Chapter I: The Beggar Queen
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Harrigrisa Villa, Edge of the River Regata
Leorlas, Ghant
20 October, 2018 - 6:47 AM
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Harrigrisa Villa, Edge of the River Regata
Leorlas, Ghant
20 October, 2018 - 6:47 AM
"Stasis in darkness.
Then the substanceless blue
Pour of tor and distances."
- Sylvia Plath, Ariel
A blusterous whiny of protest resonated through the mists of the morning, now painted in gentle hues of rose and amber as dawn began to peak up from the opposite bank of the ash-dark Regata. Meanwhile the cobblestone footpaths, rocky outcrops, and leering grotesques that characterized the aptly named Harrigrisa Villa still loitered in their miserly greys. A wet, phantasmal chill permeated this twilight realm of ostentatious arches and jutting spires, and dewy bits of frost sparkled, sometimes brilliantly, sometimes luridly, from every conceivable artifice. Hazea had never seen dew quite like this until she came to live in Ghant. In the scorching climes of her homeland and, indeed, even in Latium, the dew was delicate, demure, and fleeting, giving way swiftly to the brilliant crimsons and daring golds of the garish southern sun. It was rather like those whose horses had trod upon it for untold millennia, even before the world was young and the first cities had cropped up along the overflowing banks of the Fénya. It was more air than water. It never settled into the nooks and crannies of buildings, and no emerald grasses drank in its sweetness. It could almost have been a mirage, and sometimes, after endless plaintive sighs and wistful looks, the small, plain, mousy girl that had been Hazea had supposed that's all it was. Here in Leorlas though, no one could abide such a fiction, least of all the dew itself. Here, the icy wetness clung to everything like a spider. Worse even, it wove beaded webs of frost over what frail leaves and flowers sprouted up in the gardens of the villa and peered out from every dark, damp corner of the city. How she resented it.
Badr neighed again, more gently this time, and billows of smoke poured forth from her mouth and nostrils, blanketing the mare's noble face. She could have been a dragon Hazea thought with a soft grin as her fingers worked tirelessly to knot the strands of the spotted grey's silvery mane into extravagant braids. The queen's own cheeks were flushed and clammy, both from tears and the chill, and her pants slipped from between her cracked, bleeding lips in little wisps. She'd been up since five that morning, brushing and dressing Badr. The cold had begun to sink its fangs into her twenty minutes into the ordeal and dealing with a tempestuous Garabean was a formidable prospect even at the best of times. Hazea sighed wistfully as she pealed the final three strands of Badr's mane into delicate pleats. Badr stamped her foot impatiently then butted Hazea lightly with her head. It was enough to lift the queen off her feet momentarily. Hazea raised an eyebrow and then let a giggle erupt from her mouth. "You're ill-named," she chided the mare, "The moon has never been this mercurial. And we're done now anyway."
"Are we?" a whimsical voice inquired. Hazea started, then glanced up at a rocky outcrop and spotted Soraya, perched on a well-weathered boulder and looking deeply bored. Her dark hair was intricately braided. The scent of jasmine and wildflowers hung thick in the curt air. She wore a light mauve dress, perhaps of cotton, that left her arms bare and her neck alarmingly exposed. And, as usual, no veil in sight. How does she keep from shivering in that? Hazea wondered.
"You look like an indigent orphan," Soraya scolded her, "You know Euria's going to insist on another bath and I just brushed your hair yesterday evening." The last sentence was punctuated with a groan of exasperation. "I swear you're such a child sometimes, Hazea." Hazea felt a slight pang of guilt. Euria had an overbearing and cutting demeanor much of the time. Most of the women in the Mendoza household deferred to her instinctively, but her best friend and adoptive sister, while always polite, had a stubborn loftiness that disagreed strenuously with hectoring tones, especially from social inferiors. Consequently, Soraya and Euria butted heads often.
"Good morning, sister," Hazea called cheerfully, "I see you're as chipper as ever."
"Don't you 'good morning, sister' me, you little savage," Soraya hissed, trying not to slip into her easy guffaw, "I'll have another two hours of work now because you decided to go and play stable hand. By Sufra's mantle, I swear I'll..." A few seconds later a glob of muddy, grey snow hit the side of Hazea's head with an audible splotch, splashing into her hair and dripping across her nose and jaw. Her head spun back reflexively, as she jolted awake. A small stain joined the litany of similar off-white stains and hairs on her formerly lily-white riding jerkin. "That's for putting wrinkles in my brow," Soraya huffed with a wicked gleam in her stormy grey eyes.
