footsteps and saw polished black leather boots come into her sight. They had silver lacing and details and were lined with fur. Two strong hands grasped her by the elbows and guided her back to her feet. She looked up to her greeter, and after she past black and silver trimmed breeches and a bright silver shirt, the gentle face of her King stared back at hers. His reflective green eyes always looked tired, his dark wild blond hair and the new growth of a beard framed his face of dark complexion. His nose bore a slight crook due to a childhood injury and his ears where lightly pointed at the tips, as custom of the Eidan race, common in the Suites. He was quite a handsome man, and just. Every person who met him was wooed by his charm and trustworthiness. Ida had always admired him.

            “Apologies, Your Grace. It is a form of habit after so many years. I will probably never understand.”

            “I see you are going up to see my daughter. May I accompany you?”

            “I would be most honored, my King,” she replied.

            He reached for her and took the silver tray from her hands, balancing it on the palm of his left hand and offering his right arm to her. She pulled her sleeve back and wove her arm through his, and the two continued on.

            “Do I have to keep reminding you to call me Drom as well?” he jested, and the two laughed.

            “You can’t teach an old woman new ways,” she said. They reached the stairs and took the first step. She clenched his arm tighter as she pulled herself up after him, feeling the muscles of his forearm react under his silken sleeves. The two climbed up, and after a while Ida was almost hopping to keep up with the younger man. Still, she appreciated the help, and the conversation let her think of something besides her aching knees. “Drom, the hearings are in less than an hour. Perhaps you should finish preparing? I can manage from here,” she said.

            “I will help you the rest of the way. I need to atone for all your years of service, and besides, we are almost there.” They passed the last torch hanging on the wall, and the top of the stairs came into view. Ida noticed a difference in the king today, he was very persistent to keep going and had his brows furled in thought. Almost as if he was delaying going back to his chambers.

            “It’s Romay, isn't it, my Lord?” she said, giving him a suspicious look.

            “She is dressing, has been for hours. She always wants my thoughts. I just needed some air.”

            Ida sighed. “She relies too much on the thoughts of others, that girl. Never seems to be happy in her own skin.”

            “She was not always like that, Ida, I’m sure you can remember there was a time when a more care-free woman at my side, when such things weren't so highly ranked.”

            “I know. I’ve seen every phase of that girl! Those were the days, aye, lad!” Ida laughed out. “Before her mad spell took hold.”

            Drom only gave a weary smile. “That was a time long past.”

            “Yes, indeed. After our beloved prince was lost to us.” It was quiet for a moment, and Ida had realized she had over-spoke, and felt guilt as the two climbed, arm in arm. When they reached the top, Drom let his arm fall and held the tray back out for Ida to take it. “Please give my daughter my love, and tell her I shall see her shortly. I will finish dressing now.”

Ida grabbed the cold silver handles and adjusted to the weight. He turned to head back down the stairs and she called for him. “I have known you a long time, Drom, some five and twenty years as you put it,” she said, smiling, “ever since you were just a boy yourself and I have seen you and your wife go through hardships no one should ever have to go through. You have never backed down from a challenge. Romay knows that too, and she has always been quite a challenge.” He chuckled at that. “Even in such a trivial task as picking out her dress, she needs you. You should be with her now.”

            A smile plastered itself to Drom's face and he simply nodded before continuing down the stairs, hands shoved in his pockets.

            “See, you could learn quite a bit from this old lady,” she yelled after him, and then continued her way to the princess’ room. When she hobbled up to the great wooden door, she stuck out her foot and kicked at the bottom, knowing very well the tray would best her if she tried to balance it. She heard a clicking of heels on stone before Emmy pulled the door open and let her enter. Memora was sitting in her elegant chair by the fireplace mirrors, pinning a curl of hair artfully on top of her head. Her skin looked like porcelain and there was a soft pink blush in her cheeks. Emmy continued arranging her hair and Memora grabbed a small brush, dipping it in a red stain before bringing it to her soft lips.

            “Oh, child, you look so like your mother did at your age. I almost thought I was two and ten years younger.”

            The sound of Ida's voice brought Memora to attention and she grabbed Emmy's hand, darting to the tray of food Ida carried.

            “This looks wonderful,” was all she said as she took a plate. Emmy and Ida each saw the other playfully roll their eyes.

“And yet you remind me ever so much of your father, who sends his love with me.”

Memora went over and sat on her bed and bit slowly into a strawberry, savoring it. “You saw my father this morning?”

            “I did indeed. He was gracious enough to help me up those dreadful stairs.”

            “He always is such a kind man,” Emmy piped in.

            Memora patted the spot next to her as an invitation for Emmy to come sit with her. The two immediately started giggling and whispering between bites, and Ida took that as a sign to leave.

            “Be at the corners by the time the first afternoon bells chime, and on your best behavior,” she said before doing a small curtsy. “See you both in the throne room, ladies.” And with that, she left, dangling the silver tray at her side.

            “As always, thank you, Ida,” she heard the princess voice as she walked through the doors.

“Yes, thank you,” Emmy's voice called out.

Ida smiled, before realizing she had to go back down the stairs.

.   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .

 

            Drom meandered around the corridors, taking his time going back to his chambers. He reflected on the words Ida said to him. She always had a way of putting things in perspective, and though he took what she said to heart, he still did not want to be in his chambers. He rounded the corner and continued on his way, he looked ahead and his sigil caught his eye, a great metal piece of wrought gold and copper that adorned the large doors to his rooms. Below the crowned sun, a man stood to attention, the stoic figure of  Phillip Hartley. He was younger than Drom, though not by much, and was a cousin to his queen. He served as their personal body guard for most of his life, being knighted after his lady mother Damiana, Romay's aunt, had passed away, leaving the boy with nowhere to go. The man bowed as Drom came near, the dark brown hair he had tied back falling over his shoulders. “Welcome back, Your Grace.”

            Drom nodded back, relieving the other man from his bow. “Philly, any change from within?” he asked.

            Philly chuckled. “Nothing, Your Grace, though she did come out once to ask where you had gone.”

            “Very good.” The King walked up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Let us know when it is time to go down for the hearings.”

            “Yes, sir.” And with that, Philly opened the doors for him and light flooded the hall. The windows in his chambers were open and he walked in, feeling the breeze swirl around him, making his silver shirt cling to his skin. He heard rustling and mumbling coming from down the hall to his left and he followed the sound. He looked down the corridor and saw his queen standing with her back turned to him. He stood for a moment and watched her. She was in a golden shift, and with no support underneath, it hung loosely to the floor and swayed lightly in the breeze. Her shoulders and neck were bare above a dark red corset that was tightly laced. She reached above her head and stuck a long pin into her hair, a large golden flower embellishing the end. She reached down for another, her long painted fingers carefully grabbing a second gold pin. Her hair was a tangle of lights curls, some strands falling loosely around her face and down her neck. The second pin was placed, this one the centerpiece, a tiara of golden vines with tiny ruby leaves that sat above her brow. Drom watched her put in large ruby earrings that dangled and swayed when she moved. He loved these moments where he could really admire her, her natural manner, not a care in the world. She was very beautiful, and after all the years they had been together, she was still the loveliest girl he had ever seen.

            He slipped off his boots as quietly as he could and crept down the hall, sliding his feet along the stone. She gave no notice to his actions. He began to smile nervously, and ducked low behind her, moving ever closer, never keeping his eye off the target. He stood slowly, coming up right behind her, and gently slid his hands around her tiny waist, feeling the soft fabric. She gasped and shouted, turning to him. Once she realized who it was, she began to laugh.

