Chapter 9 | The Queen Who Ruled by Herself

Trips, Fruitful and Otherwise

Vennaday, the 42nd Day of Spring's Beginning

It was only three days before Spring's End--Neya's Day. Temmin was so edgy and inattentive that the Teacher dismissed him until after the big day itself: "I cannot bear a moment more of your fidgeting. Please absent yourself from my presence. Let that red-headed young man beat your restlessness out of you. Practice your dancing with Princess Ellika. Go ride that moose you call a horse. Take your mother while you're at it, she's almost as moody as you are. Do something. Just don't do it near me."

And so on this cloudy but warm Vennaday morning, Temmin and his mother were to go riding together in the King's Woods. The grooms and stable hands were thrilled to see the queen; she had been a frequent rider in the past, taking particular care of her little white mare Flor. But it had been more than a whole spoke of the wheel since the stables had seen her shadow, and in the last year, poor Flor's back had more often carried a stable boy round the paddock than the queen through the woods.

When Cappel heard she was in the stable yards, he came hurrying up excitedly from the ring where he'd been working with a promising young horse, snatched off his cap, and bowed so low he nearly fell over. Ansella took his gnarled hands and helped him up, which made the old man blush like a boy. "Yer majesty! We've miss't you so! You must come take t'look at this little roan gelding, ma'am! He's a fine 'un, and I know you of all the family will see't!" He hurried off to show them the colt, cap still in hand, with Ansella and Temmin in tow.

Unlike many a young man, Temmin was overjoyed to have his mother with him. His earliest memories of horses involved his mother, even before Jenks. She was a true daughter of Whithorse, such a good judge of horseflesh that Jenks always said her own father and Uncle Patrin frequently deferred to her, and fully half of her skirts were divided ones for riding. She had helped him pick out Jebby, though she had pretended it was all his own doing.

"Oh, Cappel!" Ansella said, leaning on the paddock fence. "He's a beauty!" The little roan capered and ran at their approach, but soon curiosity overcame him and he ventured back, wondering if the pretty lady might have treats in her pockets. She did. "Tsk," she said, laughing. "He's spoiled already."

Ansella's practiced eye roved over the young horse. His foal coat had shed out, and the characteristic markings of a strawberry roan were already apparent. "He shouldn't grow too large, I'm thinking, eh, Cappel?"

The old man shook his head. "No, ma'am, about yer height at t'withers, I'd expect."

She took in his small, neat head with its straight nose, the short, neat mane and tail, and the beginnings of powerful hindquarters and a broad chest. If she weren't mistaken, and she never was, here was a fine horse indeed, though not so fine that she regretted the loss of his stones. If he'd kept them, he wouldn't be half so docile and sweet. Here was a fine, biddable young horse who'd do very well for her, she thought, if she didn't already have Flor.

"I was thinkin', yer majesty," said Cappel in a falsely casual tone, "what a sweet 'un he'd be for pullin' yer curricle some day. Flor never did do well in harness." He slid a sideways glance at her, hoping to see a glimmer of interest. "I sh'd be gratified to train 'im up fer it, if it please you."

"Cappel, we are of a mind. He would be perfect for it. Please proceed, I'm very happy with him." Cappel nearly shone with pleasure. "What's his name?"

"Well, ma'am, I confess I let one of t'little boys name 'im, I cudn' say no. He's call't Rhubarb."

Ansella laughed in delight and clapped her hands. "Of course he is! Very well, Rhubarb," she said, stroking his nose. "Grow big and strong and be good for Master Cappel, and we shall take you out on the town when you're ready. Now, Temmin, what do you say to a ride with your old mother?"

"I say, no, but I will go on a ride with my beautiful Mama," said Temmin, taking her arm in his and leading her off to the separate stables where their personal horses were kept, and where Flor and Jebby were saddled and waiting.

"You've picked up a silver tongue quickly," chuckled his mother. "What else have they been teaching you at the Temple?"

"Nothing I wish to discuss with my mother," he answered firmly, and she laughed as he offered her a foot up into the saddle.

Once they were on horseback, they took off at a brisk walk out of the yards, breaking into a light canter as they reached the fields. Temmin looked over at his mother; as she rode, Ansella looked much more like herself than the tired little woman who had greeted him at the train station, and a sense of relief washed over him. He hadn't realized just how worried he had been about her until that moment.

For her part, Ansella was wondering why she had stayed out of the saddle so long. Grief was not helped by staying home moping; how could she have ever forgotten that? Ibbit wouldn't have wanted her moping, would she?

Then again, the letters Ibbit had sent were so dolorous and reproving, it was hard not to wilt when she read them: "You've abandoned me, you don't love me any more, you have returned to That Man's bed," though Ansella wrote letter after letter pouring out her love and denying that she'd been anything more to Harsin than a ceremonial wife.

On the one hand, she was waiting anxiously for word that she could see Ibbit, even if they were not allowed to be alone. On the other, she wondered whether breaking it off with Ibbit mightn't be the wisest course of action--no, she loved Ibbit. She would figure out a way.

She moved with Flor as one, barely giving the little mare any direction other than the slight shift of her weight, and as they flew over the fields and through the King's Woods she felt her cares lift from her narrow shoulders.

