#metraterra

[divine--right]

A Dry Spring

by Lyra

____________________________________________

It was turning into a dry spring. The air was crisp and light, easily moved by the slightest breeze. The fields smelled of dust and wildflowers, the sound of cattle’s low bellows and clanging bells traveling unimpeded through the thin air. All around the house lingered the song birds and swallows flitting through the sparse trees and the buzz of insects hiding in the tall grass of the fields.

There would be rain soon enough, there had to be. It always came in the summer, and it wasn’t unheard of to have a dry spring. The spring five years ago had been bone dry, the stable hands kept reminding him, and then it had poured half the summer, giving Metraterra one of the best harvests in the past decade. Maybe it would be that way again. That would be alright. They could wait for the rain.

Eammon sat on the portico of The Grange, the worn wooden planks for a seat, booted toes tapping idly and quickly on the flat stone work spread out in smooth circles below him. He knitted his hands together between his knees, cracking his knuckles, or rather trying to. They stopped cracking at least ten minutes ago. He glanced at his watch, the silver of it catching in the clear light of the day. They should have arrived half an hour ago.

Strawberries grew along the edges of the portico, heavy leaves shading the green and red bulbous berries underneath. He reached down and snatched one up, biting into it’s flesh for a distraction.

It was a quiet day, whenever his mother left it seemed like half the servants went with her, and most of the hands were out in the fields since it was still early. There were a few voices flitting through the halls behind him, and out by the stables he could hear the braying and rustling of horses being corralled in and out of stalls as they were needed. It felt very still; the calm before the storm, he reminded himself.

Tomorrow would be another story altogether, tomorrow was the day their princess arrived - the girl who would one day be their queen. And that day, his own marriage, still felt impossibly close at hand, even if it was two seasons off still. She would arrive to a bustling household filled with action and tasks all to support her and the occasion of her arrival. He felt strange not meeting her in the capital with his mother, but the Queen had insisted that it was better for her to meet him here, at their true home.

Off at the end of the drive there was a sudden spray of dust and he stood instantly, looking for the car that was causing it.

He could see the thing barreling towards them, large and tough enough to handle the dirt roads but still with the gleam of royalty. It pulled to a dusty stop in front of him and he hurried down the few stone steps to meet it.

The doors opened, one man stepping back quickly to reach inside and help his cousin out. Eammon took over instantly, sweeping in with a wide smile to hold her arm.

“I am actually capable of basic movement, you know.” Sarai smiled, shoving him off only to grasp his shoulders again and give him a proper look over.

He smiled and tried to keep his shoulders and back straight. She always gave him shit about that.

She looked almost exactly the same as she had three years ago. It felt like madness that it had been that long, but they were all so busy always, time seemed to escape them. Her hair was almost the same color as his own, pushed back tidy but sensual. She wore a low buttoned white shirt - big enough to fit over her wide pregnant middle - and khakis, just like she had before she was a queen. A few very thin gold chains glittered against the gentle tan and freckles of her chest.

Just looking at her from the shoulders up he might never know she was only three months from another child. She had always been like her horses in that way, her body didn’t seem to change drastically besides the globe of life in the center, but she looked stronger, broader, like her shoulders could take more weight and her arms would punch harder than ever.

“Well,” Sarai said, squinting at him and wrinkling her nose, “at least with the stubble it’s not as easy to mistake you for a twelve-year-old.”

“Thanks,” Eammon answered. He moved to hug her and then hesitated looking warily at her stomach.

She quickly wrapped her arms around his shoulders pulling him in roughly. “I’m not untouchable yet, gods Eammon.”

He laughed into her shoulder. She smelled the same in a lot of ways: wildflowers and rivers, but there was an urban element there as well that he knew Catheda had imprinted on her, a steeliness he remembered from her wedding there all those years ago.

He’d never liked Catheda. He didn’t know how anyone could live with so little room to breathe and so many straight lines cutting the sky into pieces. It had felt like there’d been smoke stuck in his throat for months after he left. Maybe it didn’t bother her. She might have learned to breathe it, but he couldn’t imagine doing so. It would feel like breathing underwater.

“Jozef, get out of the car please,” Sarai smiled behind her.

