Alena nodded, keeping a tight grip on Cera’s fingers. “Lady, yes. I heard,” she whispered softly, her lips close to Cera’s ear. “But hear the Queen’s Own, lady. Hear his words.”
“A shock,” Talamir said, this time speaking in Rethwellan. “I ask your pardon, lady. This day has been a long one.”
The executioner, the one known as Alberich, returned to his position, his face solemn and stern.
“Your husband was involved in a treasonous plot against the queen, Lady Ceraratha. We must ask, were you involved in—”
“No,” Cera jerked back to her feet, staggering. “No, no, a thousand times I say this. Not I nor my servants would ever—”
“Lady, please,” Talamir gestured for her to return to her seat. “We can verify that with a Truth Spell easily enough.”
The tightness in Cera’s chest eased a bit, as she sat. That was right, this strange land held no magic, but it did have that spell. They would believe then. That was well.
“There is still the matter of your future, lady,” The Queen’s Own said.
Cera jerked her head in a half-nod. What was to be done? To return home, after this had happened? To the shame of her parents? Or the retribution of her in-laws? For the fault would be hers, that she was certain of. Without thinking, she reached for Alena’s hand.
Alberich spoke then, a soft comment meant only for the Queen’s Own. Cera blinked in surprise. Had he said something about sheep?
“Queen Selenay had issued a grant of land to Lord Sinmon shortly after her marriage to the prince,” Talamir said, looking down at the papers in his hands.
Cera frowned, remembering. Sinmon had said something to that effect, just in passing. Cera had asked if they would be leaving court, but had been met with a sharp rebuke and a blow. Sinmon had disparaged the gift in private, while publicly expressing his gratitude.
“Herald Alberich reminds me that it is not the most prosperous lands. Sheep country, really. On the borders of Rethwellan and Karse.”
Sheep?
“The war has depleted the lands and its people, but there is enough there to make a beginning. To rebuild. You understand, this is not a rich—”
Just for a moment, Cera could hear the bleating of newborn lambs and the squalls of sheep being sheared. The sound of her mother’s loom filled her head, her mother humming as she worked. “Mine?”
“Yes, lady,” Talamir’s look was sharp. “Both Crowns would prefer that this matter be dealt with quietly and quickly. Her Majesty is willing to confirm the lands and title in you, upon your oath of fealty and prompt departure for your lands.”
“Never to return” was the implication, but that troubled Cera not one bit. Never to have to tread these halls of power and cruelty seemed more gift than punishment. But her own lands . . . her own herds . . . was it possible? A strange feeling rose in her breast. It took her a breath to recognize it for what it was.
Hope.
“We’ll provide an escort, to see you safely south, and the necessary documents to claim your holdings.” Talamir continued. “If such is acceptable ...?”
He offered land, work, her own income. Her emotions threatened to overwhelm her. She clutched Alana’s hand even tighter.
“It is,” Cera said firmly.
Alana was sent back to their chambers to pack what she could as fast as she could. The Heralds explained Cera would be taken directly to a carriage when her audience was over. Anything left behind would be sent to her later.
Cera found herself hustled down a long silent servants’ hall by her escort. The Heralds were polite but firm, and Cera had no argument with that. She had no desire to parade through those halls, dressed in her country best, under the eyes of the nobility.
Oddly enough, she found herself emerging through doors that led to the queen’s garden.
The day was fair enough, the sun shining down through the new green leaves.
The queen was seated on a bench, her bright white Companion at her side. The Companion’s lovely head close to Selenay’s, as if they were confiding in each other. Or offering each other comfort. It seemed somehow a private moment; Cera looked down as she and her escort advanced.
There were other Heralds all around, on guard, tense. No others, which meant no prying eyes or gossiping tongues. The gray one was there as well, with his own Companion.
Talamir appeared at Selenay’s side as Cera approached. There was a cushion there before the queen, and Cera knelt, placed her palms together, and bowed her head.
