Page 3 of Among the Burning Flowers
Lady Marosa, we pray you send us word how that you do. We have not heard from you in too long, and though King Sigoso must rely greatly upon his dutiful heir, we should be glad to read your tidings.
Ours was a short and clement winter. The snow is already thawing in Hróth, which we understand is curious for this time of year.
We hope and trust to embrace you again at your marriage to Prince Aubrecht, whensoever that may take place. Should areligious perspective be needful, the Arch Sanctarian would be pleased to visit you in Cárscaro.
Yours in fellowship and faith,
Sabran Queen of Inys
Marosa set the letter aside, wondering how her father had reacted to it. No doubt it had wounded his pride. He had let her betrothal stagnate for so long that the head of Virtudom now felt the need to offer the aid of the royal sanctarian, who would have to travel for hundreds of miles, across sea and difficult terrain, to reach Cárscaro. It would reflect poorly on a king, who ought to be able to manage his own family matters without troubling Inys.
‘I will reply anon,’ she said to Priessa. ‘Queen Sabran is kind to ask after my welfare.’
‘Yes.’
Priessa laced her into a summer petticoat, her stays and verdugado, and a gown of tawny silk to match her eyes. A white partlet covered her neckline. In recent years, the Yscali fashion had been for gowns that sloped off the shoulders, given the rising heat, but within the palace, there was no such immodesty. Her father saw it as an insult to the Knight of Courtesy.
When Priessa stepped back, Marosa touched the golden Seiikinese pearls in her ears. A betrothal gift from Aubrecht, borne to the West from the Sundance Sea, far away from Yscalin.
‘Priessa,’ she said, ‘is today the same?’
Her friend met her gaze in the mirror.
‘Yes,’ came her soft reply. ‘It is the same.’
Marosa
CÁRSCARO
KINGDOM OF YSCALIN
CE 1003
Every hour of every day was meted out like precious oil. At eight of the clock, Marosa prayed in the Privy Sanctuary. Kneeling on a hassock, she voiced her unending love for the Saint – vanquisher of the Nameless One, saviour of the world – and the six members of his Holy Retinue, each symbolising one of the Virtues of Knighthood.
At nine, she broke her fast with Priessa and the Afleytan sisters. She never called on her other ladies, who lived in fine rooms on the floor below hers, content to enjoy their modest salaries and the prestige that came with serving a princess.
At ten, she practised the harp. Even if she could not change her life, she could vary the temper and pace of her music. She chose ‘The Swan Song’ – a ballad Aubrecht loved, written in praise of his ancestor.
The next hours were for studying the history and language of Mentendon, soon to be her country by marriage. Aubrecht wrote well in Yscali, and they both spoke Inysh, but to be his consort, she had to master thetongue his people had fought to preserve through centuries of Hróthi stewardship. To understand the triumphs and misfortunes of their past.
Queen Sahar, like many Ersyris, had valued education highly. Until Marosa was sixteen, she had been instructed by the finest scholars in Virtudom. They had all vanished after her mother’s death, cut loose without explanation. Now she served as her own tutor. The Library of Isalarico furnished her with the books and documents she required. It also connected to other levels of the palace, allowing her to hear the courtiers on the lower floors as they went about the business of government, even if their voices were distant and distorted.
In all the accounts Marosa had read, she had never heard of a king who kept his heir sequestered from his court. When she was nineteen, she had asked her father if she could join him in council, or at one of his audiences, so she might learn the ways of ruling.
A curious request, King Sigoso had replied coolly.Do you already seek the throne, Marosa?
It was treason to imagine the death of the sovereign. That was the last time Marosa had asked. But out of his sight, she kept building her knowledge of history and politics, agriculture and religion, philosophy and rhetoric, poesy. She refused to be ignorant when she was crowned.
That day, she returned to her readings on the Brygstad Terror, a visitation of sweating sickness that had devastated the Mentish court – the only reason Aubrecht was to rule. Since he was the son of a secondborn prince, he had expected to be a sanctarian, not a monarch.
Marosa meant to bolster him until she was Queen of Yscalin. From what she knew, the present High Prince – hisgranduncle, Leovart – already delegated most of his duties to his relatives. Even before Aubrecht was crowned, he would need support. At last, she would have somewhere to practise the art of politics, and to use her knowledge gainfully, after years of isolation.
At noon, when it was hottest, she retired to her apartments. At three, she proceeded to the garden terrace, where she dined on a salmon casserole. The fish was flavoured with blood orange and saffron, the pastry thick with dried grapes, pine nuts, and blanched almonds.
A bowl of red pears sat in the middle of the table. The ancient symbol of her dynasty, matching her ruby pendant. Yscabel was eating a custard apple, while Ruzio poured glasses of iced perry and Priessa observed the balustrade, her dark brows drawn.
Her patience was rewarded. A small bird came to land, drawn to the seeds they had scattered that morning.