They finally stopped to catch their breath in the Fairy Meadow. "That's what I like to see," said Temmin approvingly. "Roses in my mama's cheeks."

Ansella laughed. "Am I so wan, then?" she said, breathing a little harder than usual.

"Mama, you have had me worried. You're far too thin, and you're winded. You were never winded after a little canter like this. I keep asking Lady Donnis if you're eating, but she won't say."

"Faithful Donnis," said Ansella. "I'm not ill, Temmy, I promise."

"Will you promise me, then, that you will let Donnis and Affton fatten you up a little? Promise me, or I shall fetch meals up to you on a tray myself and spoon feed you plain custards and strengthening beef tea!"

This was such a good imitation of Ansella's own nurse, who'd seen her children through their early years as well, that she burst out laughing, and laughed for a long while. "I promise, sweetheart," she said, wiping her eyes. "Shall we start back? I confess that this ride has given me an appetite! You shall finally have competition at the toast rack, my dear!" She spurred Flor into a gentle canter and headed back over the Meadow for the woods.

Just before they got back to the Keep, they came upon a clearing. Ashes filled a fire ring, and the undergrowth was well trampled-down. Temmin realized where they were immediately. "It would appear the Travelers have left for other climes, Mama."

"How odd," she replied. "They usually don't leave the woods until Summer's End, and then they head south for the winter--or so I'm told. I've even heard of them wintering as far as Alzeh, in northern Inchar."

"Hm. Let's go home, Mama." Temmin wondered if he could ask his sister Sedra if she knew where the Travelers had gone, and why. He was so absorbed in this thought that he completely missed the cheap little pocket mirror, half hidden in a knot hole on the north side of a large tree.

At breakfast, Temmin decided the best course was a public one. He simply remarked on what he and his mother had seen on their ride: "The Travelers have cleared out. Nothing left but the remains of their fire." He watched Sedra's face closely, but she kept her eyes on her newspaper. When she did meet his gaze, she gave him such a cool, challenging look that he decided she either knew they'd gone or didn't care, which last thought made him even more curious. He shrugged to himself and went back to his ham.

In fact, Sedra had not known, and as soon as breakfast was over she hurried upstairs to change for a walk. "I for one am glad, miss," sniffed Camma, helping her into her walking dress. "Begging your pardon, but you know I don't approve of their goings-on."

"Your approval or disapproval is immaterial, my dear," Sedra replied, "as it's none of your business."

"I'm sure it's not, your highness, but you are my business." Camma brushed imaginary dust from Sedra's straw bonnet before handing it to her. "And I worry when you go to them."

"Well," said Sedra briskly, "apparently you have nothing left for concern. I'm going to see what's to be seen, but don't be surprised if I stay out for most of the day. The clouds have burned off and I'm in the mood for a long walk." And with that, she tied her bonnet strings, tucked a book of poetry in her pocket, and left her rooms and the Keep.

Her long legs took her to the clearing in short order, where she found things just as Temmin and her mother had described them. "Oh, mistress," she whispered, sitting on a log. "What am I to do without you?"

"You think of my mother instead of me. There's a fine thing," said Connin, stepping into the clearing and dropping a bag at his feet. He grinned as Sedra leaped from the log, but the smile faded when she didn't leap into his arms. "And so you really aren't glad to see me."

"No, no, of course I'm glad to see you!" said the flustered Sedra, crossing to his side and raising her face for a kiss. "You startled me. The mistress and I were in the middle of lessons, and to find her gone with the lesson unfinished--"

"You and your lessons," he growled, gripping her tightly. "Why you care about ancient history, I'll never know."

"You lived it," she said simply. "I want to understand it. And it's my family. There are clues to my own future in the book."

"You could have a future with me, you know," Connin said, brushing her ear with his lips. "We could run away. Leave here, right now. I could take you through a reflection and no one would know where we'd gotten to. And you know I'd protect you. No one could ever touch us, not Brinnid, not even your father."

"And when I began to get old, and you stayed young? What then?" she murmured.

"I would never leave you."

"Oh, no, I'm sure not," she said, breaking out of his arms and moving away. "Why did your mother break camp?"

Connin gave her a surly look. "She had concerns about Brinnid's arrival."

"Such as?"

"I don't know," he said in irritation. "She had some strange notions about it, I suppose. If you want to marry Brinnid, that's your concern. I'll certainly not stand in the way."

"Good," Sedra replied hotly, "because marrying Brinnid is certainly what I intend to do. If your mother felt it best that you should leave, perhaps you'd better rejoin her."

"And waste a trip? Aren't you at all curious what I brought you?" He nudged the bag with the tip of his boot. "Open it."

Sedra gave him a wary look, then bent down and opened the bag. She drew out a familiar, red leather-covered book. "This won't do me any good without your mother!" she said crossly. "Why did you bother?"

"D'you think Mother and the Teacher are the only ones who can tell the stories? Dear me, princess, what a lack of imagination," clucked Connin.

"You don't mean to say--?"

He took the book from her hands, stuffed it back into the bag and walked back toward the tree with the hidden mirror. "Perhaps I'll show you next time. I'm not very happy with your attitude today." His figure began to shimmer and flow.

"Connin, wait!" cried Sedra, but it was too late. He poured through the knothole and disappeared.