The Third Queen- Chapter Two

How neglectful I've been. I've had this chapter for months and never posted it. I'm focusing now on my newest full-length novel and that's sucked up all my writing time (there's isn't much now a days any way with four kids and running our own business). Anyway, I hope you'll forgive me for not having much new. Enjoy.




Chapter Two
“Do you think she has even danced a Qurast? She is so very young.” Queen Jazelda looked down her long nose and spoke to Queen Magda as though I were not even present in the room.
It was just the three of us in the sitting room, all the servants had been sent away to prepare the wedding announcement that was to take place that afternoon before the entire kingdom. How I, Sylvain, just a maid from a remote village was now to become King Rainstaff’s third queen, was beyond me. I had been content to marry Lord Parish, the king’s cousin, but one sentence from King Rainstaff had changed all that. Everything was such a whirl, I hardly knew what to think. I was grateful that words were not something I was required to produce at the moment as the two elder queens assessed me, sitting perfectly still, barely daring to blink, in the far corner of the room.
“She is young,” Magda agreed, a smile ever present on her round cheeks. “I wonder if she has ever even attended a ball?”
“Doubtful,” Jazelda scowled with a sort of pleasure. “To think one can become a queen of Diria and never have danced a ball.”
Magda straightened the dress on the little worn doll that belonged to her daughter and beamed. “But she is indeed beautiful.” When she spoke, there was a sigh in her voice, like a rush of spring breeze.
Jazelda’s scratching-branch voice cut over hers. “Ha. And you are impetuously too-cheerful. If every quality of womanhood was to be taken individually, there would be no end to Rainstaff’s wives.”
So, Jazelda was bitter at me. That was just as well. She was too proud, any other reaction would ill-suit her. But it was easy to see why these women had been chosen to be Rainstaff’s queens. Jazelda had a cold elegance which commanded attention and obedience. Her face was long and fine, like the sculptures in the courtyard and her hair was as a thousand threads of black silk. To soften Jazelda’s severness, it was easy to imagine why Rainstaff had been drawn to little Magda. Her halo of blonde curls and childlike face exuded warmth and happiness. If Jazelda was a statue, then Magda was a cherubim beaming down from the palace’s painted ceiling. I wondered for a moment, how I was to fit into the picture. Rainstaff hadn’t been in my presence more than a moment. What had he seen in me to break my engagement with his cousin and claim me as his own?
“Oh, dear Jaze,” Magda’s pet name for the older woman surprised me. There was a fondness between the queens despite how much Jazelda might try to hide it under her cutting remarks, “you are quiet extraordinary as well. I did not mean to diminish your beauty by acknowledging hers.”
Jazelda turned her face to the window, but I could tell by the crease around her eyes that Magda’s assurances pleased her. After a moment, she snapped her head back. “But what does Rainstaff even know of her? What do we even know of her?” Her gaze upon me was like one appraising a stray hound.
“Well,” Magda gently offered, “why don’t we ask her?” Jazelda humphed but her milder companion took a careful step toward me as though I might fly off.
I however, was not as timid as they might suppose. Though these were the queens of Diria, King Rainstaff had spoken. Whether they, or I, liked the arrangement, I was to join them in the queenhood.
“Sylvain,” Magda started, “may I call you Sylvain?”
Her sudden politeness towards my presence tempted a smile on my lips; I had to force them still.
“Yes, you may call my Sylvain,” I answered her.
“Very well. Tell us about yourself.”
I hesitated just a moment, more accustom to silence than speech. “I was born in the high country. In a small mountain village. I have lived there my entire life.”
“Do doubt training for the royal court,” Jazelda sneered.
But her comment did not offend me as she desired. “Indeed. While the other girls of my age were helping on their families farms and preparing for marriage to a blacksmith or page, I was being taught civility for the time I would join in marriage to the court.”
Jazelda rolled her eyes. “These country folk see one promising face and spend the rest of their resources seeking to thieve the court of its riches.”
It was Magda’s turn to scold, however she did so with much more grace. “Jaze, do you not recall the sea-side town of your birth? Perhaps you are not so different from our Lady Sylvain here.”
Jazelda turned her long nose up. “My parents were of noble lineage. I wasn’t just some country-mouse seeking to weasel my way into the court.”
So it was that Queen Jazelda was to like me too little, and therefore, Queen Magda was to like me too much. She squeezed my hand.
“We are glad to have you,” she said and then giggled like a young girl, “We will be such friends.”
I kept my face smooth to reveal neither approval nor disagreement. As tart as Queen Jazelda was and as temperate as Queen Magda was, these women were powerful, and therefore, dangerous. Jazelda continued to keep her dark eyes slanted upon me. She distrusted me and would probably rather that I drowned in the Eastern Sea. It wasn’t difficult to understand why. Both queens had mothered children for the king. Jazelda had two boys nearing manhood but Magda only had daughters: one of four years and the other still under a year. If I were to conceive a son of the king, that would mean a potential contender for the throne.