Eammon was suddenly struck, he’d had no idea she’d bring him. He would have thought Godwin would want him to stay behind in the capital.

A thin strung boy eased his way out of the car behind her with an immense air of skepticism. He was tall for his age, which if Eammon remembered correctly was just about ten. He looked almost frighteningly pale, but then maybe all city people did. Eammon remembered the first time he’d seen Godwin he’d thought he was ill.

There was a lot of Godwin in the boy, Eammon would admit he’d wondered if there would be any at all, but here it was more than clear enough. He had the same heavy concerned brow, the same shapely mouth, straight shoulders, height. But there were differences; Godwin’s eyes never once looked self-conscious and this boy’s, though the same pale blue as his father’s, had an air of being overly-aware of himself and how he fit into everything else.

Eammon couldn’t help smiling at his clothes. He looked the perfect little diplomat with his shiny shoes and stern lines. He could see the boy eyeing the worn brown leather of Eammon’s boots, the messy cuff of his work-pants, the obvious grass and manure stains on the knees.

“Hello,” Eammon smiled.

“Your Majesty,” the boy nodded, eyes still tight on the dirt at their feet. Eammon tried not to laugh.

“Jozef,” Sarai said gently, putting her arm around his shoulders. “This is your uncle Eammon. He’s not a king yet, although I’m sure he’s very flattered. And remember, it’s polite to look people in the eyes when speaking to them.”

The boy looked up, cheeks going pink. “Sorry.”

Eammon wanted to squeeze his shoulder warmly but was a little afraid that might not be best risk it. The boy didn’t look like he was used to being touched by anyone but Sarai. He smiled widely instead. “No worries, it’s good to get used to that anyways.You know when your great aunt comes back she won’t let anyone call her anything but Your Majesty.”

The boy squinted against the brilliant sunlight. “Really? Even you?”

“I might be able to get away with Mother Divine, but we’ll see.”

The boy smiled back at him. Maybe he wasn’t that clinically stoic after all- and it was good to see he was clever. Probably a good deal more clever than himself all things considered, but how could he not be with parents like his.

Sarai groaned, “I’m beat - those roads were murder.”

Eammon reached into the car and grabbed her travel bag, slinging it over his shoulder. The rest of their luggage was being unloaded from the car by servants behind them. A second car was coming down the road in the distance, and he was sure it was the rest of their baggage.

“How did they never feel that awful before?” She asked, critically eyeing the stones and dirt under their feet.

“You were never six months pregnant before,” Eammon said.

“Right,” she smiled, giving Jozef a gentle push up the stairs in front of them. “Just hungover.”

She let out a sigh as soon as they entered the house, craning her neck and looking all around at the wide circular foyer and the arching ceiling beamed with old timbers. Her son followed suit, staring around at the space, albeit with some more reserve.

“Do you remember it?” Eammon asked him. “It’s been a long time since you were here. I don’t think you were any older than four.”

The boy glanced around him, at the untrimmed stick banisters, the arched windows, the stone and three-foot-wide wooden board floors.

“I think I remembered it larger,” he admitted quietly. “But nothing’s as big as Catheda.”

“Just mountains,” Eammon smiled. The boy looked up at him wonderingly.

“Well, I think it’s almost time for my fourth nap of the day,” Sarai declared, turning to them. “Jozef, why don’t you find your room while I talk to uncle Eammon, and when we’re done he could find you and show you the farm.”

The boy nodded quietly. Eammon grabbed a servant’s attention and the man easily led the boy off to where his luggage was being assembled.

“Now, where’d you put me?” Sarai asked, turning to him.

Eammon smiled. “Where else would we put you?”

Little had changed about her rooms since she’d left. They were still wide and airy, doors opened to the balcony and the steps that led directly down to the stables. Someone had filled the vases with daisies and dandelions - her favorites. He’d have to remember to ask who had been in and compliment them on their insight.

She collapsed on the bed with a thick sigh as soon as the doors were shut behind them.

“Does it feel good to be back?” Eammon asked her, leaning against one of the chairs that rested by the open windows.

“Very,” she answered.

“Do you want the window’s shut?” He asked, suddenly realizing. “I know it’s hot in here.”