            “Drom! Darling, I loathe when you do that!” She tried catching her breath. “You gave me quite a fright.” She swatted at him playfully. “Where have you been?”

            He avoided answering the question. “Hmmm? I simply took a stroll is all.”

            She walked into the hall of her chambers and sorted through the dresses she had stacked about. She shouted back to him. “Is there a lot on your mind, love? You seem subdued. Any issues with the hearings?”

            “Not at all. Just out for some air, nothing to worry about.”

            Romay poked her head around the corner. “You never go out for air, Drom. Now really, where have you been?”

            When she looked away, he rolled his eyes. Maybe I shouldn't have come back. “I went to help Ida prepare breakfast for our daughter and chatted with the attendants for a moment.” He did not want to reveal the true reason for his absence, the fact that he was avoiding her. He walked under a stone arch, going past an open iron-framed door that led out onto a stone balcony with beautiful marble banisters and lush plants of all kinds strewn about. He glanced outside as he passed, relishing the sights of his city below him. He turned to the open air and walked out, resting hands on the smooth rail. Silk sheer curtains flew around him.

It was a fair day in the capitol. The warmth of the sun felt wonderful on his skin and it reflected off the ocean in the distance, making the horizon sparkle and gleam. There were hundreds of people bustling through the streets far below, like ants; large carts of produce for the markets, coaches of Lords and Ladies traversing through the mud, messengers and squires doing their duties. He watched them all. Some days he would pick an individual and follow them, imagining in his head what they were thinking, what they were going through, and wondered what it would be like to be them. It had been so long since he had been one of them. He always wondered if anyone looked up to him and wondered the very same thing. Something in particular caught his eye.

            Romay came up behind him and put her hands on his shoulders and Drom flinched in response, a chill ran down his spine. She rested her head on his shoulders. “What is the matter, dear, you seem very solicitous this morning.”

            “A lot on my mind. And you startled me.”

            “Serves you right, sir. And what are you so focused on?”

            “Everything,” he said bluntly. “Pyron is now in open rebellion while there is still the one from Temple to deal with. Not to mention a murder on our own front steps.”

            “That is what's on your mind, darling. I want to know what you are staring at.” She tried to follow his gaze.

            “Whatever I can see.” He pointed. “There is a cart coming up the road from the south, our banners fly on its tops, and our escorts lead it. Inside must be the subjects of today's hearings.”

            “I hope there are not many. I want to have some time this afternoon. Perhaps we could take a walk later, hmm?”

            “If there is time, May. You should finish getting ready.” He grasped her again by waist and placed a light kiss on her forehead. He turned to go in and she was left standing alone on the balcony. She glanced towards the cart that bounded up the road. Her nails clicked against the banister, and her light blond curls swirled in the breeze.

            She spoke, not knowing whether her husband could still hear her, “Will you help me, Drom?”

            An answer came from his chambers just to the left of the door, “Why don't you have Emmy help you, love?”

            “I sent her to be with Memora. That girl is always underfoot, and besides, I get the feeling that she hates me every time I sense her eyes on my back. Though I could use a drink,” she said the last bit under her breath.

            Drom recalled the second plate of food on the tray he had brought up with Ida and kicked himself for the slip up, though his wife did not noticed. She walked in to the hall to see the King digging through papers and letters on his magnificent cherry desk and could tell he was doing his best to avoid helping her. She sighed deeply, loud enough to where she knew this time he had heard, and then walked over to her dress of choice and began putting on her outer layers. She stepped into a beautiful amber over-skirt with branch patterns of a light cream. Brown colors embellished the gown's entirety, and in it where a few crimson branches and leaves that stood out in beautiful contrast to the golds, perfectly corresponding with her gems. She weaved the bodice of the same design through her arms and was about to make an exaggerated scene when she felt rough hands on her shoulders that followed her spine down to the first laces. A sincere smile warmed her moods.

            “Remember to lace from the bottom up, Your Grace,” she said playfully.

            “As always,” he said back. He pulled the laces tight and before moving up to the next grommet, he laid a light kiss on her shoulders, moving to a different spot each time. It seemed to calm her and she nearly melted into his arms.

            “Remember when we were young?” she whispered, mostly to Drom, but there was a hint of tone that she was talking to herself.

“And beautiful.” Drom said back, giving another kiss.

            “Well, I'm definitely not young anymore,” Romay mocked, and Drom smiled a bit.

            “Yes, you still are very beautiful, my queen.”

            They heard the great door to their room groan as it opened, and Philly's voice call out down the hall.

            “It is time, Your Majesties. I have heard that other Lords and Ladies have already started to arrive.”

            “Thank you, Phillip.” Drom called back.

Romay turned to her husband. “I will grab your coat,”

            She walked down the hall to his study, to an elaborate chest on the floor decorated in ornate wooden trims and golden paint in the likeness of a dragon, wings outstretched. She cracked the lid and opened it, revealing coats of many colors; reds, greens, and blues in all varieties of fabrics; satins, silks, velvets and cottons. She searched for a certain one and when she found it, she grabbed it, pulling out a handsome waistcoat of black and silver, abstract leaves of tan and silver patterned throughout in various shapes and sizes. She brought it to him. “Here, this will match mine, the theme of it all, I mean.”

            “Sure, Romay, we will look grand.” He held his arms back as she slid his coat on, the padded shoulders made him look broader and the attached sleeves where slashed, giving him a considerable elegance. She fastened the tags down the front of his coat while he placed a string of metal and jewels around his neck. Drom dug through his things and put on a great gold belt that bore his crowned sun on its buckle while his wife slipped her little feet into golden shimmering shoes with red velvet linings and abounding jewels.

            They met at the foot of their grandiose bed under the highest peak of their chambers and joined arms. Romay reached down and lifted her skirts before they went through the door held by Philly.

            The hall they walked down was large. The sound of their heels bouncing of the stone walls and great marble pillars was the only thing that could be heard. All three walked in step, the king and queen walking in front of their knight. A slight roar filled the air as they drew closer to their goal, emanating from the throne room where many people gathered to hear the cases of the day’s court. They rounded a turn and continued on to the corners, the colossal intersection to where every major branch of the castle met before the throne room. They could see their daughter with Emmy and Ida standing nearby. The ladies all turned when they heard Drom and Romay coming, and the three gave a curtsey, Emmy and Ida going much lower than their princess, who lightly bowed her head and slightly bent her knees.

“Mother, Father,” she said nodding to each, “it seems I am not the one late on arriving today.”

            Mother and daughter grasped arms and traded light kisses on the other’s cheeks. “Oh, Memora, entirely too much rouge for such a dull affair.”

            “I am simply flushed with the heat, Mother. I am absolutely sure no one will be looking at me anyways.” She gave a subtle look of surprise to her mother’s bosom, which was busting over her bodice. “I mean with how lovely you look in that dress, why would anyone.” Her mother gave a vainglorious smile and failed to comprehend her words, everyone else however, was holding back chuckles. Her mother walked past and her father took her place, giving his daughter a hug.

“You look beautiful, Memora,” Drom said, giving her a kiss on the forehead.

            “Thank you, daddy,” she said as she adjusted the chains and cloak around his shoulders and fidgeted with the crown on his head. “You look very handsome as well, and how fitting that the two of you match. So charming.” She had a witty smile on her face.

