Book 4, Chapter 2: Day of the Earls

I was fuming, the power inside me seething. Even trapped behind the magic absorbing perseidian iron, raging. I wanted nothing more than to blast these earls. Bastards, all of them. Maybe replace them with my men, soldiers I’d knighted. For a moment, and another, perhaps longer. I closed my eyes, pushing and pushing the energy back. Desperate to inwardly calm down.

“Princess Cayce, are you listening?” asked Earl Carlisele, crossing his arms.

I tried reasoning with myself. If I hit them with energy beams, I’d have to explain to my generals and majors about my magic. And once the mages found out, they’d hunt me down. They wouldn’t let a ruler have magic, for power corrupts and magic was so very, very powerful. But, cognitive reasoning, it wasn’t working. My skin was almost bursting to let the energy out.

Last week, I had the power under control. The wizard Etienne led me through calming meditation practice, helped me focus enough to keep it in check, restrict its intensity. But now it screamed – unleashing the power so seductive and tempting – and I was desperate to contain it.

I tried distracting myself, thinking of ice cream. Vanilla, with maple syrup on top. Sugary cold happiness. Or chocolate chip cookies and coffee! Sitting in a wide sofa chair, dipping the cookie into-

“Princess Cayce,” the deeper baritone of the stocky, barrel-chested Hafthon, “who are you going to name as duke?”

“Hmm? Oh. We aren’t here to discuss that. We’re discussing the-”

“New class of nobles you just created.”

“The knighthood.”

“As you say.” Hafthon rested his muscled forearm on the table, finger tapping. “It needs to be disbanded. And that’s less important than who takes over the dukedom, as you’ll be leaving that person to defend it against the Ketzillians and Laemacians.”

“The Laemacians have agreed to not attack. I’m sorry, I mean they’ve agreed to peace.” I closed my eyes and opened them again, finally, finally gaining some measure of control, felt the power dissipating. It was like waking up from an intense dream. The breath I’d been holding nearly fell out of me. My palms felt the grains of wood on the table. I straightened my shoulders.

“Are you feeling faint, Princess?” asked Morry.

“I’m fine. I just need a little tea.” Picking up the teapot, I poured myself a cup.

“If you’re unwell, Princess Cayce, we can discuss this another occasion. Though, we’re running out of time, with winter coming. I think I speak for all the earls here, we have to get back to our own earldoms.”

“I apologize, I’m fine. Really. Thank you, my lord, for asking.” Long sip from the tea. My hands were steady again. I couldn’t tell if it was a relief, the raging energy gone, or whether I missed it.

“If you’re sure. Alright, how did you arrange for Laemacia to agree to peace?” The earl sat back and folded his largely muscled arms. “Are you going to marry their emperor?”

“I promised to visit them after, well, after the spring campaign.”

Hafthon, staring at me, asked, “What do you hope to accomplish by visiting a hostile empire on our borders?”

“It was the only way to assuage them. Prevent a new war front.”

“So, you have decided to marry the Laemacian emperor. And when were you planning on informing us of this?”

“No. Just a visit.”

Carlisele said, “You should have informed us of these agreements.”

A part of me wanted to shout, ‘Well, we just made them and I’m informing you!’ but I was their princess and not their monkey. Instead, I just stared at the man. Until he looked down. Down at the table.

I shifted my gaze back to Hafthon, “The document explaining the duties and rights of knighthood will be ready in the coming weeks. I am not revoking the institution.” During winter, without the distraction from suitors and annoying nobles, I decided to write a legal treatise on the expectations of knights regarding moral behavior, like protecting the innocent, serving the people and the crown, plus hunting down the earls and priests, and specific privileges granted to knights for these services.

“Institution? All you did was tap a few soldiers on their shoulders.” He picked up his drink and took a slow sip, “It means nothing.”

General Brundle leaned forward, “Speaking for Princess Cayce’s army, it means a great deal to us.”

“Excuse me,” said Hafthon, ignoring the general and looking at me, “but I am still unsure of why your soldiers are party to this meeting.”

Brundle tilted his head, clenched jaw, so I jumped in, “The last time I held, excuse me, we had a meeting it nearly came to blows. And that was on your holy ground. The cathedral, sorry. At the cathedral.”

“Yes. The cathedral is holy ground, Your Highness,” said the archbishop, a quizzical look on his face, like his least favorite student correctly added two plus two. “And we all agreed to act more like adults.”

I tried very hard not to narrow my eyes at the man, nor did I bark out the reply at my lips, but I probably gave him a stare that would freeze carbon. He smiled deprecatingly back. He’d promised to coronate me queen, but reneged, joining with Hafthon in a power struggle against me, as a girl, taking the throne. That cost me bargaining power with the wayward Barclay Duchy, effectively causing civil war and forcing me to march an army on them in the spring. The archbishop well-earned his cold stare.

