A Fistful of Earth: Chronicles of Marsdenfel #2

Year 532, New Calendar - part I

Year 532, New Calendar

The Kingdom of Salles

Late Summer

Every culture has its particular superstitions, things that are universally disliked, and Creator help anyone that differs.

Unfortunately, some types of people aren’t much liked by anyone.

—Endellion Yunan,
former Queen of Marsdenfel

· · · • • • · · ·

My second month as a foreign queen’s lady-in-waiting and her first morning as a married woman, I approach her chambers in the northwest spire and smell smoke.

The ash-darkened door stands ajar. I frown, adjust the basket of laundry on my hip, and touch the stone wall with my free hand. The stone pulls the ache out of my shoulders and tells me the door’s still sound. Tells my magic, anyway. It’s ultimately the same thing, even when your magic’s apt to argue with you.

I nudge the door open with the basket.

Crown Prince Aidan of Salles, new husband to the queen I now serve, sits in the charred remains of their marriage bed. His face rests in his hands. “How could she not know I’m a water?” mage.

“Same way anyone can not know something that be staring them in the face, I reckon.” Soggy ashes don’t make good clothing. I rummage in my basket and toss him the first thing large enough to cover him. His wife’s tan smock smacks him upside the head. “I could’ve gone on not knowing what the Creator endowed you with, myself.”

He blinks blankly before flushing and arranging the dress over his lap. “My apologies, Lady Nonsire.”

Cobbleson, not Nonsire. I give him a bland look and set the basket on the table. “Evonalé forgot she was married?” I straighten my leather belt and smooth my linen overdress. The charcoal color’s getting lighter than I like. But it’s not yet season for walnut husks, and oak galls cost too much, so re-dying will have to wait.

He sighs. “She promptly remembered I’m her husband and would’ve killed the fire, but I pulled my own magic about the same time, and she…”

“Panicked again and ran.” You can take the royal bastard away from the abuse, but you can’t take the fear out of the royal bastard. Evonalé’s paranoia did develop for a reason. It’s still annoying. “Want me to fetch her?”

His Highness sighs again. “I’ll do it.” He turns away from me to get up so I see no more than his bare backside. He goes and rummages through his wardrobe. “Ever wish for a street urchin’s garb, so you could move about in peace?”

Spoken by someone who’s never been a street urchin. “I’m harassed by the guardsmen enough, thank you.”

And—leaving the laundry for him to put away—I promptly remove myself from the prince’s nude presence before he can pry.

Mayhaps I should look for Evonalé, anyway. She has a way of ending up sorely injured even when she’s where she’s supposed to be.

Hmm, but she’s doubtless outside, wrapped up in a bush, and therefore as safe as the clumsy quarter-elf girl can be. I can afford a detour before I find her.

I meander away from the northwest spire to check on yesterday’s other bride before I track down my queen. I enter the highborn halls, which have the usual flurry of servants, so I have to dodge the misbehaving items and limbs that their bearers ‘accidentally’ shove my way.

I meet the housemaid Geddis Feyim at the entrance to her sister’s suite as Prophetess for the King. We share a wry look. My queen and Geddis’s sister had a double wedding yesterday, so I slip between Geddis and the door, relieving her of the heavy breakfast tray as I knock. Twenty-eight-year-old widows have far less innocence to lose than teenage maidens.