            Drom rolled his eyes, pulling his daughter to her spot in the line and stepped ahead of her, once again linking arms with his wife. Philly stood in front of them and Emmy and Ida followed behind Memora and the six, in their ceremonial order, began to walk forward. The first archway they passed under led them into an outdoor courtyard, with two-story balconies surrounding the perimeter, a massive wrought iron fountain stood stoicly in the center. It was extensively embellished with great details cut into the metalwork. There were streaks of color running gracefully throughout; flashes of gold and silver, copper and platinum. Water flew from the top in spouts, landing in the lower level with a calming sound. The cobblestone and marble balustrades were a harsh white, which stood out finely against the stark gray and brown wash of the castle walls, the pure color giving the place a holy feel. Grass grew up between each stone, and many wonderful plants and flowers stood in large white pots that were speckled about. It was a beautiful place that served as the entrance to the great throne room, which was beyond the large doors they walked up to.

            “Are we ready to greet the masses?” Philly said.

            A dull roar came from within. The chatter of many gossipers and storytellers, Lords and Ladies in their finery, all waited for them to come through that door. Drom gave a nod and Philly pushed both doors at the seam, which were taken by guards standing inside. She felt no breeze, but once the doors opened, Memora felt a light wind push her forward. The roar died quickly as hundreds of people stood at once to face them, all bowing towards their rulers. It was an impressive sight, and one could not help but feel humbled by it. Trumpet fanfare filled the silence as the masters walked down an aisle through the crowd, a herald announcing their arrival. They all walked in unison, Ida staying behind to close the doors. Memora eyes scanned the mass of people; though most of their heads were down, she made contact with a few faces, who nodded back to her. Every chair was taken. A little boy stood at the edge of the aisle, a smile plastered to his face. He was bouncing in his place, pointing.

            “Look, mommy, look!” he said over and over, and as they passed, Drom reached out his left hand and tussled the boy’s hair, which made his smile greater.

“Thank you, your grace,” the mother said. The child waved to Memora and she blew a kiss to him. People called out blessings and words of grace, whispering into the air, saying things like “Trea be with you, Your Majesties!” and “Long live Drom and Romay!” Their voices filled the air, mixing with the clinking of the royals’ steps with the swish of their clothing and the shuffling of those turning to follow where they went. They approached their great chairs, which stood in the curvature of a wonderfully grand staircase on a stage of black marbles and granites that, in it, mirrored the elegant white railing, in which a precociously ornate giant white-stone snake weaved its way between the banisters. Four wooden chairs of great height, each wonderfully carved of a different type of wood sat evenly apart from each other, their type reflective of different characteristics of its royal owner. The one on the far left was a chair of strong beech, a handsome chair that always sat empty on occasions like this. To its left, Drom's great throne sat, a tall impressive thing of dark mahogany, known for its hardness and strength. Left of the King's was his Queen’s chair; a graceful, elegant piece of rosewood, for beauty. It was polished and shone brightly and always seemed to smell lovely. Next to hers was Memora's small throne, of aspen, a blond, beautiful, delicate throne with snow-white rings throughout. Emmy had a small chair next to hers, of walnut, it was a dark brown that looked almost purple when the sun hit it. The group walked up to their respective chairs and took a seat. The mass of people were still until they knew it was respectful. They became silent and looked upon their monarchs, some from below in rows of chairs lining the walls and aisles and some from the balconies above, surrounding them, including the council.

It was quiet for a moment. Memora cupped her hands and placed them in her lap. A tickle caught in her throat and she let out a small cough that echoed in the great hall. Emmy let out a second cough, which seemed rather forced, only to take the attention from her friend. Memora looked back and the girls shared a laugh, to the dismay of her mother, who looked at the two sternly before turning to her husband, signaling him to start. Drom stood, a spectacle in his sharp black and silver garb.

            “My dear people, lords and ladies, subjects and friends, you are gathered together on this beauteous noontime to witness a series of hearings that are representative of this realm and its glory. You are free to give your voices as council this day, and if you choose to, I ask you do so calmly and firmly so we may properly decide upon these matters.” He glanced up to an older man who stood above him to his right. He had a smug grin and stood with his hands upon the balcony rail. “I give you mine own Chancellor, Ser Fransisc Diversey, to continue with the hearings.”

            Drom turned to sit as Ser Fransisc adjusted his plush red tunic over his gut to begin. “Thank you, your grace, it is in the name of our King, Drom Averus Sease and Queen, the lady Romay Madeira Beauvoir, that these hearings take place today, indictments of innocence, to which the subjects have all pleaded chastity and sinless on their parts, if proven otherwise, you must find them condemned so. In these cases, we call forth our first subordinates, brought from the cells this morning.” He nodded to Ida and the guards who stood at the doors opened them and two guards promptly brought in the first subject. Drom recognized them as the guards he had seen driving the carriage from his balcony. Between them, they carried the prisoner by the pits of her arms, a fabric sack over her head.

Romay gasped when they brought her in and gave a signal to Ida to remove the bag. Ida shuffled to her, and straightened the girl’s tunic, mere rags that had a layer of dirt crusted over the green cloth. She then grasped the bag around the girl’s head, and the prisoner flinched in response. Ida whispered in the girl’s ear, telling her where she was and instructions on what to do once she could see again. To this, the prisoner stopped struggling. When the old woman gently pulled the bag off, the girl immediately dropped to her knees with a scared look in her eyes, her red hair falling in a tangled mess around her head. She looked up to the four intimidating faces that glared upon her before her eyes bolted to the floor again. Her arms stretched out before her, plastering herself to the ground, keeping her there until the king made the first move.

            “You may rise, child,” Drom said to her, “you are safe now.”

            She slowly stood and brushed her hair back. She could not make eye contact with them; her knees shook and she placed her arms in front of herself awkwardly. She hated herself for appearing so weak.

            “Are you shocked to find yourself here, girl?” Romay asked.

A meek voice responded, “I had some understanding I would end up here, your grace. My father had received a letter some two fortnights ago, in your lordly father's hand.” She looked at the queen. “I hadn't thought to be speaking to you directly.”

            “Well, you are a traitor, aren't you? This is where we handle such matters,” the queen said back.

            “Enough, Romay,” Drom said quietly, a certain relentlessness to his voice. His wife shuffled in her seat, still with a grin, pretending not to notice her husband's threat. “Well, start with your name please, and if you would be so kind as to inform the court on where you are from.”

            “Tal, my king, Talia Harper, of Knoll Hill.”

            “And do you know why you are here?”

            “I am sorry, your grace, due to matters that happened after getting the letter, I do not remember what it said... er, stated.” She tried to make herself sound more educated than she was.

            “We do have a copy of the letter, if you would like your memory refreshed,” Fransisc called from the balcony. He held it up in a soft gloved hand. He untied the ribbon that bound it and pulled open the scroll, and in a deep voice, projected the words that lined the page, “Company of your majesties… titles, titles, names, sundries...” He scanned the page. “Oh, here it is... your father is a dirty traitor. And the death of an old man here in the capitol city lies on his hands. He is to die and you, by association, are to be punished.”

            The girl stood, speechless and stunned. She looked down and wrung her hands together. She was sure her green eyes were filled with rage, because all she wanted to do was yell and fight back. He had humiliated her. Drom gave a heated look to his chancellor.

            “Are any of these details new to you, Tal?”

            “None, sir.”