Hazea gaped at Soraya for a moment. Then, regaining her composure, she soothed Badr, who had loosed a cacophony of indignant, snarling whinnies, and led the horse towards the tree line. With a steady hand, the queen tied the mare's lead rope to an oak tree whose bare branches spread up into the steely sky like a stark crown. For a quiet moment, she reflected on how lovely the oaks at the university had been in the autumnal season, their leaves burning in brazen hues of red, orange, and gold. It had been only a couple of months ago, and yet, somehow, it still felt like years had passed.
Finally, with a mischievous smile, Hazea knelt down and massed slushy sleet and mud into a nebulous ball. Soraya, having caught her mood, had hopped off the rock in a nimble motion that spoke to an annoyingly cat-like grace and was hurriedly stacking snowballs at her feet. The queen's eyes narrowed. Her legs were shorter, and she had a thick grove of sentinel pines for cover. She had the advantage.
Another missile whizzed by. "So, it's treason then!" Hazea squealed, flinging her own snowball. It soared over Soraya's head harmlessly. As Hazea knelt to form her second projectile, she felt a snowball strike her. Then another. One collided with her shoulder, the other met her forehead with a loud splosh. She jerked then stumbled backwards, surprised by the ferocious onslaught. As she regained her footing, a third snowball found her nose dead center and sent her reeling into a snow bluff. Hazea's face felt cold and numb. Her breath pulsed out like an angry phantom. Her heart raced like every horse in the stable at a gallop. She sat up and inhaled deeply. "I'm going to get you for that!" Hazea swore, as Soraya's husky cackle rang in her ears. "Will you now?" came the taunt.
Hazea fumbled through the snow piled at her feet, scarcely noticing as the icy cold bit into her fingers, and managed to gather a cannon ball of soft, crunchy sleet and powdered snow as large as her head. A devilish smile played across her lips. There was no way she'd miss this time. The thought of this absolute colossus colliding with her friend's face made her almost squirm and giggle in anticipation. A little way off, Soraya, who never missed an opportunity to fuss over her hair, Soraya, who always took such pride in her unstained, unsoiled clothes, knelt, blissfully preparing her next depot. Gripping the missile with both hands, Hazea rose to her feet, not even batting an eye as half of it slunk to the ground in a thick, misty blanket. She swung her hands back for momentum and then... she struck!
Soraya stepped neatly to one side as the giant snowball exploded in the face of a very grumpy Inigo Mendoza.
Inigo Mendoza, Hazea's maternal great uncle, was a bull of a man, stout, barrel-chested, balding, and with a grimace that was all bulging jowls. A few idle wisps of white hair curled up from the back of his skull, but few ever took enough notice to remark on them and none would have been brave enough to do so even if they had. And now he stood fuming with frost dangling from his ashy beard like an enraged walrus. Hazea winced.
Soraya threw one hand over her mouth. Her grey eyes wild with scarcely concealed mirth. Hazea blushed hotly. Soraya had often remarked on how ruddy her complexion was when she blushed. "You look like a tomato," she'd say. The queen had never really paid attention to it herself but, however reddish she might have been in that moment, her great uncle was positively scarlet.
"Oh, um, uhh, hello uncle," Hazea chirped, "How are you this morning?" Inigo took a deep, measured breath. Then another. "Villa," he grunted, "Now." Hazea blinked before turning back to retrieve Badr. "Leave the mare," Inigo sighed irately, "I'll have one of the stable boys bring her in." His tone was still terse, but more than two syllables was progress. Maybe she wasn't in too much trouble.
Soraya had already sped back to Harrigrisa, probably fleeing from Inigo's wrath as soon as the word "villa" had passed his lips. "Coward," Hazea grumbled. Her progress up the rocky outcrops and snowy bluffs that led away from the banks of the Regata was slow and labored. Her legs were much too short for the trek and, more than that, she lacked her sister's constitution. Several times, Hazea felt her ankles twist or bend out from under her, but, by some miracle, she avoided a sprain. Pines, oaks, aspens, and ashes glowered down at her as she navigated through the wilds that lay near the heart of the estate.
As she strolled through the woods, Hazea recalled how they had frightened her when she had arrived in Ghant all those years ago. At fifteen, she hadn't been able to shake the notion that something was watching her. Tales of wolves and other, darker things hadn't helped. But, more than that, Hazea felt a profound sense of foreboding and disquiet when she stepped through the eaves. It was like stepping through a curtain in time. One could imagine druids with painted faces lurking behind blankets of greyish moss, brooding over blood sacrifices. She was no longer a child, nor so afraid as she had been, but venturing here after dark would have been ill-conceived. The roots stretched out to trip the unwary and the branches clung to the hair like the gnarled fingers of an ogre.