Hafthon looked at Carlisele, who brought his gaze back to mine, “And I apologize for my part in that, my lady. It was unconscionable. This meeting-”

“Also, given that my soldiers were knighted, that these men represent my soldiers, I figure their voice would be important to our discussion.”

Anger flashed across Carlisele’s face at my interruption, but he held his tongue. I rested my hands on the table to stop me from pulling at my rings, pressing my tongue against my teeth. How upset would Brin be if we had to have a closed casket funeral for her father?

“Excuse me, my lords, my lady, generals,” the young Earl Yohstone, Maitlan, spoke up, looking at each of us in turn, and lifting up his hand to Rand and Gun, “and majors. I side with the princess with regards to the knighthood. I believe the institution will revitalize the kingdom.”

“You . . . you’re hoping to marry her is all.” A low voice, soft enough that I almost missed it, Crygmore, not even looking up from his long and deep inspection of the fine grains of wood in the table.

I sat there surprised he could speak. The room was silent while we all processed this fact.

Then, Maitlan asked, “Pardon me?”

“He says you want in her dress.” Hafthon folded his arms across his chest.

Maitlan stood up, hand immediately to his empty belt – I’d made the meeting weapon free, his sword was outside – shaking his head, “I’ll have you answer for that!”

My angry gaze returned to Hafthon, “We were attempting to keep this discussion civil.” He was probably orchestrating all this. The earls, their comments designed to provoke. Hafthon wanted the dukedom and me out of the way. Preferably married off and safely under the control of a man, but he’d settle for gone.

Morry stood, put his hand on Maitlan’s shoulder, gave him a look with a slight shake of his head and they sat back down. But the young earl was steaming. I could understand. We’d been at this for a while, many little insults, and a fair bit of derision toward Maitlan, him being the youngest and having already lost his lands to the invaders. Hands on the table, I spun the perseidian ring on my right hand over and over, the desire to remove it never so strong.

Hafthon said, “If you’d chosen a duke, this discussion would be easier. We’d be able to move forward, talk about the defenses.”

“That has nothing to do with this meeting.”

“You elevated your soldiers. That’s all well and good for you and your familial holdings at Breadamont, but whoever takes over as duke here may want to rule these lands as they were, in a more traditional sense.”

“Ah. You as duke would abolish the knighthood . . . locally?”

“I think perhaps you don’t understand the north and our needs.”

“It’s my kingdom, Hafthon.”

He leaned forward. “We have yet to see that, Princess. You have yet to retake the lands your father lost.”

“And what have you done, my lord,” asked Gun. “You hid behind Bechalle and you’re hiding behind the Princess, here.”

Carlisele asked, “Excuse me, who are you?”

Gun continued, ignoring the jibe, “All I’ve seen you and the earls here do is beg Princess Cayce not to marry Laemacia. You lot didn’t even come out of your earldoms until we drove the Ketzles from here.”

Hafthon didn’t bother acknowledging the major, stroking his beard, “I take it your soldiers speak for you now, my lady? This is the knighthood you’ve given us, ever to interrupt our meetings.”

“Alright, alright.” I stood. “You’ve made your position clear, my lords. We might as well end this discussion.”

“And where’s your compromise?” asked Carlisele.

“The man’s right. Since you’ve arrived, you’ve expected us to concede to your demands without giving a thought about ours.”

“That’s not true. You blocked my coronation-”

“And what have you given us in return?”

“In return? You gave me nothing!”

“We gave you protection. You’re in our lands, in our castle, our troops protect you from Ketzle, Laemacia. Barclay even.”

“This is my castle, my dukedom in my kingdom,” I couldn’t stop myself from adding, “that my soldiers captured after your duke damn near killed me.”

Carlisele was quick to say, “Bechalle acted alone. We’ve all apologized for it.”

I didn’t take my gaze off Hafthon, crossing my arms, and said, “It’s not apologies I’m concerned about.”

“All the man is saying, my lady, is that you’ve compromised, as you put it, very little.”

“On what? All you’ve tried to do is marry me off!”

“And where’s your concession to the dukedom?”

“Agreeing to visit the Laemacians in person and so stopping them from attacking us – your lands – isn’t a concession? What else do you want?”

“Your Highness,” the archbishop cut in, “winter is nearly upon us. It would behoove you to exalt a duke. Or at the least assign these lands to an earldom. Preparations must be made, soldiers moved. These things take time.”

I alone was standing. Not about to play by their rules. “I will name a duke when we’ve agreed to the terms of the institution of knighthood and allocation of soldiers to the spring campaign. For now, gentlemen, Your Excellency, this meeting is finished. We’ll try again later.”