“No, don’t you dare,” she answered, “I almost forgot what real wind feels like.”

Eammon smiled. “No wind in Catheda?”

“There’s only city wind and ocean wind in Catheda,” she clarified. “The city wind is battered around between all that steel, and the ocean wind has absolutely nothing to stand in it’s way so it hits you like a brick. This is the real wind, old wind, that’s been dancing over the hills and the fields in the sun for weeks until it finally gets to you. It’s happy to be alive, can’t you tell?”

“So window’s open, then.” Eammon smiled.

She grinned back and sat up better in the bed, jamming a few thick pillows behind her back. “Alright, enough dodging around. Let’s have a real talk.”

Eammon raised an eyebrow. “A real talk?”

“That’s right,” she confirmed. “I know you’re worried. You keep going to crack your knuckles and then remembering you did it already. And you obviously cut yourself shaving. Did you forget how? You should really have someone do that for you, you’ve always been a complete bumbler.”

“I didn’t forget how,” Eammon started defensively, “I just hadn’t in a while. And I don’t like people doing that for me, it makes me feel…” he caught himself.

“Like royalty?” She finished.

He gave her a look.

“So,” she started again, “why so nervous?”

Eammon let out a short laugh. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously!” Sarai said. “It’s just a girl, Eammon, and we all do it. We get set up by some ancient alignment and a paper signed by spooky shadow people on some island in the middle of the ocean, and then we meet who ever we’re told to, we smile, we talk, and we get married. It’s the same for everyone. It’s nothing to be nervous about.”

He looked at her firmly. “Really? You weren’t nervous? Not even a little?”

She shrugged. “Not really. I mean it’s set in stone. What do you think will happen? She’ll get a good look at you and go running back to her mountain?”

He tried to laugh like that wasn’t exactly what he had been thinking.

“It’s hard, leaving your home,” Sarai said, voice lowering in sincerity. “That’s always the hardest part. It’s strange, and honestly, it is terrifying. We’re all raised to love our land, our homes, more so than anyone else. We’re the caregivers, the protectors, it’s (in?) our blood. It’s our purpose. And then suddenly we’re told to throw that away and give all that love and all that care for something else: a new family, a new country, a new ‘home’. It seems like an impossible challenge to become such an important part of something that new. I know. And she’s learning that now, wherever she is.”

“I just want her to be happy,” Eammon said. “I don’t want it to be hard. I want it to be easy for her.”

“Well, it won’t be,” Sarai said firmly. “So, you’d better stop thinking about it like that right now. It’s going to be the hardest thing she’s ever done. The best you can do is not make it any harder. And you’ll know if you do that right.”

“How?” He asked.

“Because,”  she smiled. “You’ll become home for her before anything else does.”

Eammon sighed and sat in the chair he’d been leaning against. “But how do I do that? I just want her to know… I just want to make it easier.”

Sarai bit one lip. “What do we know about her? Is it true what the news says - that she’s been living alone in a monastery with her brother since she was two?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Fuck me,” Sarai stared off into space, before focusing again. “Well, they’re star-eater’s aren’t they?”

Eammon winced, “I’m not totally sure they like that name.”

“Sorry,” she said, “we don’t get many on my side of the world.”

“But, yeah - they do a lot of star worship. I’ve been trying to learn about it…”

“So, that’s something,” Sarai said. “We have plenty of stars.”

Eammon smiled. “I suppose so.”

“You could take her to The Site - where the first one landed,” she suggested.

“Yeah, that might be nice. I should.”

“When’s she coming?”

Eammon swallowed. “Tomorrow.”

“That’s right,” she muttered. He couldn’t imagine anyone forgetting that date. He’d had it blazed across his brain like a brand for months now.

“I’m excited to meet her. I want to see just how real that purple hair is,” Sarai said. She stretched as well as she could and let her head fall back. “Now, I’m very happy to see you and all that, but I wasn’t kidding about that nap.”

Eammon stood. “Don’t worry, I’ll find Jozef.”

“And get him some new clothes to wear, could you?”

“Yeah, of course.”

He left her in the breeze and the softness of her bed, the sound of grasshoppers drifting through the window.