By the time she made it to the broad meadow that separated the more rugged portion of Harrigrisa from the cultivated villa, Hazea was gasping and sweating profusely. The scent of slick alfalfa filled her nostrils, making her even more breathless. It was good fodder, but the aroma left much to be desired. The last five hundred yards or so of her hike went faster. The terrain was flat and, despite her exhaustion and trepidation at the thought of facing Euria with her hair dishevelled and knotted, Hazea was craving a hot bath and a thick slab of pancakes lathered in syrup.
Aingerra was waiting for her and beamed happily when she finally stumbled into the courtyard. She was clasping an old, well-worn translation of The Stones in the Grass. "Did you make it to the end?" Hazea asked, still gasping for air. Aingerra nodded shyly. "You go through poetry quicker than I did when I was your age," Hazea wheezed, "Which one did you like the best?"
Aingerra's speech was slow and measured. "I liked... the one where he compared her love to an old lighthouse," she replied, "It was sad but hopeful."
Hazea nodded. "I think that might have been my favorite one too," she said with a weary smile, "The contrast between light and darkness and land and sea draws attention both to the spiritual and the sensual aspects of their love. Plus, I've always thought the lines likening the din of the Ozeros to a mournful song were evocative and poignant."
Aingerra nodded in agreement. "Do you have anything else by Ibn Ghufran?" she asked.
"A lot of it gets into theology," Hazea answered, "I think your mom might actually ban me from Harrigrisa if I let you read much more than that."
"Oh," Aingerra said, befuddled.
"Is she around?" Hazea asked at last.
"Yeah," Aingerra replied, "She's mad, I think. Best not let her see your hair like that. Said we needed to be on our way to Ghish before noon."
"Noon?" Hazea questioned anxiously, "Oh, Sufra save me. I have to go get ready. Talk later? Oh! And save me some pancakes!"
Aingerra nodded as Hazea rushed into the villa. She found her quarters easily enough and, much to her relief, she could hear water running. The scent of lavender and roses rolled out from the bathroom. Soraya, her tone cheerful, was doling out responsibilities to three servants. When she noticed the queen, Soraya pulled her into the room. "It took you long enough," she said, "Euria is going absolutely postal. You're alive so I'm guessing she didn't see you like this."
Hazea shook her head. Peering around the room, she observed that the clothes she had strewn across her comforter had been snugly packed into a travel bag. Her cousin Maialen, whose striking strawberry blonde hair set her apart from the countless brunettes named Aingerra, gave her a satisfied smirk. "I figured you could use the help," she explained, "Poor Mercedes was overwhelmed. You really are a disaster, cuz." Mercedes, a local girl who had been hired to serve as Hazea's personal maid, looked away sheepishly.
"No lollygagging," Soraya insisted, beginning to pull off Hazea's riding jerkin, "Get in before the water gets cold. Mercedes, can you wash and braid her hair?"
"I can try," Mercedes muttered ruefully. She squinted at Hazea, her expression somewhat hopeless as she spotted the dust, tangles, and silvery strands of horse's mane. The queen had little doubt that a herculean task had been foisted on the girl, and, not for the first time that day, she felt a pang of guilt. Her hair was unruly even at the best of times, when she hadn't been wrangling a hot-tempered Garabean all morning.
"I'm sorry," Hazea offered demurely, as she, now thoroughly naked, sank into the bath. She resisted the urge to sigh with comfort. The fragrant steam and piping hot water chased the stiffness from her limbs, and the heat almost hurt after two hours of wispy frost and damp cold. Still, it would have been rude to relax. Soraya was all nerves. She probably wanted to avoid another shouting match with Euria.
The bath went quickly. Hazea scarcely had time to blink, much less take in the idle comfort of a proper soak, before they were drying her off and ushering her towards a hairdresser. Soraya left and returned carrying a bright yellow cotton dress embroidered with sky-blue forget-me-nots, each one centered on a small off-white pearl. Mercedes had pulled her hair into a messy half-bun, allowing parts of her bangs to hang down. It was cute but made her look more childlike than she would have liked.
"Can you give us a minute?" Hazea inquired, giving Mercedes and Maialen a meanginful glance. "Oh, and thank you for everything," she added, "I really don't know what I'd do without the two of you." Mercedes fell into a neat curtsey. "It's my pleasure, your serenity," she exclaimed modestly. Maialen, on the other hand, wore a playful scowl. "Judging by what I saw earlier, you'd become a bird habitat," her cousin quipped, "It's a wonder Mercedes managed to tame those locks of yours. Do hurry. Auntie is like to explode again if we leave a minute after twelve."
As the Mercedes and Maialen shuffled out, Hazea stared at Soraya, trying to read her expression. "She didn't yell at you, did she?" she asked gently.
