The Queen's Bastard

ROBERT, LORD DRAKE

27 June 1587 Alunaer, capital of Aulun “We are unobserved?” The question is a matter of ritual, thirty years’ habit forcing it to Robert’s lips even when he knows as well as his queen that their meeting room is cloistered against all listeners. Knows better than she, indeed, though he can never confess to the unearthly skill that allows him to be absolutely certain of their privacy.

“Have done, Robert,” Lorraine says with ill-concealed impatience. “We have yet to hear whispers of anything discussed in this room hissing around the court. We are unobserved, and the lusty pair playing at our voices in the bedchamber will be obliged to violate our virgin reputation if we do not hurry. What have you for me?”

A smile shifts the shape of Robert’s beard, prickling his skin. Lorraine’s shields are unbreachable, her restraint and control beyond any he’s ever met, but she can let her guard slip in words. When she does so with him, allowing herself the familiar me or I, it means more to him than the tasting of her thoughts ever might. “Gregori is dead. Irina is free from his pursuit and is indebted to us. Our negotiations may proceed.”

“The Khazarian army,” Lorraine breathes. “Think of it, Robert. Aulun’s fleet and the masses of men who can be called to arms under Irina’s banner. We might hold all of Echon in the palm of our hand, a summer hence.”

“We might.” Temperance fills Robert’s voice. “But Essandia and Gallin will rise under Cordula’s call, and Reussland will not take easily to Khazar rolling over it. We must maintain caution, Your Majesty.”

“Caution!” Lorraine spits the word, coming to her feet in a rustle of heavy skirts. No longer the Titian Bitch in truth, her hair flames false red above a white-painted face that makes mockery of the striking youth she once was. “We have been cautious our entire life, Robert. We tire of caution. We would have confidence in our legacy, the measure given a man, not the weak-legged tripping steps of a woman.”

“You have consolidated and held power for a lifetime, Lorraine.” Robert softens his voice, daring the use of the queen’s name. “You have played men against one another and kept yourself free, a regent in your own right when too many thought the throne ought not be yours. You have made yourself an icon whose name will never be forgotten. Kings would weep for lesser legacies.”

“And Sandalia de Philip de Costa has done the same in the name of two thrones, and stands on my northern border, mocking me and waiting for me to fall. She has years, Robert.” Bitterness taints the admission. “She is fifteen years the younger. I must command at least a fraction of Irina’s army to hold my own country should my health fail. We have waited long enough.” Her shoulders draw back, wattle tightening with the resolve that the formal we announces. “We will ally ourselves with our sister queen on the Khazarian throne. We will offer Aulunian ships and privateers to run their ice-blocked harbors and coasts so they might more easily enjoy the trade treaties we have built. In exchange we will accept some small part of her army under our command, so that we might all understand our delicate relationship to one another, and we will not threaten her throne in any way, for we understand what it is to be a woman alone at the head of a country.” Lorraine takes a breath, satisfaction glinting in her grey eyes. “And in time we will enjoy discussions of where our alliance might further bring us, and what it might mean to the Ecumenic Church and Cordula.”