            “Do we have the weapon in question?” Romay asked. A man armored with the crowned sun on his chest and a flowing blue cloak brought up a long blade wrapped in white cloth, stained red almost its entire length. He set it on the edge of the stage at their feet and peeled back the fabric, having to tear it where it was stuck to the dried blood. He held it up in a bow while Drom came up to it and took it from his hands, holding it up for all to see. It was a longsword, the blade double sided, made of iron, with a deep fuller that ran its length. Dark red blood stained its beauty. The hilt though, seemed untouched and still gleamed in the light. Its grip was a fine leather and shaped to fit a hand. The pommel and cross-guard covered in silver. As the king inspected it, Talia recognized it immediately, and the small bit of hope she had held on to slipped between her fingers.

            “This is a very fine piece of work, one that would make mine own armorers jealous,” Drom said.

            “Ta very much, my king.” she said humbly and lowly.

            “So you do recognize the weapon?” Romay called from her chair.

            “I do, your majesty, you'll find my family's seal on the end of the pommel.”

            Drom turned the weapon and nodded, he laid the weapon back on the cloth and took his chair.

            “You know that seal finds you guilty of your crimes?” Romay said in a matter-of-fact sort of way.

            The princess spoke first, “I am sure what she meant was, 'Thank you for your cooperation in these matters." Right, mother?” Romay stirred in her chair again, undermined. Memora looked to Talia and gave her a nod, a nod that said so much with no words at all: “Keep going, you are doing wonderfully” and “Nothing will happen to you." For the first time, Talia felt reassured and comfortable.

            She looked at each of her sovereigns. “If you forgive me such talk, you cannot be certain of my part in this as I do not even know. The knowledge of my father's acts where lost on me. I did not know anything until the letter arrived on our doorstep.”

            Romay rolled her eyes, and Drom gave Talia a puzzling look. “I do forgive such talk, Tal. Do you know where your father has gone to?”

            “Last I saw him, my king, he was headed east into the hills. I tried following him, and as it stands now, I do not care what befalls him.” She looked to her feet. It surprised her how much it hurt to say that.

            The great hall was silent, and everyone stared from Tal in the center up to the stage, waiting for someone to speak.

Chancellor Diversey shifted after Drom signaled his attention. “I do not see a reason to keep you here, child, unless any lord or lady has an objection, we can escort you out. We will discuss this issue and we ask that you await the news henceforth.” Drom nodded once again to the guards in the back who began to move. They made it to the entrance of the main aisle when Ida shuffled past them, scurrying up to the girl, grabbing her by the shoulders. Tal looked back at the royal family once more before the old woman pulled her away, giving her arms a rub, comforting her.

            “See to it she has a bath, a hot meal and new linens before sending her back,” Romay called to Ida, more-so to show a bit of her generosity than any thought for the girl. There were a few sighs of adoration and kindness directed at the queen, even a line of “Bless Her Majesty!” And with that the two left, walking through the great doors, that, once shut, a roar of chatter filled the room. Gossip flowed from mouths and ran into ears, talking about guilt and murder, fathers and daughters, nobleness and pride. Memora and Emmy chatted aimlessly and Romay sat high, hands placed daintily in her lap, a judging expression on her face. Drom seemed lost in his thoughts, his left hand massaging his temples as his mind stirred.

The Chancellor tiptoed his way down the stairs, walking to the edge of the stage, stepping in between Drom and the jury. He softly cleared his throat and clapped his gloved hands to begin, a quiet voiced throwing itself into the uproar. “And what do our people think?”

            Lord and Lady Eldridge sat in the very first chairs, as they always did. Lady Corina held a gloved hand in front of her mouth, hiding what she whispered to her Lord, Murano. She tried to be discreet, although the giant emerald ring on her finger pulled the attention of everyone who noticed. She always seemed to tell her husband what to say, though never had the courage to say it herself. Memora hated her for it. So feeble. Lord Murano stood to speak, and the room grew quiet. "We believe the girl is innocent of any crime, but should be remain in custody until any word from her cowardly father.”

            This seemed to catch Drom's attention. “Excellent, those were my thoughts exactly, my lord.”

            Memora became heated and wrung her hands together. She felt sorry for this girl and felt her wrongly convicted. Emmy noticed and placed a hand on her friend's arm, an effort to calm her down. ”My princess,” she whispered, “the look in your eyes betrays your place.” Though Memora did not care.

            “A daughter cannot be blamed for the foolish acts of her parents,” she blurted out, this time speaking pointedly to her father.  “I can't believe you allowed her to be taken from her home scared and alone and brought here to be questioned of treason. This girl had no knowledge of what was happening.”

            Drom stared at his daughter with a different perspective. It wasn't her place to speak so ardently of his actions, but he admired her bravery.

            “I cannot betray the laws of my realm, sweet child." He looked directly into his daughter's eyes as he spoke. "As much as I feel for the girl's situation, she must be detained until word of her father comes.” He was as sincere as he could be, but Memora still threw herself back in her chair.

Chancellor Diversey looked back to the crowd, quick to bring in the next subject before more family drama erupted in public. “Our next subject I am sure you are well aware of. Remember a time not too long ago, when the Isolan pilgrimage threatened to come to our shores, the traitor McClay and his people, and the righteous cause they believed in. Today we have a rebel from Isolan here with us and it is up to you to decide this traitor's fate.”

            The Chancellor raised his arm and once again pointed to the back of the room, the mass of people followed with their eyes, turning again to the giant doors, which the same two guards came out of carrying the next soul, another girl, with red and gray skirts getting underfoot as they pulled her in, deep red hair flowing out of the gunnysack over her head.

            “Must we treat all of our guests in such manner? Remove the bag from her head if you would be so kind.” Romay said to Ida, who again bustled up to the front of the room and repeated the steps that had been asked of her. This girl, opposite of the last, stood proud in the gaze of her superiors. Even through tangled long hair and a bit of dirt on her face she looked determined, not giving in to a bow or anything. There was a moment of silence as all eyes stared at her in shock of her disrespect.

            Drom cleared his throat. “You are Elaiyami McClay, daughter of Vittorio and traitor of the realm. Am I correct in that statement?”

            “All but one, your grace," she said, tossing her hair back. “I am no traitor.”

            “Is that so?” Chancellor Diversey stated. “We have many accounts of treachery in your family's name, and many eye witnesses put you beside your father.”

            “That was a time many moons ago. I have had a long while to think on my actions and to be true, lords and ladies, I do see the wrong in them and apologize for them kindheartedly.” The mood of the room immediately lightened, and a look of surprise sat on the king's face.

            “In a mere month's time, you have completely changed your opinions and beliefs? I do find that hard to believe, girl. I see that you are easily swayed and controlled,” Romay said smugly.

            “I have not changed anything, your grace. I knew all along that our pilgrimage would be seen as treachery and we would be shamed for it.”

            “Then why do it?” the queen barked.

            “We were all bound together by common feelings of hopelessness.” She looked to Drom. “If it would be so, my king, I would certainly choose to live in peace.”

            “Peace can be reality only in a world without sin and revolt.” He stared directly at her on that last word.

            “I agree completely, your majesty. But my father always told me: 'Situations arise, and we are confronted with wrongdoing and the need to act,'” Elaiyami firmly said back. A strong reaction erupted in the crowd, whispers and scoffs and sighs. Memora cared not for this girl as she had for Talia and glared at her, whispering to Emmy. Drom leaned forward, ever curious and Romay sat to her full height.