Magda went on about what a delight it would be to plan the wedding ball and how my dress would have to be violet to accent my hair and eyes, but my thoughts were on the predicament I found myself in. The more time I spent in the presence of the queens, the more I realized just how difficult court-life would be. Nothing in my training had prepared me for this.
Jazelda was attempting to sour Magda’s enthusiasm, reminding her that surely this was to be a modest and private affair, we were a kingdom at war, after all. But Magda carried on just as chipper as a robin in the spring, oblivious to the frost in the trees.
Just then, a court official entered the room. “Pardon the intrusion, my Queens,” he bowed, “but Lady Sylvain’s presence is required at the throne.”
Magda’s mouth hung open slightly. Jazelda scowled. I curtseyed to each and then followed the official out of the room wondering why I was being called in such an abrupt manner to the throne.
The crowd that filled the long, narrow room I had not expected. Every member of the court seemed to be present and all were talking noisily one to another as though in great excitement, or uproar, it was difficult to tell. Moments behind me, Queen Jazelda and Magda entered, seeming as perplexed as I, and a little put out too to not be privy to the situation.
King Rainstaff was pacing at the head of the room, his violet cape whipping behind him. At his left, his mother, Queen Fayne sat as stolid and gray as ever, her pale eyes fixed straight ahead. Sitting beside the old woman, to my surprise, was Lord Parish. His cheeks were flushed and ruddy, sweat glistened his brow, but there was a glean in his eyes (which never left my face upon my entrance). A smile tempted to curl at my lips, but I held them still, reminding myself that regardless of Lord Parish’s civility and fondness toward me, I was to marry the King now.
My appearance in the court, unlike the first time at the feast where all were stilled, seemed to send the crowd into further flourish. Several weapons were even thrust into the air. For the first time, since coming to the palace I was truly afraid. Something had roused these people into a passion I had not seen in all my ten and seven years.
I ducked slightly behind the official. He gave a small cough, pretending not to notice the indecency in my revealed emotion. Fortunately, no others seemed to notice it either. Except Lord Parish to whom no blink of my eye was lost.
King Rainstaff took quick notice of me approaching down the long room, but the sight of me only deepened the crease in his brow. Had I done something wrong? Undaunted, the official marched me to the front of the room. I bowed before the throne and remained there, not daring to move.
Finally, King Rainstaff hushed the room. “That will be enough,” his baritone voice boomed. The room stilled, though imperfectly. “Rise,” he commanded me and in a violet whirl, sat upon the hard, stone throne.
Rainstaff’s pale blue eyes stared at me for what felt like a fortnight. The lines in his face were hard, rigid and unkind. This wasn’t the kind and gentle king, the lover of beauty and life. This was the commander of war.
The people of the room seemed to sway and ripple around us. Though the room was cold, sweat trickled behind my ear and down my back.
Beside Rainstaff, the elderly Queen remained rigid, beyond her, Lord Parish leaned forward. At long last, the king spoke.
“Lady Sylvain,” the words came out like stones. “It is the desire of our most beloved Queen Fayne,” he gestured to his mother, “that you should be the wife of Lord Parish,” his hand was like a knife as it cut the air, “as was originally intended.”
Again his eyes bore into me, the edges sharp. The room did not stir now. All waited on the words of the king. I did my best to understand as the king hunted me with his eyes.
His words came out like a hiss through his clenched teeth. “I release you from the engagement to myself. You will marry Lord Parish. That is all.” He whooshed his robes and left the room so quickly I had to blink to see that he was really gone. The room alighted again in motion and flurry. All I could do was gaze upon the empty throne. The movement of Queen Fayne’s gown as she arose captured my attention. Her face was unflinching, but for just a moment she looked upon me before she too, left the room.
What was the meaning of this? I longed to ask her, but I felt no ill-will from the old Queen. What was her purpose in ending the engagement with her son? Before I had a moment to think, Lord Parish was before me.
He bowed low to me. Remembering my civility, I returned the gesture.
“Lady Sylvain,” he said. “I hope this pleases you.”
His brow was still glistening from sweat. He, the artisan and poet, had defied the King. Was it any wonder the court was in such a commotion? The true danger Lord Parish had faced in this became known to me at that moment. His very life was at risk. The men in the room were so agitated by the turn of events, a battle was on the edge of ensuing. All because I was to be a queen. But the king was gone. I was not to face those hawkish manners as his bride. The old Queen Fayne had done this for me, I knew not the reason, or the meaning, but she had declared it. And the king had no choice but to acquiesce, for she was his mother. And now, Lord Parish was before me asking if I was pleased? With a smile in my heart, I found that I was.
“Yes, my Lord,” I bowed again to him. Just as he was to take my arm, Queen Jazelda sauntered past us, the twist of a grin on her thin lips. Queen Magda kissed my cheeks and whispered, “Farewell,” into my hair.
I was not be a queen with them any longer. I was to be something much more: the wife of the man I knew in my heart I loved.