The day circled around them, unfolding piece by piece. He was glad they were there with him. He couldn’t imagine spending this day with nothing to distract himself, and Jozef turned into a pretty diverting distraction.

They spent most of the afternoon in the fields and the stables. He’d never seen a horse in real life before, let alone touched one. Then  he ended up meeting half the herd one at a time. He stood with fearful eyes, reaching out bravely and slowly,  falling back again when they shook their heavy heads suddenly. But each time he reached out faster and firmer and before the end of the day he hardly spooked at all.

Sarai was awake again for dinner- the cooks had prepared a meal especially for her. It had been a long while since she’d had anything that hadn’t arrived on her table by boat, so a farm fresh meal was over-due. There was fresh arugula with thinly shaved salted meat and heavy ripe goats cheese. They had  beef cut right from the loin- lightly grilled on wood fires and paired with shallots and ripe roasted onions in perfect purple spheres, and bulbous bread still steaming with newly churned butter, white and pillowy waiting to be spread.

She consumed everything that slid in front of her, but lasted hardly half an hour after stuffing herself before needing to collapse into bed once more.

Eammon wasn’t so lucky.

Sleep found him in fits, edging around his mind with tempting whispers only to be flung back again as the realities of tomorrow slashed back. He tried to shut his eyes, turn over, focus on small things that would distract him - the sound of the insects singing in the grass outside, the clinking of bells as the cows wandered in the field under the moonlight, the gentle knocking of the stable door in the breeze, but none of it stuck. Through it all was only the picture of the girl, the wide eyes staring back at him as if he was something to be afraid of.

Eventually, after all the sheets in the bed were too warm to be comfortable any longer he stood and wandered towards the window. Leaning against it heavily he looked out, bare arms against the wood of the frame. The moon was bright, bright enough to cast firm shadows all through the fields. Everything was drenched in blue and grey, sharp shapes and lines. He could see the forms of cows lying heavy in the dry grasses, or standing, heads low as they idly fed. Above them all the stars shone hard and constant: summer stars, crisp in the dry air.

Below there was a soft noise, and he let his eyes go to it. A woman was standing against the gate of a fence, just a dozen or so meters from the house, by the stables. He recognized Sarai instantly, her posture, the roundedness of her figure, the way she lifted her arm to brush her hair from her face.

After a moment, another shadow joined her: young, slight, enough confidence in her step to label her as one of the stable girls, but he couldn’t be sure which one. They stood close, seemingly talking, though he couldn’t hear the words. The girl’s hand slipped through Sarai’s, and she in turn ran a few fingers along her jaw until they found their way into her hair, easily pulling her close. They kissed, alone in the moonlight. They stayed like that for a moment or two, and then moved on, hands knitted together, off to someplace else.

Eammon stopped watching. He looked back to the stars, and eventually, he let himself fall back to bed.

He woke late. The sun was already half way across the floor by the time he opened his eyes, and he found himself swearing as he tumbled out of bed and across the floor.

He reached for his work pants only to catch himself half way and pull on the clean shoes, khakis, and dress shirt that had been laid out for him particularly for this day. He did up the buttons as quickly as he could, frowning at his worn boots on the floor all the while.

As soon as he was out of his room the day came into focus. The household was all action: a servant bustled past him with arms full of towels, another was moving up the stairs balancing two vases packed with flowers in each arm. The smell of fresh bread, bacon, and buckwheat pancakes floated through all of it, no doubt already laid out down stairs and ready for guests.

He hurried for the stairs, glancing at his watch. It was hardly fifteen minutes until the arrival time. He hit the bottom of the steps hard, turning towards the door.

“Whoa there,” Sarai’s voice called, her warm hand catching his arm.

He let her stop him, turning to her, out of breathe, eyes hesitant to stay in one place.

“Hey,” she said, locking her eyes on his and smiling firmly. “What’s the rush?”

He took a deep breathe. “They’re not here yet?”

“Not yet,” she said calmly. “Soon. We’ll go out in a minute, alright?”

He nodded quickly, swallowing. He’d been rushing so fast he hadn’t had time to feel sick but now the nerves were creeping into his stomach like vines. He focused on Sarai’s hands on his arms.

She stepped back. “Let’s have a look at you. Come on, chin up.”

