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“This is a problem, isn’t it,” the Queen mused. She leaned back on the throne. Her left hand drummed at the end of the armrest, where a wolf’s head, carved in metal and ice, came stiffly alive. The Queen’s thoughtful expression did not change, but her hand stopped drumming; she obliged the carving and scratched between its ears.
Vincent had observed that armrest over the years. It was a particularly needy one.
“I wish Samuel were here. He’d know what to do. Of course, if he were here…” She didn’t have to complete the sentiment. Were the King alive, they would not be in this position at all. “Well then, Councillor Vincent. Any last foxholes for me to dive into?”
“Your Majesty.” Vincent bowed. “All the court scholars have been engaged upon the legal question raised by Duke L’Avocat for several months now. There is no satisfactory answer. His challenge is true. Elven rites of coronation will not hold for any who have incurred a permanent deformity.” His gaze went to the smaller throne on the Queen’s left, where the Crown Prince sat with his head bowed and an owl on his shoulder. The owl stared with icy-blue eyes at Vincent, hard and unblinking.
The Queen murmured, almost to herself, “Only beauty, only one kind of beauty. Above all else, always. Call the elves what you want, but you can’t call them inconsistent.”
The words were not said with any heat: yet Vincent inclined his head. “We may say this restriction is archaic, we may say it is barbarous. But we cannot change what the throne wants. And none who seek to govern the kingdom may govern from anywhere save the throne.”
“But it’s letting me sit here,” the Queen argued, as she had repeatedly over the past week, “and I’m not even a fucking elf.”
Vincent let out a small sigh. “Your Majesty, as you well know, the throne lets you sit in expectation of an heir.”
“Yes, yes, and as you well know, I think it lets me sit because it enjoys my round arse. Don’t you agree, Councillor Nour?”
“Your Majesty grows humorous,” said Councillor Nour, in reproving tones.
The Queen snorted. Her assembly of councillors, who even a year ago would have flinched at a sitting monarch cursing or snorting from the throne, did not blink. She then turned to the Crown Prince. “Daniel. What do you think? Shall I enter the combat ring with Duke L’Avocat and lay rest to his challenge?”
The Crown Prince raised his head. He turned to the Queen with milky eyes, and smiled shyly. “If it’s all the same to you, mother, I’d rather you not.”
“I see,” she said teasingly. Her crown was a thread of gold. It dipped and winked through her golden hair. “You don’t think I’d win.”
“I think you could win. But it would lead to a great deal of political instability with the Senate, and not solve matters at all. And I know how political instability annoys you so.” The prince paused, then said in a rush, “Also, sometimes, when you are annoyed over courtly matters, you grow short with me.”
The Queen snorted once more, and gave her son a look of such naked fondness that Vincent felt his heart constrict. “Well then,” she said. She leaned down over the side of her throne and pressed a firm kiss to the top of the prince’s head. “I suppose that’s settled. Do you want to say it, or would you prefer that I?”
Murmurs from the assembled. Vincent frowned. “Your Majesty? What, precisely, is settled?”
The prince rose and descended the steps to the floor of the throne room. His fur cape trailed and thumped softly on each step as he went, and his owl hooted once, tunefully, jabbing its piercing blue gaze all across the room like a sword.
“I renounce my title,” he said simply. Then, to his mother: “Can I go to my room now?”
“I don’t know, think of something!” the Queen said, sounding exasperated. Vincent was not fooled. Her eyes were sparkling. She looked positively flushed and happy to have found a new way of aggravating all her advisors. “Daniel the Wise. Daniel, the Count of Maitama.” Maitama was a small agricultural town near the borderlands. Their coat of arms featured the Maitaman worm, which was pink and very hairy. “Daniel the All-Seeing, if you’re inclined to poetry. Options abound, only one will not do. My son will not be the Crown Prince. He does not wish to wait for the Duke to strip him of his title through a protracted Senate battle. He does not wish to wait until the polity grows so restless that he cannot attend a courtly function without being besieged by pecking ministers. Frankly, we should be rejoicing. Daniel has done the hard thing, done it swiftly, and stuck the landing!”
“But your Majesty,” began Councillor Jehnny.
“Give him concubines and a sip of the Everlasting Waters, if it will make you happy,” said the Queen ruthlessly. “But give him some credit, for mercy’s sake. He knows what he wants.”
“All right,” said Vincent, and held up a placating hand. “He has renounced. Let us say we accept this.”
“You have no other choice,” reminded the Queen.
