Page 38 of Among the Burning Flowers
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I will happily rust in place with you, Liyat of Nzene.’
Liyat kissed her on the lips, lingering for some time, and wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. A fortress that shut out the wind. And Estina Melaugo realised she had never felt as safe or wanted or settled anywhere, while everything else she had ever known crumbled.
All night they stood that way, beneath the stars, and watched Yscalin burn.
AFTER
Aubrecht
BRYGSTAD
FREE STATE OF MENTENDON
CE 1003
The Free State of Mentendon often changed its clothes, but it favoured grey, no matter the season. One day it wore a cap of clouds; the next, a cloak of fog, a veil of rain. Still, when the sun did shine, Aubrecht Lievelyn fancied there was no finer place in the West than Brygstad.
His writing desk faced a bow window. From that vantage point, he could see the whole of Lievelyn Square, where his people were enjoying the warm spell. They ate cherries and strawberries, cooled themselves by the Fountain of Ebanth, let their children run wild on the cobblestones.
Not for the first time, Aubrecht wished he could join them. When he was only a young count, he often had, despite his parents’ concern for his safety.
And then the Brygstad Terror had changed everything. Now here he was, the future High Prince, ever discouraged from leaving the palace. And when he read the letter, he knew why.
To Leovart Lievelyn, Grey Prince of Mentendon, wishing you well upon the occasion of your eightieth birthday. May you not suffer a feather death, for that would be a shame for all the ages to behold.
The message was in Low Hróthi, a dialect Aubrecht had not seen or heard in many years, but the hand was familiar, as was the wax seal. It showed the breaking wheel of Clan Vatten.
Aubrecht looked up from the page, beholding his own reflection in the forest glass. No wonder his granduncle was ignoring these letters.
Brygstad was a Hróthi name. There was some debate over whether it should be changed to a Mentish one – Thisunath, after the lost capital, or the simpler Brudstath – but for now, it remained as it had been for centuries. A constant reminder of the Hróthi occupation.
He glanced back at the people in the square. For centuries, the Ments had been unwanted guests in their own country, ruled and exploited by the Hróthi. Now they were independent once more, but Clan Vatten still saw fit to send these petty threats.
Not for much longer. Soon Marosa would be here, and the Vatten would never dare to threaten the House of Lievelyn again. Not with the Donmata of Yscalin knit into the family.
The thought of Marosa eased the tension from his jaw. Only a few weeks to go, and they would be married in Ortégardes. At last, she would be his companion, and he would be hers.
He wondered how she would feel when she realised his situation.
Taking a deep breath, Aubrecht gathered up the letters that required the attention of the High Prince himself. He left the peace of his Privy Chamber and prepared to face his granduncle.
The sweating sickness had killed more than half of his family. Since Edvart and Lesken – the ruler and the heir – had both succumbed, it was deemed that Aubrecht, at two and twenty, should rule next.
And then Leovart had convinced everyone thathereally ought to be on the throne, given that poor Aubrecht was clearly numb with grief. It would be cruel to crown him at such a tender age. Mentendon did not have to be like other monarchies, burdening the young. The Hróthi prized age and wisdom in their leaders – why could the House of Lievelyn not follow suit?
And that was how Aubrecht found himself here, a decade later, watching as Leovart squatted on his throne, and the Council of State remained too paralysed by courtesy to comment.
He found Leovart dozing in the Privy Library, where he must have been pretending to do something of use. Above him, like a judge, was a painting of a better ruler. Kathel Lievelyn, the first High Princess of Mentendon, who had led the Mentish Defiance against Hróth.
Her portrait showed her with a head of magnificent red curls. According to legend, that hair was the reason their early ancestors had been driven from the North, accused of being agents of a fire god named Mentun. Aubrecht knew he was called the Red Prince across the West – apparently to distinguish him from the Grey Prince, a moniker that had been kept out of the palace with as much force as if it were the pestilence. Leovart did not like to be reminded of his age.
If only anyone else could forget it. Aubrecht looked with pity and frustration at the old man, sound asleep in his chair. The last batch of letters was piled on a shelf behind him, clearly unread.
‘Your Royal Highness.’ Aubrecht approached the desk. ‘Granduncle. It’s Aubrecht.’
Leovart kept snoring.
‘Granduncle,’ Aubrecht bellowed, and Leovart startled awake with a snort. ‘Good morrow.’