            She spoke first, “In the pursuit of wrongdoing, as you so eloquently said, one steps away from God.”

            “Maybe away, but in His service.” The two proud women glared at each other.

            “What was your father's reasoning for this uprising?” Drom asked.

            Elaiyami raised her hands up in wonderment. How can he act so naive? “Everybody has their reasons. You have your reasons and should know most of all. Our abbeys and monasteries were being suppressed and liquidated, our ways destroyed!” she rambled. “Please, tell me who would not respond the same way.”

            The three members of the royal family each snapped to attention on her last sentence and the room was silent for a spell. Drom was at last getting irritable with the girl; Romay seemed to be too angry for words; Memora kept her gazed fixed and Emmy's eyes paced nervously.

            “Do not demand anything from us, child,” Drom said bluntly and then gave a subtle nod to the Chancellor. Elaiyami realized her mistake. She had let her wits get the best of her in a place where it was very wrong to do so. She looked at her feet, eyes wide.

Drom spoke again, “We have word of your father's imminent arrival to the capitol, and we will call upon you then.”

            “I think we have heard enough on this case,” Chancellor Diversey said, walking back onto the stage.

As the guards came to get her, Elaiyami spoke out, “You have word from my father?! What does he say?! I do humbly offer my apologies for how I acted before, your majesties, I was out of place--”

            “We will hear more from you later," the Chancellor said. Every eye followed her as she was escorted out of the room and just as the doors were closing, they heard her say her apologies once again. This time, the room was mute, simply a few nods from lord to lord and a couple passing words between ladies. A younger gentleman from near the back of the room stood, a feather in his blue plush hat catching the attention of many and the Chancellor called him out.

            “Lord Camrey,” he said, “do you have something to address on the matter?”

            His deep voice responded, “I believe I speak for many in this room when I say that girl and her traitor father must answer for their crimes, and if no word of Vittorio comes around, send him his daughter's head as a reminder that such actions do not go without consequences.”

            “Aye!” someone shouted from the crowd, and once again the room was alive, many excited over the talk of blood being spilt, despite the fact of it possibly being a young woman's.

            As the chaos in the room went on for a few moments longer, Romay leaned over and whispered to her husband, “Can we please get on with it?" She twirled her brilliant ruby necklace between her fingers. “I do not want to be here all day.”

“My thoughts exactly." He looked up to the balcony where the Chancellor had retreated and gave a curt nod, sighing to himself. Chancellor Diversey spoke from the balcony this time, not moving to the crowd but shouting down at them, his weight giving him knee problems. At least that is what he would say upon being confronted for it later: “We have one more case brought forth today from the cells. The son of a certain outcast pirate lord. We'll see what he has to say.”

The guards needed no cue this time around and the doors opened just after he was done speaking. This one, though, was causing them problems and they stumbled down the aisle as they brought him in. It was then when people realized, once they could see clearly, that the boy was not supporting himself, and that his feet were dragging behind him, that the gasps and appalled complaints rang through the air. The two men held the boy by his arms and the rest of his body hung limp, even his head, which even still had the rough bag over it. The women in the royal family and much of the people in the crowd all turned their heads in disgust, for the boy had bruises and cuts covering his arms and legs, and one rather large one on his shoulder where it his sleeve was ripped off. The guards set him on the stone floor in front of the stage and the prisoner rested himself on his hands and knees. As they removed the bag from his head, revealing more bruises and abrasions, the crowd panted and puffed more. The boy was covered in dirt and his clothes torn and fraying in its best spots.

            “Are we to decide the fates of babes today?” Romay stated, ignoring the mood in the room.

            The boy tried his best to look up, fighting through broken bones, and groaned at the point where the pain became unbearable. He winced through the pain, his eyes squinting even more than they were due to a swollen cheek. He was breathing heavily and all eyes were gazing down on him, especially Drom's. Memora had never seen her father look so compassionate and responsibly to a stranger before, and then he did something that shocked everyone in the room.

            He stood and walked to his right and grabbed the arms of the large throne that sat next to his, the beech chair that sat empty on these occasions, and he lifted it off the stage, walking to the stairs leading down to the stone floor. Romay drew in a breath. She was panicky and offended, and all she could manage was, “Drom, you can't!” and all she got in response was a defiant glare from her husband. The queen let out a sob.

Memora felt a tear stream down her face and Emmy, misty eyed, handed the princess a handkerchief. It was one of the most noble and honorable acts of charity and kindness Memora had ever seen her father do. A couple of lords, including Murano Eldridge, taking the hint, got to their feet and went to the boy who was still on his knees and helped him stand so Drom could put the throne behind him to sit. Drom took the boy by the sides and helped him into the chair. The other lords took their places again as the boy relaxed into his new place. He realized the importance of what had just happened, for it was no ordinary chair, but the throne of a young man departed from this world, a Prince Oliver Sease, the dead son of his king and queen.

            The shock finally hit him, he realized he was probably the first person to sit in that chair for almost nine years. He was just a small boy when news of the prince's passing flew through the south. He did not know how to properly express his gratitude. All he could muster on a sigh of his tired lungs was, “Sincerest thanks, your grace.”

            “Not at all, son, it was the only chair available and you needed it more than we did.” Romay gave the most passionate angry glare she could. Drom could feel it burning a hole through the side of his face, but decided to ignore it, for he would hear plenty of the subject later this eve. “What is your name?”

            “Elior Rei--” a choke entangled itself in his throat and he began to cough and cough and he held his side. Once again Memora turned away in discomfort. “Elior Reidy,” he managed to get out.

            “Elior, do you know why you are here?”

            He nodded, trying to speak as little as possible. “My father.”

            Drom could see the pain in the boy’s face when he spoke and nodded back to him, realizing that is the best way to communicate. “And do you know where he is?”

Elior shook his head left to right. “I have not seen my father in three years, and not many times before that.” That string of words seemed to exhaust him and he sat back. Drom cursed to himself, he was hoping that the boy could help him on the matter, but as it seems, he would be of no use. “And where are you from?”

            “Inclascea, my king.”

            “If you have not seen your father, who raised you, Elior?”

            “I did not know my true mother, your grace. A lady Arabella Reidy took me in her care when I was very young.”

            Drom was at a loss. He knew he would get no information from the boy, but he must ask him monotonous questions so it would not appear all for naught. No other questions came to mind, though. He waved his hand up towards the Chancellor, who had another roll of parchment in his hands.

            Drom spoke while Fransisc unrolled the paper, “We have a note, son, a decree for your father's arrest.”

            The Chancellor cleared his throat before speaking. “He whom this scroll denounces, one Rulis Grex, was numbered among those who, at charge of his own will, defying King and County, lives a live of treachery and piracy, stealing and plundering without restriction, and is told to take the path of duty and repent for his sins against the crown, and if so, have a pure self-sacrifice, giving up his own life so that his sons and grandsons might live freely and with ho---”

            Drom signaled with his hand again, stopping the chancellor before the details of how the boy's father is to die when found. “That letter, by law, states that if he does not succumb to our words, you, any siblings you have and any children you or they have will be killed in his place and for his crimes," he said to the boy. “So if you have any recollection of your father or where he is, please let us know as soon as possible."

            The boy's eyes stared into space, shock taking a firm hold. With a shaky voice, he said, “I will, your majesty.”

            Instead, of looking to the guards or to the chancellor, Drom looked this time at Ida, who had come back into the room moments before. He gave her a nod in the direction of the boy and she understood completely what he meant.