“Though it has no legal precedent that can be found in living memory,” continued Vincent, “nor been prophesied in ichor upon the gnarled bark of the Sacred Tree, let us say we accept this. We draw up a royal proclamation and have it sent to every province within the sennight.” He looked around at the watchful faces. “There is advantage to be found here. Duke L’Avocat will not be expecting it. He and his allies will scramble.”
The Queen nodded encouragingly.
“Some of the traditionalists in his camp will break off and join you. Some, not all. They may not have stomached Daniel, but they will endure a firm hand on the throne, even a human hand, if it accords with the rites.”
“And the best part is, they don’t have to endure me for that long,” the Queen said. She then sighed a little, as if put-upon. “I will take a consort.”
There was a ringing sound in Vincent’s ears. The councillors began choking and shouting again all at once. The Queen gazed on at Vincent, a small smile playing about her lips.
He could still remember when she first fell to the court. She’d been so young, then. He’d thought her lost and lonely, stumbling over the ends of her furs, too nervous to sit comfortably on the ice thrones. She’d perch on the edge of the seat with her hands fisted in her lap. When Samuel looked at her, her face would alter: she’d hitch a shoulder and throw him an easy, assured smile.
“Do you have a name?” managed Vincent. The councillors quietened, to hear their Queen’s answer.
“No,” said the Queen, after a moment. She rose, and the royal guard moved with her. They leaped down to the ground from the shadows of the high cross-beams and put away their notched arrows, waiting behind the throne with leonine stillness. “That I leave to you. You may apply yourself. Give the court scholars a new puzzle to work through, eh?” And with that, she swept away to join her son. The throne let out a low, lonely whine.
When Vincent was permitted inside the Queen’s chambers, the lights were guttering low. An attendant had followed him in: she began going around the chambers and efficiently replacing the oil and wicks in the lamps. The Queen sat at her desk looking over a scroll with her spectacles. Her expression was one of concentration; she had a hand on her forehead to hold back the spill of her golden hair.
When she saw Vincent, her forehead smoothed; she smiled. She gave the scroll a shake like it was wet laundry, rolled it up, and gestured to the seat before her.
Vincent took it. “The new tax proposal, Your Majesty?”
“Mm. You take ejoril, if I remember?” She produced a bottle of glittering red spirits from under her desk, and decanted it into two glasses. They sipped for a few moments. The attendant snuffed out a lamp by the Queen’s elbow, casting the Queen’s face momentarily into half-darkness; and then the flame sprang once more, bright, strong.
Vincent jerked his gaze away and looked at the glass in his hand.
The attendant left the room with a bow. The Queen raised her glass and considered the twirling liquid inside. “Ejoril’s all I can drink these days. There’s a certain sweet taste that lingers on the back of the tongue, it reminds me strongly of the wine my father used to make, back home…”
“Your Majesty,” said Vincent, after a moment.
“Oh.” The Queen frowned. “Don’t look at me like that. I knew what I was getting into when I married Samuel, didn’t I?” She never had addressed the King by his title, not even in court. Vincent had first thought it was naïve defiance, but soon learned it was something far simpler: she could not bear to be in public what she was not in private.
“You do not miss your native home?”
“I’m cold-blooded if I don’t; I’m ungrateful if I do. What does it matter? I have a life here now. I have magic! I’m queen of the bloody elves, did you know?”
“It has been brought to my attention, yes,” Vincent said gravely.
She looked at him with bright eyes. Then the doors to the chambers creaked and an owl swooped in, circling above them before landing lightly on an inkpot.
“Hello, Snoop,” the Queen said softly, stroking the owl. “Daniel must have just fallen asleep.”
“He sleeps better, nowadays.”
“He has more to journey, but I feel his grief has passed its almighty peak.”
“And what of your grief?”
She looked at him for a moment, and did not answer. Instead, taking her glass, she rose and walked over to the balcony. Her face looked remote.
When the King’s corpse had been brought back to the castle, the Queen had flung herself at it, hair falling over her expressive face, hiding it; she’d risen, and then clung to Daniel. In his lowest moments, Vincent had thought with a certain savagery that she must be overjoyed. She was now free to fulfill her royal obligations as she saw fit. Continue her dalliance with Sir Solidor’s bookish daughter, who’d made no attempt to hide her great big moon-eyes.
He was not the only one to think so. There had been whispers of the Queen’s interests. Whether her husband was dead by her hand.
Vincent did not think she had killed the King, but he couldn’t be sure. She was capable of it, certainly. If she’d done the deed, he thought she might've done it for Daniel. But Daniel had loved his father very much. No; Vincent did not join his voice to those whispers. And yet, and yet. He couldn’t be sure.
