Michael Sullivan: Avempartha

Bernice had been one of her mother’s handmaids. Queen Ann had kept several. Drundiline, a beautiful woman, had been her secretary and close friend. Harriet ran the residence, organizing the cleaning staff, seamstresses, and laundry. Nora, whose lazy eye always made it impossible to tell who she was actually looking at, handled the children. Arista remembered how she would tell her fairy tales at bedtime about greedy dwarves who kidnapped spoiled princesses, but how a dashing prince always saved them in the end. In all, Arista could remember no fewer than eight maids, but she could not remember Bernice.

She came to Essendon Castle nearly two years ago, only a month after Arista’s father, King Amrath, was murdered. Bishop Saldur explained that she had served the queen and was the only maid to survive the fire that had killed her mother so many years ago. He mentioned Bernice had been away for years suffering from melancholy and sickness, but after Amrath’s death, she insisted on returning to care for her beloved queen’s daughter.

“Oh, Your Highness,” Bernice said holding two separate pairs of Arista’s shoes, “I do wish you would come away from that window. The weather may look pleasant, but drafts are not something to toy with. Trust me, I know all about it-intimately. Pray you never have to go through what I did-the aches, the pains, the coughing. Not that I am complaining, of course, I am still here, aren’t I? I am blessed with the vision of seeing you grow into a lady and, Maribor willing, I will see you as a bride. What a fine bride you will make! I hope King Alric picks a husband for you soon. Who knows how long I have left and we don’t want people gossiping about you any more than they already are.”

“People are gossiping?” Arista turned and sat on the open windowsill.

Watching her on the edge, Bernice panicked and froze in place, her mouth opening and closing with silent protests, both hands waving the shoes at her. “Your Highness,” she managed to gasp, “you’ll fall!”

“I’m fine.”

“No. No, you’re not.” Bernice shook her head frantically. “Please. I beg of you.”

She dropped the shoes, planted her feet, and reached out her hand as if standing on the edge of a precipice, “Please.”

Arista rolled her eyes and standing up, walked away from the window. She crossed the room to her bed that lay beneath several layers of clothes.

“No, wait!” Bernice shouted again. She shook her hands at the wrists as if trying to dry them. “Melissa, clear her highness a place to sit.”

Arista sighed and ran a hand through her hair while she waited for Melissa to gather the dresses.

“Careful now, don’t wrinkle them,” Bernice cautioned.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” Melissa told her as she gathered an armful. She was a small redhead with dark green eyes, who served Arista for the past five years. The princess got the distinct impression the maid’s apology did not refer to the mess on the bed. Arista fought to keep from laughing and a smile emerged. It only made matters worse when she saw Melissa grinning as well.

“The good news is the bishop delivered a list of potential suitors to his majesty this morning,” Bernice said and Arista no longer had any trouble quelling laughter, the smile disappeared as well. “I’m hoping it will be that nice Prince Rudolf, King Armand’s son.” Bernice was raising her eyebrows and grinning mischievously like some deranged pixie. “He’s very handsome, many say dashing, and Alburn is a very nice kingdom-at least so I have heard.”

“I’ve been there and I’ve met him. He’s an arrogant ass.”

“Oh, that tongue of yours!” Bernice clasped her hands to the sides of her face and gazed upward mouthing a silent prayer. “You must learn to control yourself. If anyone else had heard you-thankfully we’re the only ones here.”

Arista glanced at Melissa and the other two girls busy sorting through her things. Melissa caught her look and shrugged.

“Alright, so you aren’t certain about Prince Rudolf, that’s fine. How about King Ethelred of Warric? You can’t do better than him. The poor widower is the most powerful monarch in Avryn. You would live in Aquesta and be queen of the Wintertide festivals.”

“The man has to be in his fifties. Not to mention he’s a staunch Imperialist. I’d slit my throat first.”

Bernice staggered backward threw one hand to her own neck while the other reached for the wall.

Melissa snickered and tried to cover it with a pretend cough.

“I think you’re done here, Melissa,” Bernice said. “Take the chamber pot when you go.”

“But the sorting isn’t-” Melissa protested.

Bernice gave her a reproachful look.

Melissa sighed. “Your Highness,” she said and curtseyed to Arista, then picked up the chamber pot and left.

“She didn’t mean anything by it,” Arista told Bernice.

“It doesn’t matter. Respect must be maintained at all times. I know I am only an old crazy woman who doesn’t matter to anyone, but I can tell you this: If I were here-if I had been well enough to help raise you after your mother died, people wouldn’t be calling you a witch today.”

Arista’s eyes widened.

“Forgive me, Your Highness, but that’s the truth of it. With your mother gone, and me away, I fear you were brought up poorly. Thank Maribor I came back when I did or who knows what would become of you. But no worries my dear, we have you on the right track now. You’ll see, everything will work out once we find you a suitable husband. All that nonsense from your past will soon be forgotten.”

Her dignity, as well as the length of her gown, prevented Arista from running down the stairs. Her bodyguard Hilfred trotted behind her, struggling to keep up with the sudden burst of speed. She had caught him by surprise. She had surprised herself. Arista had every intention of walking calmly up to her brother and politely asking if he had gone mad. The plan had worked fine up until she passed the chapel, then she started moving faster and faster.

The good news is that the bishop delivered a list of potential suitors to his majesty this morning.

She could still see the grin on Bernice’s face, and hear the perverse glee in her words, as if she were a spectator at the foot of a gallows waiting for the hangman to kick the bucket.

I’m hoping it will be that nice Prince Rudolf, King Armand’s son.

It was hard to breathe. Her hair broke loose from the ribbon and flew behind her. Rounding the turn near the ballroom, Arista’s left foot slipped out from under her and she nearly fell. Her shoe came off and spun across the polished floor. She left it, pressing on, hobbling forward like a wagon with a broken wheel. She reached the west gallery. It was a long, straight hallway lined with suits of armor, and here she picked up speed. Jacobs, the royal clerk, spotted her from his perch outside the reception hall and jumped to his feet.

“Your Highness,” he exclaimed with a bow.

“Is he in there?” she barked.

The little clerk with the round face and red nose nodded. “But his majesty is in a state meeting. He’s requested that he not be disturbed.”

“The man is already disturbed. I’m just here to beat some sense into his feeble little brain.”

The clerk cringed. He looked like a squirrel in a rainstorm. If he had a tail, it would be over his head. Behind her she heard Hilfred’s familiar footsteps approach.

She turned toward the door and took a step.

“You can’t go in,” Jacobs told her, panicking. “They are having a state meeting,” he repeated.

The soldiers that stood to either side of the door stepped forward to block her.

“Out of my way!” she yelled.