Split Heirs (30 page)

Chapter Thirty
-
Five

“Your Majesty,” the Minister of Protocol whined, in a final, last-ditch effort to maintain some of the traditions, “can't we at least enter you in the
archives
as Queen Avena? It isn't as if anyone reads them…”

The new monarch of Hydrangea glared at him. “My name's Arbol,” she said coldly.

“But Your Majesty…”

The new queen glowered. “Don't you people realize that all your rituals and ceremonies and rigamarole almost got you all killed? If you'd paid more attention to reality, instead of rules, maybe my father's men wouldn't have been able to march in here and take over!”

The minister was scandalized. “Oh, but a proper respect for tradition…” he began.

“Tradition be damned!” the queen replied. “I'll go along when it makes sense, or at least doesn't get in the way or confuse anybody, but no further than that! Is that clear?” She dropped a hand to where her sword hilt would have been, if she hadn't let her mother convince her not to come armed to the coronation.

The minister trembled at the royal anger, but he persisted. “Your Majesty,
please
,” he said. “We've set aside the claims of your brothers and your uncle Mimulus and even your own mother, we've eliminated the Ceremony of the Bath, we've incorporated the Gorgorian ritual breakfast, we've moved the coronation out of the palace to accommodate the…um…the dragon
—
isn't that practicality enough?
Must
we enter you in the official records with a masculine name? Your brothers allowed us to list them as Helenium and Helianthus…”

“They did?” the queen said, startled.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the minister said, nodding vigorously. “So could we…”

“That was stupid of them,” Arbol said.

The minister's mouth came open, but nothing came out. Arbol pushed past him, and marched up the steps onto the hastily erected dais that now stood at one end of the Square of Munificent Blessings from Those Gods Worthy of Our Attention.

The crowd gathered before the platform burst into spontaneous applause
—
or at any rate, most of it did. A few portions had to be coaxed.

But then, there were plenty of people ready to do the coaxing. Quite aside from the anticipated benefits of a queen who was both Gorgorian
and
Old Hydrangean, who had proclaimed that she would favor neither group over the other, nobody particularly wanted to anger a monarch who had demonstrated that she had not just one, but
two
dragons on her side; not just one, but
two
powerful wizards working for her; and who was, despite her sex, probably the best swordsman in the kingdom
—
all this, in addition to the more usual partisans and advocates.

It must be admitted that not everyone was clear on just how Arbol had gone from being a royal sacrifice to a sword-wielding hero, and then from fighting a dragon to befriending it, but then, not everyone had yet gotten straight how the prince had turned out to be a girl, either.

“Never know where you are with these people,” a peasant muttered. “Half girl, half boy, half Hydrie, half ox-lover, can't make up her mind whether to kill the dragon or kiss it…”

“Oh, shut up and cheer,” his wife said, jabbing him in the ribs. Her own applause was loud and enthusiastic.

At the back of the crowd, Bernice lounged comfortably against an outer wall; a large area around her was understandably vacant, save for Dunwin, perched atop the battlement, who leaned over and scratched at the itchy spot behind the ears that even a dragon can't quite reach for herself.

“I think it's going to be fun, having a sister,” Dunwin remarked. “Especially one who's queen. I'm glad you didn't eat her, Bernice.”

“I'm glad, too,” Bernice said. “She'd probably taste even worse than that Ingruk character. It was partly the sword and those muddy boots, I suppose, but Antirrhinum's right, you people aren't half as tasty as crabgrass, let alone a good buttercup or a clump of clover. Only good for sport, the lot of you.”

Dunwin hesitated, unsure how to bring up the subject most on his mind, then asked unhappily. “Are …are you sure you won't stay here? I'm sure Arbol won't mind.”

Bernice snorted, and the rearmost row of the coronation audience flinched in near-perfect unison. “What would I do
here
?” she said. “No, Antirrhinum's got a lovely little cave
—
we flew out there and he gave me a tour, while you people were getting all this set up. We'll be married next week, and the honeymoon
—
well, Rhiney says dragons take their time about these things; it could be a few years before you see me again.”

“That's a pretty quick courtship, isn't it?” Dunwin asked hopelessly. He blinked away tears at the thought of losing his precious companion.

Bernice shrugged, which involved moving several square yards of scales. “Why wait? It's not as if there are many dragons around here; Tirrhi thought he was the last one in all Hydrangea. That's why he came to find me.” She added, with a bit of a simper, “I'm glad he did.”

“But what about
me?
” Dunwin asked, with a bit of a snivel. “Bernice, I'll
miss
you so!”

Berniec let out a draconic sigh, and a few people decided to find other places entirely. “Dunwin,” she said, as quietly as a dragon could, “there comes a time when everybody grows up. I'm not a sheep any more, and you're not a little boy. You were lonely up there on the mountain, and we were friends
—
but now I've found someone else, one of my own kind. And you're a prince now, here in the palace
—
isn't it time
you
found one of your own kind?”

“But I love
you
, Bernice…”

“Dunwin, I'm a dragon, you're a prince
—
it just wouldn't work.”

“I know, but…” He sniffled.

“Try to be brace, Dunwin. Aren't there any human women who catch your fancy? I know they have those odd bumps, and aren't as pretty as sheep, but couldn't you perhaps find some distraction?”

“I don't know,” Dunwin said
—
but he stopped suffling. The thought of meeting women did have a certain appeal to it. He had noticed his long-lost brother with that Ubri person.