“Your Majesty, this is Lady Ceraratha, wife of the late Lord Sinmonkelrath. The lady wishes to become your loyal subject and hold the lands that were gifted to her late husband. The lady has expressed her desire to swear fealty to the Crown under the Truth Spell and then to depart to her estates for a period of mourning.”
“Let it be so,” Selenay’s voice seemed to echo out over the garden. For one so young, it sounded tired. Worn.
Hands came around hers then, young hands of a noble woman, warm against her cold fingers.
A murmur then, from one of the Heralds, probably casting the Truth Spell. Cera felt nothing, but knew the glow would demonstrate the truth of her words.
“Repeat after me,” Talamir said. “I, Lady Cerarath, do solemnly swear that ...”
Cera dutifully repeated the words, staring at Selenay’s hands. They were not as perfect as she’d thought a queen’s would be. There were calluses there, both of the sword and the pen. But there was pain there too. And worry.
“That I shall hold the lands in fealty and honor, striving to serve the land and the Crown, as long as my breath shall issue from my body and the Gods see fit to preserve my life.”
Cera spoke the last with fervor, her voice cracking slightly. She wanted this woman to understand, to know that she meant every word with every fiber of her being.
With the last of her words, she looked up and into the eyes of her queen.
Cera caught her breath.
In those blue eyes, it was there to see. The anguish of betrayal. The pain of the truth. The joy of release. The guilt that joy brought.
Selenay’s eyes looked into hers and then widened with the shared knowledge of shared pain.
The oath was completed. Talamir was reaching out his hand to assist Cera to her feet. But in that long instant, Ceraratha and Selenay stared at one another. And each knew the bond they shared, with no need for words.
Cera pulled her hands away as the queen released them. She reached for Talamir’s hand, allowing her wide cloth sleeve to fall back.
A soft hiss left the queen’s lips at the sight of the fading bruises. The Companion snorted softly, its head jerking back. Cera knew then that the queen, at least, had not suffered that at the prince’s hands.
Ceraratha rose to stand straight before her queen, allowing the sleeve to fall back down. She curtsied low before Selenay, then lifted her head proudly and spoke carefully in Valdemarian. “In me, your Majesty will have no more loyal and devoted subject in all your Kingdom.”
Selenay studied her, then nodded. “I wish you well, lady.”
Cera retreated a few steps and then turned and headed back the way they had come, her escort following a few steps behind. Head high, back straight—
And free.
The Education of Evita
Mickey Zucker Reichert
The forest seemed extraordinarily green to Evita as she danced through the shadows with Bruno, as if some mysterious woodland creature had sprinkled the branches and underbrush with crushed emeralds. She ran toward the familiar babble of the brook, snagging a fallen branch in mid-movement. Seeing it, Bruno chased after her, barking wildly.
Evita laughed. Bits of leaf and twigs tangled into her mouse-brown locks. Her lanky teenaged legs carried her swiftly along the whisper of a path whose mud revealed its origins: light, cloven-toed deer tracks and the overlapping, crosslike prints left by rabbits. Bruno crashed after her, his clumsy hound’s body bouncing from copses and deadfalls, tripped up by clusters of vines. Saliva drooled from a tongue that flapped in the breeze and hung so long it seemed impossible that the wet, ropey thing ever fit inside his head.
“Eviiiiiiiitaaaaa!”
Evita sighed. A clear note of irritation had entered her mother’s tone. She would have to respond soon or risk her mother’s wrath.
Not that that wrath consisted of anything terrible. A raised voice, a disapproving look, a quiet air of motherly disappointment that would color everything else that evening, and an exasperated, out-loud wondering: “Why do we have to play this silly game? Why can’t you just come the first time I call you?”
Evita no longer bothered to respond to that query. It didn’t matter what she said; the question was wholly rhetorical and the answer downright obvious. Evita preferred the imagination-provoking wilds of the forest to the confines of the village and the thrill of discovery to the drudgery of chores.
“Come on, Bruno. Mother’s getting upset.” Evita turned to retrace her steps.
Bruno did not obey any better than his mistress. He snuffled curiously at a dense copse of swampweed growing on the riverbank.