He looked at her, posture shifting to as straight as he could manage.

She smirked, looking over her shoulder to where her son was waiting behind her. “What do you think Jozef?”

He glanced over, as if he was surprised to be spoken to. He looked Eammon up and down. “Fine.”

“Well, we can do better than that.” She grasped his shoulders and pushed them back like she always did, then reached for his sleeve and unbuttoned where it was tight to his wrists.

“Hey!” He called. “That’s not…”

“Trust me,” she said, already neatly rolling up the right one or two clean cuffs. She did the same for the left and unbuttoned the topmost button by his neck as well. He waited patiently, trying to resist the urge to crack his knuckles.

She swept his hair back and then mussed it slightly. “There.” And finally she reached into her pocket and pulled out a small mint. “Open.” She commanded, and he did. She popped it into his mouth. “Helps with the nerves.” She smiled.

She gripped his shoulders and turned him to face his nephew. “There, how about now.”

The boy smiled shyly. “Good.”

“Great, we’ll take it,” she said.

Outside there was the sound of a car and the suddenly bustle of voices. He could already hear the snapping of cameras. They hadn’t allowed much press, but a certain amount was unavoidable.

“I think they’re here,” he said, staring at the door.

“Sounds that way,” Sarai agreed. She nodded at the servants by the doors, as they pulled them open she linked her arm around his, firm and strong, walking him out into the sunlight.

It was another brilliant day and he blinked hard despite himself as soon as they emerged. Just his luck. He would probably be blinking on the cover of every paper tomorrow. The cameras snapped all around him. He could see the press sectioned off to either side of the front steps, and between them, his mother’s state-car was parked.

Her security men exited first, moving toward the doors, and the presses’ attention shifted away from him. The doors opened and his mother stepped out, smiling for the cameras and the brilliance of the day. She was still dressed for the city, simple elegant linen suit and a black silk scarf. He was sure he could never look as royal as she did even in the most rich of clothes. It was her posture, the angle of her chin that said it all. He had none of that. She waved at Eammon and he felt her comfort easing against him, helping him breathe a little better.

She reached into the car behind her, a pale thin hand took it, and Linnea stepped out of the car.

It was always strange, seeing people you had only ever seen in photographs or on television. They look the same, and although you expect that somehow it feels like they shouldn’t, that there should be something different between image and reality. But there isn’t, because why would there be?

She was shorter than his mother but not by much. Slighter, thin and light, with gentle limbs that seemed to speak of bones as weightless as a bird’s. She wore layers of silk, with little to no skin shown, all lavender, violet, and indigo with slashes of ivory and pearl in-between.

Her hair really was purple: pale and luminance against the brilliance of the day and the clarity of the air. It was arranged back onto her head, held in place with delicate and finely designed pins which made it look like some precise and untouchable sculpture.

She looked around her, at the land, the gathered people, the press, all with an air of someone looking but not truly seeing, as if there was too much to absorb all at once. There was a distance, a hesitance to the dark blue of her wide eyes that couldn’t be avoided, and lurking under all of it that fearful expression he’d worried over.

The cameras snapped frantically all around her, voices calling out. She shut her eyes for a moment against it all, holding onto his mother’s hand tighter as she led her up the steps.

“Shoulders,” Sarai muttered at him. He straightened, and then suddenly realized he still had the mint in his mouth. What if he choked on it when he tried to say hello? Or somehow it flew out of his mouth and landed on her? He swept his hand up to his mouth and spat it out as discreetly as he could manage, tossing it into the grass at the side. When he looked up again she was in front of him, and for a moment, he couldn’t see anything else.

She was beautiful. Almost impossible. There was something luminescent in her eyes. All star light. All distance.

He was vaguely aware of his mother hugging Sarai close off to their right, running a hand over her stomach, kissing Jozef on the cheek.

Eammon smiled, all too aware of how ridiculous and lopsided he looked when he did. “I’m Eammon.”

She nodded, looking down at her knitted hands. “Yes.”

He felt like he should maybe do something confident and endearing, like swipe a strand of her hair from her face. But he was afraid if he tried it he’d get it wrong and the whole artful arrangement would fall apart in two seconds. If there was a puddle she needed to walk over he could lay a coat down over it or something like that. He was suddenly more disappointed than ever it hadn’t rained in a month.

