A sound from below distracted her. She looked down at the palace’s main courtyard and saw Areava returning with her hunting party. Seeing that horses carried wounded and dead, she desperately searched for her daughter. At first, she could not see her in the poor light, but to her great relief recognized the coat she was wearing. The party was bedraggled, without enough mounts to carry them, but they carried with them a trophy, a head so large Usharna could see it even in the dark. And she saw, too, that Areava was deep in conversation with the visiting Amanite prince.
Hmm, not a bad thing, she thought. He is an intelligent and likable fellow. Areava could do worse. She laughed bitterly. God, she herself had done worse twice over, not finding true love and a worthy companion for her endeavors until she married Elynd Chisal. Tears came to her eyes as she remembered her third husband, a man who was frank to the point of rudeness, with a vocabulary that scandalized the court, and a propensity to wear the plainest of clothes. But she had loved him more than she had loved anyone except her own children. Thinking of Elynd made her think of Lynan.
A son she never thought she would have. She grimaced. A son to whom she should have shown more kindness, but for his own good and for his own protection she had kept him distant and apart not only from herself but from his siblings as well. It had been, she realized now so late in her life, a wrong decision, and she desperately wished there was someway she could make up for it.
But there was not enough time, and now upon Lynan’s young shoulders would fall an unexpected and unfair burden. She closed her eyes briefly, automatically murmured a prayer to a God she had never been sure she believed in, and grasped the Keys even tighter.
The pain in her chest started again, and this time would not go away.
Chapter 7
Lynan was woken by someone gently shaking his shoulder. He sat up and rubbed sleep from his eyes.
“Hurry, your Highness,” said Pirem’s voice. “It’s the queen, she’s callin‘ for you. She’s callin’ for all of you.”
Standing next to Lynan’s bed, Pirem was holding out Lynan’s tunic and breeches. “You haven’t much time. Your Highness. The others are already gathering like vultures.”
Lynan looked as sternly as possible at the old man. “Is that how you see us, Pirem, as vultures?”
“Not you, Lynan, no.” Pirem tried smiling, but the effort was too much for him and he grimaced instead. “Nor your siblings. But many in her court are as ruthless as you are easygoin‘. If you don’t hurry, your mother will be dead before you can get there an’ you’ll not even receive her blessin‘, an’ if that happens, your life won’t be worth a handful of bird shit, pardon the expression. Now hurry!”
Lynan hurried out of bed, his sleep-befuddled senses at last comprehending Pirem’s message. His mother might not live to see morning, and she was calling all her children to her side to publicly declare who could rightfully claim descent from her. He tugged on his breeches, found his boots under his bed, and pulled them on. He scurried out of his room and down the cold stone hallway to the other side of the palace and the queen’s apartments. Pirem scuttled behind, handing him his tunic, then his belt, and finally his dress knife, his gasps for air rattling in his old throat.
When they reached the royal quarters, Lynan waved Pirem back, slowed to a quick walk, and straightened his tunic. As he turned the last corner to Usharna’s bedroom, he met a section of the guard. They stood swiftly to attention, dipping their spears slightly as Lynan passed. He stopped at the entrance, caught his breath, and pushed aside the heavy doors.
It was a large room, with the head of the queen’s huge four-poster bed set against the west wall. Built into the east wall was a fireplace which was always kept burning. Rough wool tapestries covered the cold stone, and exposed pine rafters in the ceiling gave off a sweet fragrance.
Berayma’s long, dark body was bent over his mother, his face showing great pain and grief. Lynan knew, as did everyone else in the kingdom, that Berayma cared for little in this world and what love he carried in his heart was reserved almost entirely for his mother. Lynan felt a pang of guilt that he did not feel the same way about the old woman, but then he reminded himself she had showed him scant affection in his seventeen years of life.
Standing at the end of the huge bed was Areava, tall and as fair as Berayma was dark. She had her mother’s face and eyes, but while her hair glowed like sun-ripened wheat, the queen’s was colder than a winter moon. Next to Areava, demure and slight, awkward in the presence of his mother, stood Olio. Olio looked up when Lynan entered and offered him a sad nod.
The queen was propped into a sitting position, several pillows between her and the bedhead. Her skin was gray and dry, her eyes sunken, and her long white hair fell loosely over her shoulders like a mantle of snow. Lynan had never seen his mother’s hair let down before, and he could not help staring at it.
“Did you think I was bald, child?” the queen asked suddenly, noticing his presence and the direction of his gaze.
“I did not know it was so beautiful,” he answered honestly, and then blushed. He knew his mother did not like blandishments, but this time she surprised him by smiling, making him blush even more.
Usharna looked closely at each of her children, then rested her head back and closed her eyes.
“Mother?” Berayma asked, taking one of her hands in his. “Are you in pain?”
She opened her eyes and shook her head. “No. Just tired. More tired than I have ever been before. I am tired of living.”
“Don’t say that, your Majesty,” said Orkid’s deep voice. He appeared from the room’s shadows to stand behind Lynan. “Your devoted subjects don’t want you to leave them.”
The chancellor brushed past Lynan and took up Usharna’s other hand.
Orkid tried to make his patriarchal face, with its full black beard and beaked nose, look as sympathetic as possible, but he could not help glowering at the dying woman. “No more talk of being too tired for life.”
“If it was up to you, Orkid, I’d outlive my own children,” she remonstrated. “Fortunately, nature has been kind enough to let me avoid that disaster.” Orkid opened his mouth to reply, but Usharna lifted her hand in a command of silence. “I have little time left, and there’s much to be said.”
She drew in a deep breath and her eyelids fluttered with weariness. “Bring me the Keys,” she ordered.
Harnan Beresard came to the queen, a wooden casket in his hands. He opened the lid and gently placed the casket on the queen’s lap. Usharna reached into it and retrieved the four glimmering, golden Keys of Power, each on its own thick silver chain.
She glanced up to make sure she had everyone’s attention. “Now is the time custom insists I declare my successor. Let it be known that on my death, my firstborn, Berayma, will take my place on the throne, and his descendants will rule after him.”
Those in the room gave an audible, collective sigh of relief. It was done. Such a public declaration guaranteed a peaceful succession, something the entire kingdom prayed for near the end of a monarch’s life. The number of witnesses present guaranteed the succession would not come into dispute.
“I have four children,” Usharna began, “all accomplished, and the kingdom can ill afford to lose so much talent. Against the advice of some, who would have me pass on all the Keys to my successor as I received all the Keys from my father, I will maintain the tradition of our family and pass them on to all my children. Accepting a Key implies swearing fealty to Berayma as head of the family and as the rightful ruler of Kendra.