David Weber - Worlds of Honor

Justin rose from his chair.

"I think you two need some time alone." He kissed Elizabeth lightly on one cheek and patted Michael on the shoulder. "I'll be in my quarters if you need me. Otherwise, I'll see you at dinner."

The soon-to-be Prince Consort left without further pause. Michael watched the tall, blond man go.

"He's nice," he said, almost grudgingly. "Are you still going to marry him?"

Elizabeth looked surprised. "Of course. No one could stop me. Why do you ask?"

Michael walked to the table, patted Ariel, and flung himself onto the chair Justin had just vacated. Wrapping his arms around the back, his chin pillowed on the headrest, he looked vastly uncomfortable. Only years of watching him choose similarly contorted poses reassured his sister that he was not purposefully tormenting himself.

"I guess," he said, finally answering her question, "I wondered because Dad liked him so much. I thought he might have pushed him at you."

"Like he was pushing you into the Navy?" Elizabeth asked, easily following her brother's train of thought.

"Yeah."

"No, marrying Justin was all my idea. From the time I first met him, I realized he was special. Fortunately, Mom and Dad agreed. All they asked was that I finish college and reach my majority before we married."

Michael swiveled the seat of the chair and looked up at her.

"Are you going to have to go back to the University now that you're Queen?"

Elizabeth squarely met brown eyes so like her father's that her heart caught in her chest and her own eyes were hot with sudden tears.

"Don't you really mean `Am I going to have to go back to military school now that I'm Crown Prince?' "

"Yeah."

Elizabeth shrugged. "That's up to Mom, isn't it? I'm certain I'll be consulted, as will the new Regent's Council, but I'd guess that Mom's word will win out. Crown Prince or not, you're still her son and the Navy is a very acceptable profession for a prince. If you want to do something else, you should start by talking with her."

Michael didn't so much get up from his seat, as erupt, leaving the chair rocking on its heavy base. Fists clenched, eyes suddenly streaming tears, he faced an adversary neither of them could see.

"I . . . I don't know what I want!"

He bent his head, too proud in his young manhood to ask for the hug he so obviously wanted. Elizabeth embraced him.

"Oh, Mikey, Mikey. . . ."

This time the Prince didn't correct her, just gripped his arms around her waist and bawled into the shelter of her body.

"Beth . . . Beth . . . We . . ." He sniffed, brought the words out more clearly. "We fought before he went away. Dad wasn't happy with my quarter report—said that I wouldn't get into the Academy with those grades, Prince or not. I told him I didn't care. . . ."

Sobbing engulfed him. Elizabeth squeezed her little brother, wishing she could radiate comfort to him as Ariel did to her. The treecat caught her distress at the boy's unhappiness.

Elizabeth might be Ariel's human, but he was fond of her brother. Jumping from the table, the 'cat set his true-hands against Michael's leg and purred loudly.

Eventually, Michael's tears stopped. Releasing him, Elizabeth wiped away tears of her own.

"I . . . I'm going to miss Dad, Beth," the boy managed. "How can you be so brave? Aren't you scared about being Queen?"

"Yes," she admitted, "but I have you and Ariel and Justin and Mom and lots of other people to help me. I only wish I didn't need to be Queen quite yet. I wish Dad . . ."

A sob rose hot and thick in her throat. She felt Ariel's soothing mental caress, although the 'cat's true-hands still rested against Michael's leg. With the 'cat's support, she managed to choke back the sob.

"I wish things were different. I wish that we could follow the plan we designed—college first, then some on-the-job training. Now I don't have a choice."

"And I still do." Michael looked at her, the beginnings of a mature resolve forming beneath the tear streaks. "Thanks, Beth. You've been a lot of help."

"Good." She reached out and squeezed his shoulder. "There's still time before dinner. Let's go upstairs. The next week is going to be filled with the coronation, the viewing and the funeral, along with all sorts of public receptions. This may be our last chance for a bit of peace."

"After you, Your Majesty," Michael said, with a deep bow and a flourish of his hand.

The Queen giggled and, scooping up Ariel, preceded the Crown Prince from the room.

In the Crown Chancery of Mount Royal Palace a very exclusive council met. They numbered five: Queen Mother Angelique, the Duke of Cromarty, Duchess Caitrin Winton-Henke, Dame Eliska Paderweski, and Lord Jacob Wundt.

One was wife, another sister to the late King; the remaining three had been his close associates, both professionally and personally. Only one thing could have drawn them together at a time when each longed only for privacy to mourn, to compose thoughts and lives torn asunder by the King's sudden death: their loyalty to the King and his ideals . . . and to the abstraction that was the Star Kingdom of Manticore.

That did not mean their sorrow didn't show. It sat at the table with them like a sixth member of their party, one they did not mention but whose presence they all felt. And King Roger, though his body even now was being autopsied and prepared for public viewing, made an almost tangible seventh.

"Coffee, Allen?" Dame Eliska pushed the carafe across the table's polished wooden surface.

The Duke, slim and elegant, his hair showing silver that had not been there when he began his tenure as Prime Minister, shook his head. "I don't dare. My stomach is roiling."

"Tsk, tsk, Allen," the Queen Mother said, her teasing tone almost convincing. "Prime Ministers should never admit to possessing either upset stomachs or nerves."

"I'll remember that," Cromarty promised. "Still, I haven't been Prime Minister very long. Given current events and the inevitable challenges my majority is going to face, I almost wish another party would take over."

"Pshaw," was the Queen Mother's only response.

"You've been Prime Minister longer than poor Elizabeth has been Queen," reminded Lord Wundt. "Poor, poor child. What a terrible burden she must bear."

"My `poor, poor child,' " Angelique said almost tartly, "is now your reigning Queen. Such comments forget the dignity of her office."

Jacob Wundt had been the Lord Chamberlain for the House of Winton since the middle of Samantha II's reign. Whip-thin, tall, and balding, he had seen Samantha succeeded by Roger and now would see Roger succeeded by Elizabeth. It was his quiet, sincere desire that he not see the throne change hands yet again.

His position, privy to the workings of the Royal Family yet not one of it, granted him patience with the Queen Mother.

"Of course, Your Majesty," he said softly. "I stand corrected."

It was Caitrin Winton-Henke who looked sharply at her sister-in-law.

"Angelique! Your grief is no excuse to forget yourself. Jacob said nothing more than what each of us is already thinking."

Angelique Winton would not have accepted a reprimand from anyone else, but Roger's beloved sister had always been friend and confidante to the impoverished commoner who had found herself elevated to Queen.

"Jacob," she said, turning to face the Lord Chamberlain, "I apologize."

Knowing the Queen's pride and temper (a temper Elizabeth had inherited in full) better than most, Wundt accepted her apology with a smile.