Chapter 6 | The Queen Who Ruled by Herself

On the outskirts of Deneen Town rose a hill, the most prominent in the landscape. In the side of the hill was an opening in the hill, framed in black rock. On either side, torches flickered even in the day. And coming and going was a small but constant stream of traffic, larger today than usual.

This was the Temple of Harla. The Temple in Tremont might be the larger and more elaborate, but Corharla Hill was the first, Her Home on earth, where all true devotees must descend at least once on pilgrimage and where her most devoted sent their bones to be added to Her ossuary. It was here, before dusk fell and Harla's Day began, that Henrik of Belleth went to find Macca of Sairland, for Macca was a lay priestess of the Bloody One.

Henrik had left his flat, feathered hat, his dark blue cloak and his sword at the Temple entrance, and had donned the black robes of a devotee. He pulled the hood over his short, dark hair, leaving his hazel eyes in shadow, and headed down the dim corridors until he came to the royal shrine.

"Shrine" was a misnomer, thought Henrik, for it was huge, taking up an entire cavern of its own the size of Creithig's great hall in Cordeneen itself. The walls were lined with bones, both animal and human; those capped with gold and arranged in niches in the walls were the bones of the royal family of Sairland, going back a thousand years or more. At the altar proper, three figures robed in black stood, surrounded by animal skulls sporting massive racks of antlers.

Henrik paused, then approached the altar, stopping a respectful distance away. "My lady Macca," he called, disguising his voice as best he could, "I would have a word with you."

Macca turned, pushing her hood off her head. The torches reflected on her red-gold hair, setting it ablaze in light, and Henrik stepped back involuntarily. Physically he was much larger than Macca; he stood a good head over her, and where Ilhovin was wiry and lithe, he was thicker and more muscular. Even so, she was in her element, framed in black before the altar, her gray eyes piercing, and he hung back. "Yes?" she called out.

"I would speak with you alone, as a petitioner, please."

Macca didn't hesitate a moment. She dismissed the two priests helping her hang the antlered skulls and gestured toward Henrik. "Please, approach." He took a few steps closer as the priests left the shrine. "How may I help?"

"Perhaps I may help you, my lady," he said, pushing back his hood.

If Macca was surprised, her face didn't betray it. "My lord Belleth. It was my impression that Our Lady Harla is not as respected in Tremont as She is in Sairland."

"Tremontines prefer to think of the here and now, not the hereafter, my lady," he answered smoothly. "Before you ask, I shall tell you that I am here on my own behalf and not on that of the prince or the state."

"Very well," nodded Macca. "Again, how may I help, my lord?"

He moved closer. "You may tell me what your intentions are towards the prince."

"My intentions?" she said. "He has yet to state his own! It would hardly be seemly for me to state mine beforehand."

"The women of Sairland play the man so much, why not in this?" She curled her lip and began to turn away, but he stayed her, his hand heavy on her arm. "You know the wishes of his father and yours. Has Ilhovin any hope, my lady?"

"I'll tell him that myself whenever he deigns to speak to me on the subject," she said frostily. "Are you always so concerned in the love lives of your friends?"

"I repeat that I am here on my own behalf, not that of the prince. And I remind you that I asked to speak to you as a petitioner--what we speak of cannot be spoken of again."

Macca studied his handsome, slightly dissolute face. "Then I repeat for the last time, how may I help? What would you know that I may tell you? Because what is between Ilhovin and me remains between Ilhovin and me."

Henrik suddenly captured her by her wrists. "You may tell me this, my lady: If you will not have the prince, will you have me?"

"You shall release me immediately," demanded Macca, her voice dangerous.

"No, not until I've made my suit."

"Then make it quickly," she said, gray eyes flashing.

For the first time, Henrik saw Macca's wild beauty fully, and he felt his entire body on edge and aware of her. "Ilhovin is weak," he began in an intense rush. "He will never rule Tremont as he should; the kingdom needs a strong hand at the reins, and he has shown me in our time here that he doesn't possess the strength. He lets a woman set the terms of our treaty--oh, don't even try to protest, my lady, your reluctance is all too studied!--and he won't take you in hand as he should. He's no husband for the likes of you. He hasn't even bridled you yet, let alone taken the reins." He pulled her closer. "I, on the other hand, should treat you as you deserve to be treated."