"How'd you guess?" Soraya laughed; her tone resentful. "It's not exactly a surprise though," she continued, "Euria's never liked me very much. We're too similar, I think, and, just as she's never forgotten the grandeur of the House of Mendoza, I've never forgotten the rose gardens of Imana. She has a right to be a little more on edge than usual. Your uncle wants to take Nathan and Maialen to court after all. Getting Nate and Sophia to take them into their entourages would be a big break for the Mendozas."
"Still..." Hazea said slowly, "It wasn't fair for her to lash out at you like that. I'm sorry. My antics this morning couldn't have made things any easier on you." Hazea glanced down at the floor, her cheeks flushed with shame.
"Don't beat yourself up over it," Soraya countered, "I get what's going through her head. Do you remember how nervous we were when we arrived at court? Having a granny fussing over us would have been a comfort. To tell the truth, I'm a little jealous of your cousins. And, like I said, I doubt she got a good look at you. Maialen was being kind when she left the critique at your hair. You really did look like a ragamuffin."
The queen's stomach growled loudly. "Sorry," Hazea muttered, "All I heard was muffin. They didn't put breakfast away yet, did they? I made Aingerra promise to save me some pancakes."
"She's a dutiful little soldier," Soraya replied, "And she worships the ground you tread upon, so I wouldn't worry about that too much. If one person can convince the cooks to whip up a meal, it's Aingerra. On a more serious note, are you ready to play the supplicant?"
Hazea couldn't meet Soraya's gaze. "I don't have much of a choice, do I?" she inquired, "And, really, I should be asking you that." She peered up at her sister.
Now, it was Soraya's turn to avoid eye contact. "I'm not afraid of Nate Gentry," she nearly whispered, "We've given up so much to go home. What are a few more painful memories? Hardly even a blimp on the radar. No, I'll be fine." Hazea could tell when her sister was lying. She'd string out a strand of her raven hair between two fingers and twirl it like a child might a dandelion. Hazea wanted to reach out and squeeze her hand or pull her into a tight embrace, but a somber mood had overcome her and she couldn't find the strength to break the silence. At least not right away.
"I'd sooner not beg that man for help," Hazea confessed, "I can't just forgive how he treated you. Perhaps I could have Sagal handle all the negotiating and supplicating? She's better with words than I am anyhow."
"That's not how this works, as-Saghirah," Soraya said with a weak smile, "Besides, Sagal is going to be buzzing around Cassandra's ear with promises of extending Ghantish influence and promoting economic cooperation when you're finally on your rightful throne." The last two words made her heart sink. She didn't feel much like a queen, sitting in the dressing room with her melancholic sister and her insecurities. She felt like a silly little girl playing well above her station, like the pretender the hateful Aklan had branded her.
"Nonetheless, I... have no desire to be in the same room as him," Hazea protested, shaking her head.
"Hazea," Soraya's tone was soft, "We have to do things that make us uncomfortable or unhappy sometimes. That's just life."
"But I'm a queen," Hazea contended.
Soraya struggled to conceal a smile. "Queens even more so," she chuckled.
"I take that back," Hazea sighed, "I'm just a poor grad student who wants to write poetry and eat donuts."
Soraya grasped her hand tightly. "However much you may wish it were so," she intoned, "You and I both know it's not." Hazea nodded solemnly. "Do you remember the promise you made me?" she asked, "When I got weepy at the last gala we attended?"
"I can't forget it," Hazea replied quietly, "The same promise has been carved into my heart ever since we swore our oath amid the lemon trees. I dream about it sometimes, just before dawn breaks out over the horizon like a rash. It's queer, really, how every fiber of my soul remembers. Even now, I can feel that same breeze in my hair and that same sadness in my heart. You don't have to doubt my resolve, sister. By Sufra's mantle, I will see us home."
The half-truth tasted as bitter as a dry red on her tongue. Hazea clutched her arm to stop it from trembling. Getting the Emperor of Ghant to commit to their plan was just the beginning. How much easier would it have been to stay behind at Sahatsa, where the willows grew thick on the moor and the yellow curtains fluttered with the slightest summer breeze?
"Let's go get breakfast," Soraya offered, grabbing Hazea's hand and pulling her along behind her. "We have a big day ahead of us." As the pair of them rushed headlong towards the kitchen, spurred on by the allure of warm pancakes soaked in syrup and omelettes loaded with tomatoes, mushrooms, and spinach, the mountains and hills illuminated in saturnine hues of azure and bright grey blurred together like the splotches of a water color. What a difference a single hour or two could make? Long gone was the misty twilight of predawn. Long gone were the icy tears that pinched like daggers against the cheeks. But, as the dew lingers at dawn, so an implacable sorrow remained with them, etched into their bones. And, try as they might, they could never outrun it.