Ida brought the same two household guards and they carefully picked up the boy and carried him out of the room. She led the way and passed under the golden-arched doors and turned, not left back down to the carriages, but right down a corridor to the guest apartments. It would be a long night for her, having now two kids to bathe, feed and clothe before sending them back to their prison cells. Poor children.

            Back in the hall, things were cooling down. The boy had left and the noble lords and ladies had discussed his case, giving their opinions and appreciated council. Memora now sat with her head in her hands, wanting nothing more than to go outside and take wing. Emmy saw the boredom written on her face. She knew what the princess was thinking and desperately wanted to go too.

Drom looked to his wife. He was happy; the trials had not seemed to take very long, and maybe they would have time for their stroll through the gardens after all. Romay had her head turned away from him, resting on her right palm, her left hand grasping the chair’s armrest. He grabbed it and kissed it. She did nothing, not a single reaction to the loving gesture.

After a moment of silence, she looked at him with still a hint of rage. “Put my son's throne back where it belongs, and don't ever touch it again.” She stood and walked to the stairs off of the stage, and as she started down, the hundreds of people got to their feet and bowed to her. The crowd caught Memora and Emmy’s attentions and they stopped their whispering, only then did they noticed Romay leave. Drom was embarrassed. The queen walked over to her son’s throne and placed a loving hand on its top rail, throwing a look back to her husband before bolting out of the room. People blessed her as she rushed past them, and in return, she ignored them all. Memora gave a scoff at her mother’s blatant disrespect and stole a look to her father, who gave a sigh in response.  

            “I wonder if she has any idea how foolish she looks when she storms out like that.”

            “I think the same thing. I am really glad you got my sense of humor,” he said, smiling. “I don't think I could handle it if you acted like your mother.”

Memora giggled, “Yeah, that should prove interesting later.” she jested. In any other family, that would have been improper to say, but Drom and Memora had an understanding about the queen. She wondered who her brother Oliver would act like if he was still alive. When she was younger, she had always noticed flecks of their mother in him, vain and headstrong, but she wondered if he would have grown into the great sort of man her father was. She realized she was staring at the empty chair sitting below them as she thought about her brother, and a longing sadness filled her.

            Drom saw her change of mood, and decided that this was enough for one day. He stood to address his people who were shuffling back into place after the queen's abrupt outing. Most still stood, looking at the king and hoping for the day to be finished. “My Lords, I sincerely thank you all for being here today, your council and views have been greatly appreciated,” he gave a quick gesture both to Lord Murano and Lord Eldridge for their words, “Please, go and enjoy this day and leave this place with a clear mind and sound heart, with all your judgments and opinions left here. No rumors and evil thoughts will plague this great city. Thank you, noble lords and ladies. May Trea bless you, and may each day be your happiest.”

            “God bless his majesty!” filled the air, along with “God bless the Lady Memora” and “Trea bless us all!”

            Normally it was tradition for the members of the royal family to leave the room first, as it was disrespectful to do otherwise, but Drom, much like his wife, was not feeling prone to follow tradition this day.

            “My Lords,” he shouted forcefully over the crowd, his low voice cutting right through theirs as a polite way of saying 'Go now.' The hundreds of people in the room bowed and curtseyed all together, and began to take their leave. Drom and the girls sat in their respective chairs and simply watched the crowd mingle about, giving a goodhearted smile when a lord or lady made eye contact. The king looked to his daughter and to Emmy too. “Walk with me, ladies.”

            The three stood and the princess and her confidant waited while Drom put his son’s throne back by the others and then they left through the back door concealed behind stone and fountain. The keep was full of secret passageways and halls in case of emergency and so that the royalty could get where they needed to be without having to mingle with the common-folk. They were dark, cold and dingy and Memora did not like them, but she had to admit that they were useful.

 Emmy, though, found these halls to be exciting. So much secrecy, she thought as the entered one. She walked behind her masters as if she were on some kind of adventure. She was thrilled to know that she was one of the select few people not of high status in history to ever traverse these halls, much less with the king himself! There were torches on the wall every so often and Emmy realized the king must have planned to leave this way and sent someone ahead to light the path.

“Where are we going, my king?” she whispered from the back.

            “To the gardens,” Drom said. “I'll not have my afternoon spoiled.” He tried to sound lighthearted, but she could hear the tension in his voice.

            “Oh, lovely!” Memora said. “I haven't been down there since the bluebells came into bloom! I would very much like to see them!” She reached her hand behind her and wiggled her fingers at Emmy as an invitation to take her hand, which Emmy did, clasping the princess’ hand with both of hers. The girls got excited and bolted ahead of the king, giggling away. Memora knew the way, running left and right through the dark, pulling Emmy behind her, she laughed and smiled and cheered as she bounded away.

Drom kept up as best as he could. His mind went back to when his daughter was just a girl; how he would chase her and worry, and even now that his daughter was a young woman, he still did just the same. He laughed; it had been a while since he let himself be careless, now that the girls were ahead of him and out of sight. He ran, letting himself give in, expelling some pent-up energy and letting the day’s tension fall behind him. He stopped for a beat to catch his breath and have a moment to himself before picking up the pace and going after the girls, who he was sure were at the garden gates by now. He turned a corner to his right and then after fifteen paces, turned left down the last corridor which ended at a wall. He planted himself on the floor, used his whole body to give a push; the wall in front of him gave an inch with little more than a click and slid to the side, as if magic were involved. He always was in awe of the capabilities of those who owned this castle before he did.

Daylight flooded his senses and the half-moon shape of the garden courtyard opened before him. There was a guard posted here, same with the other entrances to the secret halls, and he bowed with a “Your Majesty.” His blue cloak and silver breastplate gleamed as he did so. Drom gave a nod and the soldier stood, resuming his duties and pacing back and forth. He saw his princess and her friend standing in a bed of flowers, skirts lifted, rummaging through the area, admiring different blossoms and buds. It seemed that they had failed to age at all, and they were little girls all over again.

            “Memora, darling,” Drom called out to her with a wave of his hand, and the two came running, scampering after him to continue their walk.

            “Yes, father?” she responded.

            “You must help me decide on what to do with your mother,” he said, smirking at her as she came up to him.

            She sank. “What is there to do when she gets like that? Let her be. The act of us crawling after her, pinning to figure out what is wrong, will only give her satisfaction.”

            “It is not very kingly for a husband to ignore his wife's troubles,” was his matter-of-fact response.

            She looped her arm through her father’s and her other through Emmy's and the three walked in a line. “What do you think, Em? On what my father should do.”

            The girl became quite shy. She rarely was consulted on such matters, and was now being asked to give him advice as if she was a royal herself. It was quite daunting for her, but after a moment, she gave in. “Well, um, I believe his majesty should look inside his heart for the true answer, and if I may be bold, your first thought after the hearings was to come here, to the gardens, and not go to her majesty. So you must be where your majesty’s heart desires. Um, not with the queen. Or her troubles.” They all stopped and Emmy looked at her masters, and when she saw they were both staring at her, her eyes bolted to the ground.

            Drom seemed satisfied with the answer. He stood higher and walked with finer step.

            “Well put, Em,” Memora said with a laugh. She darted ahead of them and spun. “Let her be with her thoughts, father. She's probably watching us right now, seeing all the fun we're having and wishing she wasn't so adamant!”