"And how is that, my lord Belleth?" said Macca, strangely calm.

"As a woman, not as a peer, a woman to be loved and kept from the harsher things in life. I would become your strength, Macca, and you would be free to become the woman Amma made you to be and Neya wishes you to be. All that flashing wit, it's wasted on Ilhovin and is unhealthy in women. It's the mark of a thwarted nature, and were you my wife I would channel all that wit into its true course--passion!"

Henrik let go of one of her wrists and slipped a firm arm around her waist. "Only think. He is the Heir, the last of his line. If you were to marry me, to join Belleth to Sairland's royal house again, and if something were to happen to him, married to you I would be in the best position to rule Tremont. And both you and Tremont would have the king they deserve. Would he be brave enough to chase you to ground like this and--"

He kissed her, rough and demanding, and to his satisfaction he felt her solid body go slack against him. He let go her remaining wrist and brought his hands to her face, slipping his tongue into her mouth and letting her thigh slide between his--

--and suddenly his groin exploded in pain and his vision went white. When he came to his senses, he was on the floor. His mouth was full of blood, and he realized she had bitten the tip of his tongue clean off.

She spat the chunk of flesh at him, his blood trickling down her chin and her dagger in her hand. "You, my lord, are a false friend and worse, a traitor. We spoke inside Corharla Hill, and I am bound by my oath to keep this conversation between us. I leave it to you to explain the missing end of your tongue--perhaps," she said in her dry way, "a shaving accident, or better, a peckish whore. You will never, ever approach me alone again or I will kill you where you stand. I've given fair warning. More than that I'm not required to give under both Sairish and Tremontine law. Get up, sir, and get out. We are blood enemies from this moment on."

Henrik scrambled back from her as fast as his tender balls would allow and pulled himself up on his feet. "You bith," he stumbled out around his bleeding tongue. "You bith! I offer to betray my betht friend for your thake, and thith is my reward?"

Macca smirked. "I neither asked for nor wanted nor accepted your betrayal. Your offer was for no other's 'thake' but your own, and you should be glad your 'reward' was merely losing the tip of your tongue. Next time I may take it all."

"You'll regret thith! I'll make you regret thith!" He ran limping from the shrine.

Macca wiped her mouth on a handkerchief and tossed it into a nearby brazier. Henrik would hate her for this humbling, and she knew it. She had made a powerful enemy, both physically and politically, for she had decided in favor of Ilhovin and would have to deal with the Earl of Belleth, as wife, as princess and eventually as queen of Ilhovin. But she was a daughter of Sairland and beloved of Harla, and had no regrets. When the time came, she would have to make sure to kill Henrik before he had a chance to kill her.

When the time came for the great feast in honor of the Bloody One in Cordeneen that night, Ilhovin walked her toward the hall. "Where is my lord Belleth?" she remarked innocently as she leaned on his arm.

"Oh," said Ilhovin, "poor fellow, he came down with a sore throat, couldn't speak at all, coughing up blood, even! Your father tried to send the best Sister in the country to him, but his man says he refused, that he just needs to sleep. Truthfully, I'm rather worried. Macca, please, let's wait a moment," he continued, stopping her in an empty corridor. "Listen, tomorrow night I would like to speak with you at length alone."

Macca looked into his earnest face with its wry mouth and clear eyes, and she felt her heart swell. "Yes," she said impulsively. "I'll marry you."

"I'm sorry?" said the astonished Ilhovin.

"That's what you were going to speak with me about, yes? Then yes, I'll marry you. You're kind and intelligent and you make me laugh."

"I do?!"

"You do, my lord," she said, smiling. "I just don't often laugh aloud."

Ilhovin swept her close and they kissed, at first tentatively, and then with increasing ardor. For Henrik had been right about one thing: Under her cool exterior, Macca was a wildly passionate woman, and Ilhovin was wildly passionate for her.

And so the match was made, almost by accident, on Harla's Day, the unluckiest day of the year for a betrothal.