Chapter 51 | The Queen Who Ruled by Herself

Exile

Temmin ate his lunch slowly; he rather dreaded going back to his study to hear the end of the story. Whatever good Creith might have done during his reign--if in fact it had been Creith who’d done any of it--Temmin didn’t like him, and didn’t like being descended from him. He said little during the meal until Sedra caught his eye during one of Harsin and Brinnid’s loud and interminable gabbles about trade. Usually she was just as animated during those kinds of discussions, but today she seemed as introspective as her brother felt. They were sitting next to one another, and she gave him a sad little smile. “Where are you?” she said so quietly only he could hear.

“Just banished to Chalkhills,” he muttered in the same tone. “You?”

She nodded. “Same place.”

“I’m not sure I want to know the rest.”

Sedra frowned slightly. “It’s always better to know.”

“Says you,” her brother answered.

And in fact, Sedra was unsure herself. Macca’s history to date had not been the inspiring story she’d hoped it would be. True, she thought as she climbed the stairs to ready herself for a walk with Brinnid, it was inspiring to know that one of her ancestors had been more like her than like Ellika or Mama. It seemed that the only things the official histories recounted about the queens and princesses of Tremont were their names, who they married, how many children they bore and how attractive they were. The only other story from the book she’d heard before she and Teacher were found out was that of Emmae of Leutefloss; though Emmae had been brave, to Sedra’s mind she had also been very much the object of her story, not its heroine. No, unlike Emmae, Macca was definitely her story’s heroine, but what a heroine: Proud, intelligent, capable, wickedly stubborn, fierce--a good ruler, but a forgotten one, a tragic one.

She finally reached the terrace outside the garden room, where Brinnid was waiting for her, a small cushion under his arm and the book in one big hand. He really was terribly good-looking, she thought; his eyes crinkled in the most charming way when he smiled. If you like that sort of thing, she added to herself sternly. “You look thoughtful,” said Brinnid, offering his arm. They walked out onto the lawn toward the woods.

“I always look thoughtful,” answered Sedra, raising her nose a bit higher.

Brinnid laughed. “S’true, my lady, you always do! You were very quiet at lunch. I was sure a rousing discussion of the competition with Nija for Vakalele’s trade would bring you around, but alas, you disappointed me.” Sedra lapsed into silence until he nudged her with his elbow. “Out with it, miss.”

“What am I to learn from this story?” she burst out. “Why did Teacher want so much for me to hear it, badly enough to steal the only other copy of the book from the Travelers and then risk having you read it to me? Am I to draw an example from her life? Her life was misery! She married into a people who never accepted her, to this day, and here I am to marry into a strange people myself.”

“I can tell you one thing with certainty, your highness,” said Brinnid. “The people of Tremont never did love Queen Macca. But the people of Sairland would love Queen Sedra.”

Sedra blushed. When she found her tongue, she said, “And what makes you certain of that?”

“Your spirit is more Sairish than Tremontine, my lady. You are a strong, thoughtful, capable woman, with a temper the Sairish would recognize a mile away. You are in many ways Macca’s granddaughter. She would, I think, be proud to know you are descended from her.” They reached the little clearing where they often sat, one of the many Sedra had haunted over her years wandering the King’s Woods looking for good reading spots. The gnarled roots of an old tree made for a natural seat. Brinnid sat down and took the small cushion from under his arm; he put it at his feet, and patted it invitingly. “Sit you down, miss.”

Sedra settled herself on it, smoothing her skirts out around her and leaning her head against Brinnid’s thigh. Sitting this way felt familiar and comfortable, more than it ever had with Connin, though she’d known Connin almost since she’d arrived at the Keep and she’d known Brinnid barely two weeks. “All right, go ahead,” she murmured. Brinnid stifled an impulse to stroke the glossy dark head at his knee, and opened the book instead.

In the woods, Sedra came to. She looked up at Brinnid, who closed the book, set it to one side, leaned down and put his arms around her. She felt a tear drop onto her neck and pulled back. “You’re crying,” she smiled, her own eyes full.

“No shame in that, it’s a sad story,” he answered. He released her, fished out a handkerchief and handed it to her, then pulled out a second one for himself.

“No, no shame at all. I’m just not used to--I don’t like to cry in front of other people, and I never quite know what to do when others cry...” She trailed off with a sigh. “Did you know any of this?”

“None of it, but that her bones rest in my royal chapel, not yours,” he said. “We’ve always seen Tremont’s treatment of Macca as a slight, but we’ve never pursued it.”

“We must set things to rights,” she said simply.

Brinnid gave her a thoughtful, troubled look. “Sedra,” he said slowly, “If I were wiser, I wouldn’t point this out, but I am the sovereign of another country. I’m not entirely certain it’s in Sairland’s interest for the Tremontine monarchy to regain its magic.”

“We have all the magic we’ve ever had--it’s all in Teacher’s hands, and as far as I’ve been able to find out, he’s immortal. And he’s completely at the bidding of the king in any event. You know this. Would it be so very bad to put it back in the hands of a mortal king?”

“A king like Harsin the Third?” said Brinnid.

Sedra frowned. “A king like my father. He’s a good ruler--on the stern side, but a good man.”

“And yet the empire is faltering,” said Brinnid.

“Perhaps getting our magic back will change that!”

“Perhaps I’m not sure that’s best for Sairland,” said Brinnid, standing up and reaching down to help Sedra.

She ignored his outstretched hand and got to her feet herself. “I am not ready to abandon my country’s interests quite yet, your majesty.”

“Sedra, don’t be like that--”

“Will you try to stop me?” she demanded.

“What?” said Brinnid, taken aback.

“I said, will you try to stop me? Knowing what I know now, I must do something. Will you try to keep me from giving Macca the rest and respect she deserves?”

Brinnid stared down into her serious, adamant face and wanted very badly to kiss her senseless. “No,” he said instead. “No, I won’t stop you. What will you do?”

“I think,” said Sedra, “I shall start by talking with my brother.”

"I think," said Temmin as he paced in his room in the Keep, "I need to talk with my sister. I need to figure out what to do, and she's more clever than I am." He turned and confronted the Teacher. “But here’s what I really need to know. Why have none of our ancestors ever tried to right this wrong? Why hasn’t my father brought Macca’s bones home? Doesn’t he want the magic to return?”

“I assume so,” said the Teacher.

“Then why hasn’t he done anything?”

“Because,” said the Teacher, standing up fully from the usual perch on the library table, “he doesn’t know this story.”

Temmin stopped dead in his tracks. “What?” he said blankly. “Why not?”

“I’ve never told this story before,” said the Teacher quietly. “You and Sedra are the first to hear it. Oh, your father knows the basic story of how your family lost the magic, but he’s never heard it from the book, and hasn’t wanted to. No one has.”

“Whyever not?!” said Temmin.

“Because,” said Teacher, “it’s the history of a woman. That is the bulk of the intimate history of this kingdom, Prince Temmin--the history of its women--and that is the history your ancestors have gone to great pains to ignore.”

“But why would we ignore it?”

“How did you feel when you finally understood what you’d done to Mattie?”

“Mattie?” said Temmin blankly. “The maid at Whithorse--gods, she was my half-sister and I didn’t know! I felt sick!”

“But before you knew she was your sister. You understood what you did to her before then.”

“I don’t like to think about it,” said Temmin, wincing.

“Just so,” said Teacher.

End of book two