As they exited, giving me honorifics, Crygmore back to mumbling his, Hafthon’s loud and confident, Carlisele’s not quite bitter, the generals’ and majors’ perfunctory. The big man remained, scowling, scar red on his face, from ear to chin. But scowling was normal for him.

“Morry, give me a minute, will you?”

“I’ll be just outside.” He stood, left, and shut the door behind him.

I considered.

A part of me wondered why I cared about the duchy. Given that I was tortured here, I didn’t even like the place. But with the late Duke Bechalle dead, tossed out the window by my once-bodyguard and now general, Morrentz, it needed a new ruler.

I should just give it to Hafthon and be done with it. The only competent earl, compelling and strong, he already ruled the others. The duchy would be fine under him. The problem for me was that he respected the throne but not me on it. He’d prefer I was married off, but since I was avoiding that fate and, given his strength and ambition, I had a sinking feeling he’d probably try to take the kingdom for himself once gaining the dukedom. A steppingstone for a man like him.

Raising the stakes, because of me, this castle held robust weapons and armor manufacturing smithies.  Advanced for this world. No other master smiths had the knowledge to make the weaponry I was transforming my armies with. Sarissa, crossbows, lances, stirrups and full plate armor. It was unlikely I could take these smiths with me to war, as we were not bringing wagons. Whoever became the duke therefore inherited quite a lot of powerful infrastructure.

And if this dukedom rebelled, if Hafthon decided he should be the king, I’d be fighting on too many fronts – all of them, really – and wouldn’t likely make it. A life-or-death choice, then. One I couldn’t see a way out of.

I could take the earls’ lands. My generals and majors urged as much. Well, Brundle didn’t. Morry and Gun, an odd pairing, to be sure, argued for it. Take their lands for myself, soldiers into my army.

Yet that course caused many more problems. Who would protect this dukedom then? I’d have to appoint lesser nobles and trust that they could run land much larger than they’re used to. And as fairly, if such could be said, as the previous earls. Fairly enough that their peasantry didn’t rebel.

Or take it myself and hole up here. But that would not only invite war from Laemacia and Ketzle and Barclay, it would give them time to prepare and amass large forces. Along with whatever unrest we caused by killing off the nobles. All in all, not an idea I favored.

The coming civil war against the Barclay Duchy could have been averted, in Hafthon’s view, and all his puppets here, if I’d just marry the young Barclay duke. A sixteen-year-old boy. No thanks! I was hoping, probably foolishly, we’d avoid actual war when I marched down there and he’d concede to my rule. He was, after all, Sapphire’s brother and therefore owed me. For it was their father who’d betrayed the prince, my brother, and my backstory family, likely arranging for the Ketzles to attack in a failed attempt to take control of the kingdom. Or, at the least, benefitting from it. Despite all that, I didn’t have his family stripped from power and executed.

Perhaps naively. The real princess, or original princess I suppose, would have done it. But she likely wouldn’t have survived the coup attempt on her family. She’d have been sucked in where I was tossed out, an outsider in this foreign culture, making all kinds of mistakes, breaking all kinds of social norms, and somehow that mess kept me alive.

When I marched down to the Barclay duchy, army at my back, new weapon technology in their hands, I would remind the young duke of his debt, hopefully reunite the kingdom, then we’d go drive the Ketzles out together. This would solidify my power, protecting my life here in this strange world, and we could make peace with our neighbors.

Except that the Barclays had sent members of their religious order to treat with me. The same order that accused me of killing their father-inquisitor. Rather, they were upset about it since that part was true. Sending these ambassadors was a message that they weren’t interested in being vassals any longer. Marriage or punishment, the choice they’d given me.

There was no easy way out of this, no simple path to take. I’d have to risk losing this duchy to secure another, risk civil war here to end civil war there.

Pondering these thoughts, angry, staring at the table, a flicker across my right hand. Lifting it to look, a blue flame danced across my palm. It grew. Wanted out. Past the magic-inhibiting perseidian iron, past my meditation, everything I could do to stop the magic. And I wanted to use it!

I stood up, stretched out my arm at the wine jug Hafthon had used, the blue laser crackling through the air, burst the jug into pieces.

Shit! What was I thinking? Worse, the magic overcame the dampening iron! How? That just wasn’t possible for mages. Except . . . that time Brin said she saw my magic start to grow when the priests antagonized me.

Forcing myself to calm down, the energy fizzling away, dissipating, and the door flew open, Gun rushing in.

“Is everything ok?” His eyes darting here and there, looking for someone to attack, to defend me against.

“I’m fine. Sorry. Damn. I, uh, tossed a jug. Threw, sorry, I threw the jug in a rage.”