“Well, think about it, Dunwin. Because I
am
going away with Antirrhinum, and you don't want me to ruin my honeymoon by spending it worrying about
you
, do you?”

“No, of course not…”

“Then find some other friends. Meet some girls, and just try not to look at those silly bumps.”

Dunwin looked down from his perch on the battlement at the crowd below
—
and more particularly, at some of the younger females in the crowd. The view from above had certain interesting features
—
appropriate wear for coronations ran to low-cut necklines.

“I hadn't really thought about it,” he said slowly, considering the view. “You know, I think I kind of like those bumps, actually.”

“Well, there you go,” Bernice said, relieved. “Take a good look at a few after the ceremony, why don't you?”

Dunwin nodded thoughtfully, still looking over the crowd, and not only were his eyes drying quickly, but for a moment he even forgot to scratch Bernice's head.

The cheering was dying down now, and the participants were taking their places for the ceremony. Arbol was at the center, of course, with a half-ring of Hydrangean functionaries around and behind her. Artemisia, the Queen Mother, had a place of honor on the new queen's right; Prince Wulfrith, newly-appointed court wizard, stood to the left.

Beside and a step behind Wulfrith, Lady Ubri whispered, “I still think you shouldn't have given up the crown so easily, Wulfie. I mean, love, a man like you
deserves
to be king…”

“Ubbie,” Wulfrith whispered back, “I'd sooner cut my throat than try to be king, and if you ever mention it again I'll turn you into a warthog.”

Ubri sniffed and flung back her head. “Warthog, indeed! If that's all you think of me…”

“Oh, it's not all,” Wulfrith said, smiling. “Have you ever seen a book called
One Hundred and One Intriguing Amatory Alternatives
that's in the library here? It was banned by three kings in succession, and condemned by the Midwives' Guild. I think you'll like Number Seventy-One…”

Across the dais, Artemisia spotted Clootie in the front row of the audience.

“You're sure you won't stay?” she called. She did not entirely trust Wulfrith's magic
—
her son was still just a boy, after all
—
and she certainly didn't trust anyone's loyalty to her daughter; a backup wizard would be handy to have around.

“I'm sure,” Clootie called back. “I've gotten used to the old cave, you know. It's so much
simpler
than city life ever was.” He smiled. “But now that I'm not hiding, you'd be welcome to visit, Your Highness.”

Beside him, Odo called, “
I'll
be stayin', Yer Gracious Goodness.” He grinned toothlessly.

Artemisia shut her eyes for a moment, then opened them and concentrated her entire attention on her daughter.

Lord Bulmuk, whom Arbol had named Commander of the Palace Guard, and Prince Mimulus, perhaps better known as the Black Weasel, were bringing out the double crown
—
the simple Gorgorian band of kingship had been welded onto the Holy Royal and Ancient Crown of Volnirius the Oblique, just above the band of oxhide. The spindly frame of the Volnirian crown had begun to sag rather badly out of shape a century or two back, and had finally given way completely after being kicked around at the Disaster of the Bath; this addition served to restore its shape rather nicely, while adding considerable decorative panache to the rather plain and unconvincing Gorgorian crown.

Lord Bulmuk, while holding his side of the supporting cushion, was watching Prince Mimulus closely. “You're sure you're not planning anything?” he muttered. “Haven't got a knife tucked away under all that fancy embroidery you're wearing?”

Prince Mimulus sighed. “No, my good Bulmuk,” he said, “I am not planning anything. I am quite content to see my niece crowned.”

“That's good. I've taken a fancy to the girl, you know; wouldn't want anything to happen to her. You're sure?”

“
Absolutely
sure,” Mimulus replied. “After fifteen years in the forest, I don't think I'm up to ruling this place
—
particularly since it would take a miracle for me to survive assassinating Queen Avena.”

“Arbol,” Bulmuk corrected him.

Mimulus sighed. “Arbol,” he agreed. “No, Bulmuk, when this ceremony is over, I'll be glad to settle into my natural role as my niece's advisor.”

Bulmuk continued to eye him suspiciously, and the quondam Black Weasel did his best to look bored and innocent as the pair placed the pillow and crown upon the table behind Arbol. Mimulus understood the suspicion, though he doubted that the Gorgorian realized that the “natural role” for a Hydrangean prince was to skulk about the palace looking for an opportunity to shorten the line of inheritance.

Of course, Arbol was deadly with a sword. She had dangerous allies, including his own sister. She had those two brothers. She had united the Gorgorians and the Hydrangeans in supporting her; she was, in fact, already beloved by most of the people, even before she was formally crowned, for her restoration of Old Hydrangean rights and the surviving Old Hydrangean nobility, while keeping the Gorgorians placated by retaining them among the nobility as well. Her brother Wulfrith had been given a free hand to do whatever he could to restore scholarship
—
and wizardry
—
to their former levels of achievement. She had even found posts for all the Bold Bush-dwellers.

It was really rather amazing; with her mother's advice and the help of her allies, Arbol seemed to have pleased just about everybody. Removing such a monarch, and replacing her, without winding up beheaded for treason or killed by an angry mob or turned into something furry and quadrupedal, appeared quite impossible. It looked like a happy ending all around.

Mimulus smiled as he lifted the crown and placed it on his niece's head.

He always had loved a challenge.