Page 59 of Among the Burning Flowers
Aubrecht looked up at the portrait of his uncle, red-haired and bearded, with a small girl in his arms. Edvart the Second, the Laughing Prince. The man who was supposed to rule for decades.
‘When we are gone,’ Liuthe said, ‘you will be the head of the House of Lievelyn, and you must be prepared to make the hardest decisions of your life. We Ments have survived a great deal. The Northerners drove us out first, based on naught but superstition. The Dreadmount forced us from Gulthaga, the flood from Thisunath, and the wyrms from Carmentum, but each time, we not only survived, but triumphed. When our ancestor Ebanth – displaced andalone – was shipwrecked on the locked isle of Seiiki, she did not accept her execution. What did she do instead?’
‘She convinced the First Warlord to listen to her,’ Aubrecht said, ‘and together, they struck a bargain. Only the Ments could trade in Seiiki, though all other foreigners had been exiled.’
‘And what did her descendant do a century later?’
‘Aunt.’
‘Tell me, Aubrecht.’
He had learned all of this in his youth from his tutors. His mother had told it to him before he fell asleep. The origins of Mentendon, from the snows of the North to the silver swan.
He was not a boy any more, but he did love his aunt.
‘Kathel Lievelyn was her descendant,’ he said quietly. ‘She sailed to the West and petitioned for Mentish independence from the iron grip of Hróth. So began the Mentish Defiance.’ Liuthe nodded. ‘At last, Sabran the Eighth agreed that the stewardship had gone on for too long. She ordered the Queen of Hróth to withdraw her forces and granted the Ments the right to rule ourselves, so long as we retained a monarchy and remained true to the Saint.’
‘And so we have,’ Liuthe said. ‘You think I treat you like a child by asking you to recite a story. But this is a dangerous world for us Ments, no matter if there are wyrms in the sky, or conquerors on the waves, and the story of us – the story of Mentendon – is the very foundation of our dynasty. You must tell your own subjects. You must remind your sisters. You must teach your own children, whenever they come. And they will come, Aubrecht. One day.’
Aubrecht wished he could believe her. Until that day, he would pretend.
‘I hope that I will be a worthy storyteller,’ he said. ‘And honour you, Aunt. In all that I do.’
****
He walked the corridors in his bedgown, watched by concerned servants. His chest was tight, and cold sweat beaded on his face.
The mountain pass had been his only hope. Liuthe was right. Cárscaro was impregnable on the western side, especially with wyverns on the wing. He could not order thousands of Mentish soldiers to walk into the jaws of certain death. Neither could he go alone. Even though he was training with a sword, hoping to master the skills that befitted a monarch, he was no fighter. For all his bold talk before his family all those months ago, he no longer had any confidence in his own ability to reach Cárscaro.
The House of Lievelyn had to come first. He could not plunge his family into mourning yet again. Sorrow had eaten away at his aunt; he would not let it kill his sisters.
He reached the Marble Court, where he sat and gazed at the stars. Marosa knew a great deal about astronomy, having lived in a tower all her life. The Favour twinkled above the palace, mocking him with its brightness. That was the constellation that Ments hoped to see on the night of their marriage, for it was a sign of approval from the Knight of Fellowship.
Ermuna came to join him. From the ink on her fingers, she had been studying.
‘I know you spoke to Aunt Liuthe,’ she said. ‘She wants you to annul the betrothal.’ When he nodded, she laid a hand on his. ‘I am so sorry, Aubrecht.’
Aubrecht nodded again. He felt as if a fire had burned him through, leaving only ash behind.
‘The Yscali alliance was meant to protect us,’ Ermuna said. ‘Assuming a High Western does not destroy us all, you must still wed, to strengthen our dynasty. And there is one obvious match.’
‘Who?’
‘Queen Sabran. If you had a child with her, the next Queen of Inys would have Lievelyn blood. The Vatten would be pacified once and for all. You know this as well as I do, Aubrecht.’
‘I thought Queen Sabran was attached to Lord Arteloth Beck. Granduncle says it is common knowledge.’
‘Granduncle needed an excuse for why Queen Sabran turned down his suit,’ Ermuna said. ‘In truth, it is gossip at best, an inconvenience at worst. Inys stands to gain far more from a foreign alliance. Sabran needs to demonstrate the strength of Virtudom. We can fill the yawning gap that Yscalin has left in the Chainmail.’ She leaned closer to him. ‘The first Mentish prince consort to a Berethnet queen. Imagine our security.’
Aubrecht turned the thought over in his mind. In truth, he had never considered proposing to Sabran, assuming the Berethnets would only want to marry their older allies.
But Ermuna was right. Now Yscalin had fallen, Mentendon had a chance to rise.
‘Not yet,’ he said, nonetheless. ‘I cannot … move on so quickly, Erma. I cared for Marosa, even if I never had a chance to fall in love with her. I have lost the future I dreamed of having.’
‘That is grief,’ Ermuna said, ‘and it is the luxury of men, not monarchs. The suit will be strongest when you are HighPrince, but that will be very soon. Granduncle will not recover from this illness.’
‘Ermuna.’