            Romay was in fact, watching them. She had had the gardens expanded some years ago so that they could be seen from her apartments. She saw her husband and the girl that was always underfoot walking along the path and her sweet daughter ahead of them twirling and spinning to an unheard melody, moving from pane to pane on the iron wrought frames of her golden window. The queen felt empty on the inside; no one to talk too, without anybody who cared. She was sure there was word spreading of her most recent self-centered act, and feared that nobody understood her intentions.

            Yes, she had stormed out of the throne room, after arguing with her husband as all eyes were upon her, but not for any simple reason. Drom had given that menial boy the throne that belonged to their beloved son, her darling boy, as if he had forgotten him and moved on. It had been near ten years since Oliver's body had been brought back to them on his shield, lost to the wrath of the Pyron rebellion. She would never forget that day, or the memory of her son, which the empty throne embodied. And to see that prison boy in his place hurt more than the lords and ladies in the audience would ever understand.

            Romay had always wanted another child, a boy to grow into inheritance, as strong and beautiful as the king. She had found herself to be with child on multiple occasions after her son’s death, missing her monthly bloods to prove. But the fear of losing the child once it was grown after she had had the time to love and care for it was too great for her to bear. She would die if she felt that kind of pain again. Those thoughts had always prevented her from keeping the child, the stress killing the babe before it even began to swell in her belly. She felt farther disconnected from the king every time she let him down.

After her son’s death, she grew ill and fell prone to fits of rage and sorrow, madness and silence. During the morning, once after a fit that had left her mind black, she had found all her hair to be cut off by her own hand, with broken dishware and finery strewn about her. The people had thought her crazy in mourning, and so Romay made every effort to make herself wanted and desirable to her subjects, to renew herself and leave the past behind her. That is why for nearly a decade she focused so intently on the vain things in life. Nobody understood.

            Her eyes focused again to the world around her. She looked to the gardens and her family was nowhere to be seen, having moved on in their journeying. If only it could be that easy for me to move forward.

            She had changed out of her gown and it now lay on her bed. She had replaced it with an elegant silk robe that perfectly matched the lilacs when they came into bloom. Golden flowers were embroidered all down its back in a lustrous thread. A shimmering white shift underneath trimmed in lace was exposed around her neck. Her ruby jewels still looked marvelous and her effortless curls completed her wardrobe all the same. She paced about her rooms, moving from her quarters, into the bedchamber she shared with the king and then down the hall, past the balcony and into Drom's offices and back. Her mind paced just as much as she did. She wanted utmost for Drom to return to their chambers so she could apologize for her foolishness. Perhaps I should go call upon him? One thing was indeed for certain, although she did not need one, she wanted a drink. She went to the great door to their rooms and slipped on a light pair of gilded slippers, tied a sash about her waist and set out. Philly was again outside the door and he bowed as she came out. “Would you like an escort, your majesty?”

            “No, thank you, cousin. I think I can handle a visit to the kitchens,” she said without looking at him. She tiptoed down the few stairs with small clicks of her feet, her robes flowing behind her. She chose to take the long way through the halls and detoured to visit her son’s chambers. Chills ran up her spine, as they did every time she came to these rooms. She paused and turned to face the entrance, placing a hand on the golden archway, and pushed the door open. Things were left just as they had been ten years ago. Light shown through the many soaring windows along the back wall, revealing white cloth which covered a majority of the furniture, the only thing that she required be left uncovered was a large portrait and two ornate candelabras that she had made a small shrine out of. In the portrait, the visage of her son, Oliver, stared back at her. How she wished those eyes were real. She wanted nothing more than to grab his face and kiss his brow. A prayer came to her and she lowered her head, whispering to herself. It had been nine years, eight months and thirteen days since then, and so much had changed since then. She finished her words and looked back into her son’s blue eyes. Everyone always said he had my eyes. She wiped a single tear from her cheek, and turned, not stopping to look back as she left the room and closed the door. She turned left to the kitchens, hoping Ida would be there so she could avoid associating with the others.

.   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .

 

            Their walk had taken them near all the way around the castle and Drom stepped up to the great wooden doors at the southern entrance. He said goodbye to that girls, who had gone scampering into the woods, and was now all alone. He hated that they would go into the woods unaccompanied and Romay hated it even more, but they would go whether he said something or not. So he always just told them to be careful and tried not to think of it. His eyes adjusted to the dark as two guards let him in. He took a small linen from the pocket of his doublet and wiped his brow where beads of sweat had formed. It turned out to be quite a sweltering evening, and he wanted to get out of all his layers. He unclasped the cloak that hung about his shoulders and draped it over his arm. He headed straight for his apartments, hoping his wife would be there and they could talk about what had transpired, not because he wanted to talk about it, but just so they could put it behind them. Of course, though, when he saw Philly was absent from his post outside their apartments, he knew she would not be inside. He took a deep breath and let himself in, loosening the ties of his sleeves. There was a knock at the door. “It’s Phillip, Your Majesty.” He must have come up right behind me.

            “Yes, do come in.” The door creaked and the younger man entered. “Any word of Romay?” Drom said.

            “I saw her majesty last in the kitchens, after a brief stop at the prince's chambers.”

            “Thank you, Philly,” Drom said in a way of finishing the conversation. The guard left the room.

            Drom peeled off layer by layer and threw them on the bed, then walked into his office and combed through the pile of letters and declarations on his desk. There was a copy of the warrant for Tevin and Talia Harper, one for Rulis Grex and a letter addressed to Vittorio McClay that needed to be sent on the morrow. He wanted nothing to do with them, though; his mind was focused elsewhere. On his wife and what to say, his son and these times without him, his kingdom, the realm and its war, his daughter and her adventures with Emmy, everything, all at once, all the time.

The balcony was flooded in shadow and he threw on a gray cambric robe and stepped outside. This is where he did his best thinking. A breeze swirled about, cool where sweat still lingered, and made a light rustling sound all around him. He stared out at the vast blue horizon, the calm waters giving him inspiration in his words. He tended to get too brash in argument and he did not want this to escalate into more than what it was. All he needed to tell Romay was that dramatic actions like storming out of the room looked juvenile and disrespectful, and it embarrassed him, debilitated his power, and should not happen again. But how do you say that kindly? Even though what he had done had brought upon her actions, she should not have acted the way she did.

            A click resonated from inside, and he could hear the door opening slowly. He paid no attention to it, pretending not to hear.

            Romay saw her husband’s garments strewn on the bed. She felt nervous inside, embarrassed. She slipped off her shoes and glided through the halls, stepping from rug to rug, trying to be quiet. Her gaze drifted down the hall into his office and saw no movement, then she felt the breeze. She lifted her gown and stepped into the outside world, the stone balcony cold on her bare feet. She took a moment to look at her husband. Even in his simplicity he looked regal, still handsome even though they were both older now, his distressed hair and his sleek robes blowing in the wind. All her nerves vanished at the sight of him and she walked towards her king, hesitating a moment before reaching out and touching his back.

A chill ran up Drom’s spine at the light touch even though he knew she was behind him. He turned to her and they stood facing each other, his tired green eyes looking deeply into hers. Romay could see every muscle through his thin robe, his chest exposed. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, not knowing what to say. Drom looked down at her, watching her eyes wander in thought and seeing a flush to her cheeks. Her rubies sparkled in the dusk and her hair fluttered aimlessly in the wind. She looked so beautiful. After half a day’s worth of thinking on what to say, absolutely nothing came to his mind. He pulled her in close, kissed her forehead and held her. They rocked back and forth.

