Chapter 50 | The Queen Who Ruled by Herself

The night Creith turned 16, he sat with his mother, his child wife and the Teacher in his rooms. It was hard to say which one was more restless, the young king or the regent queen; Creith paced by the fire, while Macca stared into its flames, eyes darting with her thoughts. In the corner, little Katha quietly worked on her embroidery; in the year she’d spent married to Creith she’d avoided open court as much as possible, but on occasions like this that required her presence, she brought her work basket and found the most out-of-the-way spot she could.

“How will I know when the time comes?” said Creith.

“I will know,” said the Teacher quietly.

“Yes, but how will you know?”

“He will know, son,” said Macca irritably. “What is it you’re so eager to do that I haven’t done?”

“That you haven’t done?” said Creith, turning on her. “And what exactly is it you’re supposed to have done that’s so admirable, among all your wrongs against me?”

“Your mother has been an excellent steward, your majesty,” said the Teacher in the same quiet tone. “She gives you your kingdom in better shape than she found it.”

“I suppose there’s nothing left for me to do but enjoy it then, is that what you’re saying?” said Creith with a curl of his lip. “And what are you smirking at, little snow pile?” he said to Katha.

“‘Smirk?’” she said, not looking up from her work. “I do not know this word, husband.”

“Don’t call me that,” he said curtly, and took up his pacing again. “I’ll tell you what I’m eager to do. The first thing I’m going to do is call my wife--my real wife,” he spat at Katha, who flinched in spite of herself, “--back to the Keep, with our son. The second thing I’m going to do--” But he instantly fell silent; Teacher was standing stock still, gray eyes wide and unseeing. “Is it...is this it?” the young king said.

“It’s time, your majesty,” said the Teacher, coming back into the room fully. “You are king in your own right. Your majesty,” Teacher continued, bowing low to Macca, “it was a pleasure serving you, even as little as you allowed me to.”

Macca stood and raised Teacher up by the hands. “I’m sorry,” she said, voice faltering. “I’m--it was--I’m sorry...”

“Not as sorry as I am, ma’am,” said the Teacher.

“And not as sorry as you’re going to be,” said Creith. Macca turned toward her son. “I’ve changed my mind about the first thing I’m going to do. You’ve always had a fondness for Chalkhills, haven’t you, Mother?” Macca didn’t answer, but Creith only smiled. “I remember. Something about riding and the cliffs and the Sleeping Youth. You have an obsession with death, Mother, and that vile Goddess of yours.” Macca took a sharp breath, hand to her heart in shock at his blasphemy. “You’ve had so little time to contemplate Her in recent years. I think we should change that. Teacher,” he said sharply. “My first command to you is to take my mother immediately to Chalkhills and make sure she stays there. You are never to return to court, Mother. You are confined to Chalkhills until you die.”

Macca paled. “Creith,” she began.

“You will call me ‘your majesty,’ madam!” he roared.

“I will call you what I please!” she roared back. “You are my son! I have loved you and cared for your kingdom as if it were my own, and for what! For the sake of an ungrateful son who hates me as much as his people always have!”

“You took my love and my child from me! A fine way to show your deep affection, Mother!”

“You hated me before you ever set eyes on Milla, foolish boy! Creith, you cannot make a serving maid into a queen, nor a bastard into your heir!”

“I shall do as I please!” he screamed, “and you shall never stop me, ever again! Teacher! I order you! Get her away from me now!”

Macca felt Teacher’s cool hand close on her wrist. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” murmured a low voice, and she felt her insides turn outwards as she was pulled through a reflection, something she hadn’t felt since Ilhovin’s death.

Creith wasn’t satisfied with banishing his mother to Chalkhills. He had every mention of her after his father’s death removed from the histories, substituting mention of a Council of Regents that he made up out of whole cloth. Her portraits were removed from the royal gallery and from the college she founded at Summerford. He slashed the crown’s stipend for the Bloody One’s Temple to bare sustenance, and he brought Milla and their little boy back from Valmouth to the Keep. True to his word, Creith threw Katha out of her apartments to give them to his mistress, sending the poor little queen to one of the oldest, draftiest, most dismal wings of the Keep. “I’d send you back to Corland if I could, but I need that alliance. In any event, I can’t touch you until you’re 13,” said Creith. “May as well keep you out of the way till then. And who knows, maybe you’ll catch cold and die if I’m lucky.” For her part, Katha seemed relieved to be left alone another year.

But Creith reserved the bulk of his wrath for Mihall Wallek, his mother’s closest friend and the man who had kept him apart from his Milla. The worst he could do to Macca herself was banish her; she was, when all was said and done, his mother, and to punish her more severely than that was to tarnish his own reputation as king. But Mihall--he had other plans for the Duke of Valmouth, plans that he knew would crush Macca utterly when she found out.

“What is happening?” cried Nowa as the soldiers swarmed through Oakhills, the Duke’s country home outside Valmouth Town.

“We have royal warrants, Lady Valmouth,” said a captain. “Warrants for your husband, and your oldest son, Ilhovik.”

“But he’s done nothing! He’s only 14!” cried Nowa.

“By order of the king, Lady,” said the captain, calling to his men, “Search the stables!”

And in fact, that’s where the Duke and his heir were found, shoeing the fine horses in their stables themselves. Ilhovik was just learning how to work with the forge. Mihall had been born and raised a working man, and horses and falcons had been his life; keeping himself in practice as a farrier kept him in touch with the people he looked after now as a noble, he liked to tell his three sons. “Calm yourself, wife,” he told Nowa, kissing her on the forehead. “We will be home soon.”

But Mihall and Ilhovik never returned to Oakhills. The soldiers brought them to the Father’s Temple in Tremont, where they were charged with conspiring to rebel against the crown--charges brought by the remnants of Nowa’s family, under the king’s instructions. As soon as she heard, Macca sent many pleading letters on their behalf to her son, but Creith didn’t answer a one.

Mihall and his son were sentenced to death, but on the occasion of the birth of his second son by Milla, Creith declared a general amnesty. Instead of executing the Duke of Valmouth, he would be stripped of his title and lands, and sent out among the people with his family to make his living with nothing but the clothes on his back. By then, though, the cold, damp prison and its starvation diet had killed Ilhovik, and Mihall returned to Nowa alone, his heart broken. They took their two remaining sons and found shelter in a small town called Templestone. Macca sold some jewelry and secretly sent them enough money for him to buy himself a forge, and Mihall became a blacksmith, teaching his sons the trade after him. There are Walleks to this day in Templestone, shoeing horses, forging blades and gradually forgetting they were ever anything more than smiths.