Lilith Saintcrow - The Red Plague Affair

Perhaps it was for the best. What queen would wish to know of the depths of service one born in the gutters could sink to?

Alberich, Prince and Consort, stood to the Queen’s right, instead of using the smaller chair he was wont to occupy during interminable receptions or state business. The Consort, an aristocrat of Saxon-Kolbe, was a fine figure of a man with a lovely moustache and a dashing mien in the uniform he affected, but he took a dim view of sorcery in general and his influence upon Victrix, while of the moderating variety, was also… uncertain.

He , Emma thought, as she did every time she glimpsed him, bears watching.

There were few of the elect in the Throne Room for this event, but at least two of them – Constance, Lady Ripley (christened “Constant, Lady Gossip” by the broad-sheets) and the red-jacketed, portly Earl of Dornant-Burgh – could be counted to carry tales. That was their function, and Emma’s shoulders were cable-tight under blue satin.

There, approaching the throne in a wide-sweeping formal dress of rose-coloured silk, was the reason for this concern: the Queen’s formidable mother, the Duchess of Kent.

She was still a handsome woman, though growing much stouter as the years passed. An examination of her aquiline but pleasing face with its open, frank expression would lead one to believe her of a light and frivolous disposition, if one was extraordinarily stupid. There were plenty who ascribed to the view that the Duchess had been easily led by her comptroller Conroy into keeping Victrix under a stifling System of rules and etiquette that not so incidentally never allowed her contact with those her mother deemed unsuitable; others thought the Duchess’s raising of the princess and later heir-presumptive merely suffered from a mother’s natural but overly indulged desire to shield her child from all harm, real or imagined.

The truth perhaps lay somewhere between the two, on an island of ambition shrouded with syrup-sentiment and a frustrated will to rule. The Duchess would have made a fine prince of some foreign country, had she been chosen as a vessel… or a trouble indeed, if born a man.

Emma eyed the Duchess’s stiff posture as the mother of the Queen made the merest courtesy demanded of a sovereign’s family member. The necklace the woman wore, Emma decided, was far too gaudy to be anything but real gems; she was not wearing paste yet, this blue-blooded and cold-calculating princess. Despite Conroy’s “management” of her estates and benefices, that was.

Victrix sat, utterly inhumanly still, only her eyes showing that Britannia was examining the woman who had given birth to her vessel, and examining her closely.

The sorceress’s fingers tightened. The cameo at her throat warmed, ætheric force held in the piece responding to her mood. It would be so easy to strike the Duchess down, and she could even beg Victrix’s forgiveness afterwards. Not every conspiracy threatening Victrix’s rule had its origins in the Duchess’s desire to bring her daughter back under her sway, true.

But the ones that did were… most troubling. There had been a certain affair involving a tower in Wales, a slumbering wyrm, and an army of unsleeping metal soldiers some time ago. It had also involved a Sorcerer Prime, and Emma’s unease heightened another notch.

She would think of Llewellyn now, wouldn’t she? There was a warm weight in her chest that grew a trifle heavier when she did. It was not the Stone that had been her private recompense for the affair, she had decided. Perhaps it was merely the consciousness of how close he had come to succeeding? Each separate part of that conspiracy had been working to different ends, but Llewellyn Gwynnfud’s envisioned end had put the other parties to shame in sheer flamboyance and scope.

He would have been delighted to know she thought as much.

Victrix will not take it kindly if I kill her mother, no matter what the woman has done. And no matter if Britannia roundly approves.

Seen from this angle, the Duchess’s beauty had faded considerably since her youth. Yet her eyebrows were the same high proud arches, and the long nose and decided chin were balanced by good cheekbones. A handsome woman, still.

Handsome enough to keep a lover, perhaps. Or her estates were certainly attractive enough to gain some attention.

Those in attendance had already noted that Conroy, normally his mistress’s squire and shadow, was not present. If the pale-eyed, silk-voiced comptroller had decided to slip into the gallery to witness this exchange, Eli would neatly collar him… and Emma Bannon would have a small sharp chat with the man.

This was not Victrix’s wish, but Emma had privately decided Sir John Conroy had become far too dangerous to wait upon handling. Perhaps it was arrogance on her part, to see so clearly a danger Victrix underestimated, and to set herself to drawing its venom. Or perhaps it was merely her duty. The two blurred together distressingly easily.

“Your Majesty.” The Queen’s mother repeated her courtesy, but more deeply. “It gladdens my heart to see my daughter.”

Her words had an edge that only a sorceress, a lifelong student of tone and cadence and what remains unspoken, might hear.

No, that was not quite precise. It was also the tone a mother could use to chastise a grown child, treacle-sweet but loaded with private significance.

Emma’s fingers twitched. At least Melbourne, nasty skinflint that he was, had given the young Queen her first taste of what passed for the freedom of rule. Victrix still believed most things possible, most things available, instead of seeing choice and circumstance narrow about her like a lunatic’s canvas jacket.

Victrix raised her chin slightly. “Madam.” Today she wore the Little Crown, its diamonds sparking as Britannia’s presence spilled through her skin; she was not formally in state even though enthroned. To sit in state would have accorded the Duchess too much importance. At least Victrix had agreed when Emma made that observation. “We greet you.”

We . Victrix hiding behind Britannia, or a sign that the ruling spirit was unwilling to take her gaze from a potential danger?

The Duchess’s smile faltered slightly. “I would that I saw you more frequently, my dearest. But you have such important matters to attend to.”

Emma was hard put to stifle a gasp. To speak so familiarly to Britannia might have earned one a spell in the Tower in less civilised days.

Victrix’s head tilted slightly to the side, her features shifting imperceptibly. To see the sweet face of a married-but-still-young woman age so rapidly, Britannia filling her vessel as the Themis filled its cold bed, was enough to send a chill through even the stoutest heart.

“Important matters.” Victrix’s fingers tapped the throne’s arm, precisely once. She did not move to cover her belly with a protective hand, but it may have been very close. Rings glittered, scintillating not with ætheric force as Emma’s jewellery might, but with a different brand of power. “Have you ever been to Wales, dear Mama?”

Emma’s pulse beat high and hard in her throat. She had not expected this.

“Wales?” To her credit, the Duchess sounded confused.

“Dinas Emrys. A property of the house of Gwynnfud, or Sellwyth if you prefer their title.” Victrix was pale now, and the depth of Britannia in her star-laden eyes spread, a haze of indigo fanning from the corners. Alberich made a restless movement, as if he longed to touch the Queen’s shoulder, his white-gloved hand halting in mid-air and dropping back to rest at his side.

Good. If he did not respect her, we would have even more trouble. Respect was not quite enough, though. It would, she thought, do the Consort no end of good to outright fear his wife.