            “I am so sorry,” was all she said, almost relaxed as her head lay on his chest.

            “There is nothing to be sorry for.” She could feel his warm breath flow through her hair. She wondered how she got so lucky, and how her father ever let her marry the lesser lord. She pushed herself into him as far as she could. “I was such an idiot for walking out.”

            “And I should never have given the throne t---”

            “I know.” She interrupted him.

            “I just couldn't help thinking that Oliver felt the way the boy did before he---”

            “I know”

            “I didn't mean any harm, I know what that throne represen---”

She stood on her toes to kiss him. A longing kiss, like what they used to share so long ago. “I love you so very much,” Romay said. He said the same to her.

            “But don't let it happen again,” he faked anger. She looked up at him, concerned at first, then smiled when she saw the grin on his face. Always knows how to ruin a moment. She looked to him and released herself from his grasp, she turned back to their chambers, stopping at the doorway to untie the sash that held her robe together. She let the shoulder of the gown drape before looking back to him. He watched her smiling, leaning against the balcony rail, then once she walked out of sight, he followed her in, blowing out the torches around the room before he stepped over her gowns and crawled into bed after her.

 

            Memora and Emmy raced back through the gardens to the front gates of the keep. They were both out of breath by the time they reached the steps. Emmy bolted through the door first as Memora was still coming up the stairs. She sulked as Emmy danced in place to signify her victory. “Your shoes are better than mine for these sort if things,” Memora complained.

            “Oh, of course, my lady!” Emmy replied. The girls laughed and giggled down the hall, ignoring the bows and words from the servants who were finishing their jobs for the day.

            Memora saw Ida coming from the guest chambers, having finished taking care of the day's court subjects. The old woman seemed rather startled when she saw them bounding and spinning through the halls. “My dear princess! What have you gotten yourself into today?! And you, my lady?” She gestured to Emmy. “I want an explanation of what happened, ladies!”

            “Just adventuring through the woods, Ida! Nothing more. Oh, we had such a wonderful time,” Memora said. She had not seen herself yet, but she knew she looked a fright. Her hair was blown back by wind and her skirts were as smudged and dirty as her face was. Her hands were rough, as if she had been climbing through the rocks all afternoon. Emmy looked the same; her beautiful white dress would be difficult to get all the stains out of. They giggled again. All thoughts of being careful to stay clean at the beginning of the day had obviously fled from their minds.

            Ida was tired and wanted nothing but to retire for her room for the night, perhaps read a book by candlelight before submitting to sleep. But she stared at the girls, volunteering her services, “Go to your chambers, princess, and you follow Em. Prepare for a bath. I will be up just as soon as I draw some hot water.” Memora grabbed the old woman and planted a kiss on each side of her face, leaving smudges. “Thank you, Ida!” she said. Ida responded by wiping her face off and giving the girl a swat on the butt. Emmy gave her a curtsey as the woman eyed her and she took off after Memora, grabbing hands and running down the halls again, skirts flying and shoes tapping on the stone.

            Her chambers were dark when Memora opened the door. Emmy went and found a match as Memora carefully removed the jewels from her tangled hair and pulled them from her ears. As Emmy lit candles that were spread about the room, the princess followed behind her, digging through her black hair and pulling out the pearls and jewels within. After a knock, Ida came into the room, followed by two other maids that she had talked into coming with. They all looked thrilled as they set the pails of water they carried on the hearth. Ida went to the closet and rolled out the large brass tub, coming to a stop in the middle of the room.

One maidservant went to Memora and the other to Emmy and they began undoing the laces of the girls’ bodices and gowns, letting each article drop to the ground. Memora once again found herself only in her white shift and her brocade corset with silken chrysanthemums, until that was removed as well. While the water began to steam, the maidservants grabbed brushes and began to rip through the girls' hair as the two gossiped about the day’s events, careful to speak only of the hearings and the drama there, not of their adventures in the woods. They spoke of Tal, the queen, religion, the kind acts of the king, and of their dislike for Chancellor Diversey and Lady Corina Eldridge, among other things.

            The first buckets of water were poured into the tub and the girls were ready to be cleaned. “Don't be modest now ladies, off with those shifts so I can wash them on the morrow.” The servant girls lifted the chemise from over Emmy's head and she shivered in response; Memora was next, covering herself with her arms as her gown was removed.

            “All right, in,” Ida said, grabbing a brush and a bar of soap from the maidservants. Ida excused them both, saying they would take care of the tub in the morning. The servant girls gave a curtsey to all three of their masters almost in unison before leaving the room. Memora and Emmy both felt a little more comfortable with less eyes around. Ida pulled up her sleeves all the way past her elbows.

            “Look at the way you blush, child!” Ida said to the princess, “almost as much as that boy I bathed earlier, he turned red as an apple when I took off his underclothes!” The girls laughed innocently, blushing even more. Ida grabbed Memora's arm and went to work, scrubbing until it had a pink glow, then the other. “Oh, yes, the servant girls had no problem helping when it came time for that, you should have seen the way he tried to hide himself!” She let out a laugh that all old, happy women seemed to have, “and the way he got excited when they scrubbed around those sweet spots!” She raised the brush slowly out of the water in a tease on the word 'excited' to represent the swelling of the obvious 'sweet spot' of a man.

The girls burst into a roar and Memora hit the brush from the woman's hand, “Oh, Ida, you devil you!!” she screamed, sending a small splash towards the old woman, who returned one with a slap of her hand on the surface. The girls giggled and splashed and played.

            “All right, girls, that's enough!” Ida said, wiping her face dry on her sleeve. She continued scrubbing down Emmy and Memora played with her hair that swirled in the water around her. They talked some more, Ida mentioning that the queen had sent out an invitation for all the noble girls in the city to come to the castle for a day of the princess’ company, to gossip and sew and learn, to dance and play. Memora rolled her eyes. She hated being forced to spend time with all those other tittering girls, who cared about nothing but having babies with handsome lords and knights that only existed in the songs. They talked about lineages, too. It had been brought to Memora's attention on many occasions that she was first in line for the throne and would be queen someday, since her brother had died. But she had given no thought into who would be next in line if anything should happen to her. After some discussion, they realized that it would be Philly, he was a first cousin of Romay, and had royal blood in his veins. She found that hard to wrap her mind around. She had always viewed Philly as their bodyguard and not really as their equal, for which she suddenly felt guilty for. She would have to remember to be better about that.

            After some time, the water began to cool and Ida grabbed towels for the girls to dry off. Ida dressed them both in fresh clean linens and after a few moments and a few strokes of a brush through their hair, it was time to go to sleep, Emmy was the first to initiate with a yawn. Ida cleaned up all her belongings and set them aside to take care of in the morning. Memora gave her a great hug. “I love you, Ida,” she said, and suddenly everything seemed worthwhile to Ida, she could climb those stairs a hundred times in a day just to hear those words.

            “Oh, you are a sweet girl, princess,” she said with a tear in her eye. She gave Emmy a hug and a kiss on her brow. “Love you both. Now get some sleep, girls, and I mean it!” Ida walked around and blew out the candles, leaving only the moonlight to let them see, she left the room to finally go to her own bed after a long day.

            “You'll stay with me, won't you, Em?!” Memora said.

            “If you would like me to, princess,” Emmy said. They both crawled into bed and spent the next hour talking about their adventures before drifting off into sleep. They really were the best of friends.

            

Author's Note

this one got to be really long, sorry. Lots of characters to write about, lol.