He stood as well and looked at her looking out into the night. He felt only tenderness. She was built small, on such a human-scale. The top of her head came to his chest. Her ears were soft and blunt. The balcony behind her looked like the mouth of a giant cave.
“So?” She turned to him. Took a sip of her ejoril. “Do the scholars have any pretty ideas?”
“They think…a trial,” he said slowly. “Three tasks, set in consultation with the keepers of the Sacred Grove. The idea would be to demonstrate certain virtues. Strength, wisdom, beauty, that sort of thing. Handy things for an heir.”
“Very proper. The final choice?”
“It has been suggested you leave the choice to a consortium composed of elders and elected ministers. Perhaps also some barons.”
“Yes, soothe the trading companies too. I see. Sounds like there will be some politicking to assemble it.”
Vincent waved a hand. “We’ll stuff it with our people. Pardon my crassness.”
The Queen laughed. “How reassuring! I did not know we had people.”
“You were the King’s closest advisor. You are widely-regarded as beautiful, intelligent, and a sporting drunk, when you get drunk. You have people.” He blushed under the Queen’s gaze; clearing his throat, he continued, “L’Avocat will enter his name. Makes him look gracious. And he’s not a politically unsuitable choice.”
“I cannot be seen rejecting him.”
“You cannot. The trials would be public; the consortium itself we may engineer, but the choice of the consortium is more or less constrained by merit.”
“Which could be very good. Or, if L’Avocat has been secretly hiding reserves of strength, wisdom, and beauty, very bad.”
“Do you intend to go through with the consortium’s final choice?”
The Queen looked startled. “Of course I do. What would be the point of all this, then?”
Vincent wanted to snarl; wanted to find an empty mine-shaft through which he could lead the Queen and her son out of this life. But he pursed his lips and nodded. “In that case, you can choose a favored contender. You should. Exert pressure upon the trials, even with your absence. Counter the Duke’s play. Show the members of the court you have it all in hand, thank you very much. Make the consortium judge all the contenders by your favorite. And even if they lose, you will appear all the more gracious for accepting the consortium’s verdict.”
“Look at you!” The Queen downed the last of her drink. She came to stand by Vincent, giving him a warm look. “You’re such an elven…elf! It’s you who should be on the throne.”
“You Majesty…”
“Sandra,” said the Queen. “Your mouth handles such crystalline polysyllabic words. But it stumbles at this one.” She took his ejoril and, without asking, had a sip. Her eyes were watching him over the glass.
Vincent swallowed. His propriety warred with the knowledge that his Queen had all but given him a command.
Only the owl could hear them. Still, he whispered it. “Sandra.”
She gave him a pleased grin. “Better!” She drew forward, took his face in her hands. Went on her toes and pressed a light kiss to his lips. Her breath was sweet. “Much better, mm?”
Vincent flushed all the way from the tips of his pointed ears to his feet.
It occurred to him that he had been too hard on Sir Solidor’s daughter. When the Queen was seducing you, it was difficult to keep a hold of subtlety.
“Will you enter your name?”
He stared at her for a while before the question registered. Ridiculous, what one little kiss could do to him. “I would not be a suitable candidate.”
“Are you sure? Strength, wisdom, beauty. I’m seeing a lot of the first and third, at least.” Vincent was surprised into a laugh. “I should so like to unleash you upon L’Avocat. It would be fun to watch.”
“I am sorry to hear about the lack of entertainment in your life,” he said. “I shall inform the seneschal to speed up the hiring process for the new court jester.”
“Please do. However, I’m serious. Put together a list of names, but, you know. Put yourself in the mix. But only if you’d like.” She was acting as though he were playing hard to get.
“The consort should bring with them considerable political capital to be a match worth your while. I will serve you well enough as a councillor. I will serve you until my last breath.”
“Oh, God,” said the Queen. “Last breath. People really do say that sort of thing in courtly life, don’t they?” She reached a hand to his cheek. “It’s your prerogative. I only know that I need you more than I need a consort. And I’d trust you more than anyone picked out for me by a bunch of fusty old elven men. I don’t know if a consort would be too happy about that.”
“They don’t have to be happy about it,” said Vincent bluntly. The skin of her palm was very soft. “Their role is mostly ceremonial.”
A slow, delighted smile spread across the Queen’s face.
She could be a King-killer, for all he cared. He didn’t care very much.
“Good,” she said. “Good. Well, in that case,” and her hand trailed down his cheek, down his arm, and took his hand. She turned. Vincent watched the gold of her hair wink in the candlelight, as he let himself be led to bed by his Queen.