Evita hopped back down the deer path, making a game out of dodging hoof marks and Bruno’s massive paw prints in the mud. Within a few steps, she could no longer hear his coarse breathing or the crash of his legs through the undergrowth. She whirled back to where she had left him, seeing no sign of the hound. “Bruno?”
The dog did not respond.
Huffing in irritation, Evita headed back toward the river. “Come on, Bruno.” She turned a gentle corner, just enough to take a ledge of tall marsh weeds out of her vision and bring the tiny clearing into focus. Bruno remained exactly where she had left him. Beside him stood a snowy white horse, its silver hooves planted in the muck. It held its triangular head aloft, its mane riffling in a mild breeze, its eyes enormous and cornflower blue. Evita could not recall ever having seen anything so beautiful in her life. “Companion,” she whispered. Joy as pure and sparkling as gold rushed through her.
Evita ran to the horse. “You came for me. You came for me!”
Bruno had not made a sound when the Companion had appeared, but he barked at Evita as she rushed the creature.
:
I came for you, Evita
,: the Companion confirmed. :
My name is Camayo
.:
Evita could not recall clambering or jumping; but a moment later, she found herself safely on Camayo’s back. She settled into a saddle that seemed custom made for her own comfort and took reins that she believed utterly unnecessary. “I’ve had dreams about you.” Day and night, Evita had envisioned herself on a horse as white as the most perfect cloud, soaring skyward on its back, and watching the rest of the world unfurl below them. “I’ve had the most wonderful visions, Camayo. You can run like the wind, can’t you?”
Amusement brushed Evita’s mind. :
I’m fast enough, but a good squall will always get there first
.:
Evita barely listened, too engrossed in studying the animal.
:
What are you looking for?
:
Excited to the point of breathlessness, Evita answered, “Wings.”
:
Sorry to disappoint you, Dear One. I’m strictly ground transportation
.:
Evita laughed. Sitting high on a Companion felt strangely normal and right, as if her life before this moment had existed only to mark time. “Let’s go! Let’s see the world. Let’s have . . . adventures.” She threw her arm fiercely into the air, expecting Camayo to take off like an arrow fired from a hunter’s bow.
“Evvvvvvvvv-iiiiiiiii-taaaaaaa!” Her mother’s voice sounded worried . . . and hoarse.
The Companion did not budge. :
Don’t you think you should you tell your parents where you’re going so they don’t worry? Shouldn’t you take your dog home and pack a few things?
:
Evita dropped her arm. The mundane had fallen from her thoughts the instant she had spotted the Companion. Bruno would find his way home, but her parents would worry if she just disappeared. Her father worked late into the night, which meant that she would need to wait until morning to give him a proper goodbye and explanation. “You’re right, Camayo, of course.” Impatience stabbed her like a knife, but she had no real choice. “Can you take me home first?”
Camayo fell silent, mentally and physically. They headed through the forest toward Evita’s home, Bruno trotting at the Companion’s heels and Evita riding tall in the saddle. At least, she had a good excuse for being late.
Camayo and Evita rode out the next day with a pack of clothing and provisions secured behind the Companion’s saddle. The girl could not stop talking. “I told them special things would come to me. I told them I didn’t need to learn to cook and clean. I didn’t need to patch and mend. There’s so much more to life than sewing clothing and powdering babies. I wasn’t going to be just some man’s wife. I didn’t have to . . . ”
Camayo had not responded for a very long time, just continued walking, hour after hour in the warm spring sunlight to the sound of Evita’s incessant jabbering.
Finally, Evita looked down at her Companion. “Camayo?”
:
Yes?
:
“You’ve been awfully quiet.”
:
Yes
.:
“Don’t you have anything to say?”
:
If you wish me to speak, you must give me the opportunity
.:
“The opportunity?” Evita hesitated, uncertain what Camayo meant. The Companion’s “voice” came directly into her mind. “I’m sorry. You should have told me. Is my mind not open enough for you to speak to me?”
:
The problem is not the openness of your mind. It is the openness of your mouth
.:
That silenced Evita for the first time since she had discovered the Companion near the river. “That’s not a very nice thing to say.”