Gun walked over to that side of the table, brushed his black hair back, “I’ll say. The pieces are all over the place. The earls really got under your skin.”

Then it dawned on me, Morry should have entered first. Gun shouldn’t have entered at all. “Were you waiting outside or something?”

He walked over to my side of the table, and I just knew what he was going to ask, “The suitors, my lady, they are all leaving shortly, and you haven’t chosen one.”

“And you wish to ask me about it?” I pulled a chair out for him, “Have a seat.”

Stopping in front of me, hand lazily on the top of the chair near mine, he said, “If it’s all the same, I’d rather stand.”

I pulled my hand back, “No, I haven’t. Chosen a suitor. We’ll, ah, revisit this problem, uhm, after the war. The spring campaign. After that.”

A step toward me, “No need to wait so long if your mind is made up.”

I held up my right hand, chest height, palm facing him, took a step back, “My mind is made up. To wait.”

“I don’t think it is.”

“Pardon me?”

“Made up.” He took my left hand in his and stepped closer.

I placed my right hand on his chest, to keep him from coming any closer, “Made up?”

“Yes.”

To my horror, the blue flame returned to dance on the back of my right hand, above his heart. I froze. One wrong move and Gun would have to be cleaned off the wall.

He took my left to his lips, saying, “Cayce, again I approach you to begin a courtship.”

“Gun . . .” I felt a trickle of sweat bead down my neck. Somehow, that woke my mind up, “Major, now is not the time. You were called to a war council.”

“My lady?”

I pulled myself away, backing up as I did, slowly and carefully crossing my arms, palms facing away from him, “I expect you to act like an officer at these times. Behave yourself and . . .”

He took a step toward me, reaching up to put his hands on my shoulders.

“. . . damnit, dismissed!” Gun cocked his head, smile dropping, hands just shy of touching me, so I added, somewhat quieter than I’d hoped, my gaze dropping to the floor, “Now, Major. Dismissed.”

“Yes, my lady.” He bowed formally, planted his right leg behind him, swiveled on that, and exited.

God damnit. I shuddered, took hold of the high back of a nearby chair, dropped my head against its wooden frame, then exhaled, trying not to curse Gun, pushed off and stood up to look at my hands. It was only on my right hand, but the flame brightened. Closing my eyes, concentrating on breathing, chest up and down, willing and willing the energy to dissipate.

Opened my eyes to sparkles falling away. Fading, fading, gone.

A darkness on the table caught my attention. It hadn’t been there before. Walking over to that side, crunching on shards of pottery, I looked closely. A hole. Diagonally angled from about my hand height. Clear through the table, through the chair beside it, and into the stone wall behind where a charred, concave half-sphere remained, ash sliding off to the ground.

I sighed. Even if I did like the handsome major and wanted a courtship with him, and I don’t, but even if I did, and I’m certainly not conceding that I do, because I don’t, it looks like that was off the table. With Gun, with anyone. Until I could control this awful, incredibly powerful, extremely destructive, energy.

Etienne had given me one lesson. Clearly, I needed more. The magic, I could feel it, stronger than before. The perseidian iron that contained its energies, failing. I slumped down the wall onto the floor, buried my face in my hands.

What would happen if I couldn’t control it? Who would I kill by accident? Teenage hormones and unchecked, unlimited power were not a good mix.

“Princess? Are you ok?” Morry, standing with the door half open, a concerned look on his scared face. He stiffened, asking in a low voice, “Did Gun act inappropriately?”

“What? No, Morry, I . . .” So many secrets, making me feel so alone. I heard the door close, but was staring at the ground, and didn’t really pay it any attention. All these secrets, problems compounding, worsening all the time. Who would I kill by accident first? Maitlan when he next corners me? One of the earls at our next meeting?

“Hey, hey now.” Somehow, he was kneeling beside me, a cloth to my face, wiping clumsily at my cheeks. Hard edge to his voice as he asked, “What did he do?”

This one, I had to share. “It’s not him. I couldn’t contain the magic.” I pointed all around.

His eyes took in the shards. “Ah. I see. Come on, up now, Princess. Let’s get you to your rooms.”

“And the table, a hole straight through it.”

“I’ll handle it. You’re wearing your iron?”

“Yeah, Morry.” I held up the chains, the rings, my iron bindings, “Always.”

“It’s just a table. Don’t worry about it.”

“Next time, it’ll be a person. That’s what I’m worried about.”

“Did Gun see?”

“It was before he walked in.”

“Did he notice?”

“No.”

“Good. Let’s get some ale in you. We’ll figure it out.”

“Tea, maybe tea.” In a land where lead sugar and mercury were food additives, and alcohol regularly drank by teenagers, I really just wanted water. Hot, flavored with chopped up and dried bits of bushes and providing, nature willing, some caffeine.