“Did you have a good trip?” He asked helplessly.

She looked up at him, and again, he couldn’t help feeling stunned by the depth in her eyes.

“Yes,” she said. “It was long.” Her voice was so gentle and soft he was sure if he was a foot further from her he wouldn’t have heard it.

“It must be warmer here than your home,” he tried, and gods that was stupid. She lived on the top of a mountain, of course it was warmer here.

“The air is different,” she said softly, glancing around as if she was unsure of herself.

“Oh, yeah?”

She glanced at him. “It’s heavy.”

He laughed and her eyes widened in worry. He swallowed it roughly.

“Was that wrong?” She asked.

“What?” He stared. “Oh no, no, sorry, I just, it’s pretty dry here. Not that you were wrong! Obviously you know if it’s different. I just mean, well, compared to other places, or even other times - of the year I mean. It’s dry. I guess… comparatively.”

Her look was nothing but confusion.

“So, you see my son,” his mother said, sweeping into the rescue and smiling kindly at the girl.

“Yes, your Majesty,” she answered.

His mother put a gentle arm around the girl’s waist and a firmer one around Eammon’s turning them towards the cameras with a ease he’d never understand.

“I think we’ve given them enough to work with,” she whispered between them. “Should we head inside?”

The girl nodded softly.

“Good,” his mother smiled, and together they all turned, pushing out of the sunlight and into the cool of the house.

Eammon watched her as she entered, her wide eyes turning all around, taking in the entire space with the same distant fearful expression. He wondered what it would be like, to enter a new place and try to sculpt it in your mind into a definition of home. There would be edges that didn’t fit right, and either you’d have to try and shear them off or change your own shape to fit against them.

“Welcome,” his mother smiled, sighing out of the sight of the press.

“It’s very beautiful,” she said, as if she thought it was the right thing to say.

“Of course we are happy to do anything we can to make you feel more at home,” his mother said. “Isn’t that right Eammon.”

“Yeah,” he cleared his throat. “Right, of course. Anything.”

“Is this where we will marry,” she asked, glancing at the floor shyly. “Tomorrow?”

Eammon began coughing violently.

“Tomorrow?” Sarai laughed. “God, I hope not.”

The girl looked back at them in confusion. “I’m sorry, I thought—“

“In the mountains things move a little faster,” his mother picked up. “I know your brother was just married, wasn’t he, to the princess from Marigemma?”

A sudden sadness darkened her face. She nodded once.

“We think that it would be better for you to get to know us, the country, before joining it in a more official capacity,” his mother continued.

“Official capacity,” Sarai mocked quietly.

“So,” she began. “How long until…?”

“We were thinking a fall wedding might be nice, during the harvest season.” His mother said.

“Oh,” she was surprised.

“You must be exhausted,” Sarai said approaching. “Come on, let me show you your rooms.”

The girl nodded gratefully and Sarai led her up the steps.

She moved strangely. Eammon had spent his life around folk who were used to pushing animals far larger than they were where they needed to go, who turned the earth with their hands and made the seasons their own. They were people made of heavy steps and worn hands and sun kissed shoulders. She was different. Watching her next to Sarai was like seeing the sun and the moon in the same sky. Sarai was all light and energy, glowing with life and vibrancy. But Linnea, she hardly seemed to touch the ground when she walked. She looked everything around her as if she were miles away, just glancing at things she couldn’t touch or ever truly feel a part of.

“What do you think?” His mother ask, stepping closer and the women crested the stairs and moved towards the rooms off to the west.

Eammon stared after them, watching the space she’d left empty. “I think I’m lucky.”

His mother smiled at him. “Very.”

[divine--right]

Metra and Fillius

by Lyra

____________________________________________________

The morning was bright and baking. The sun danced along the fields, folds of grass shifting and turning under a soft breeze. The smell of warmth and cut hay was chased along the hills, easing between the scent of manure and horses. The herd was scattered across the fields, some chasing each other with half hearted commitment, while the rest nosed into the grass, all dew already burnt away under the sun.

Eammon turned on his radio. The newscaster’s voice fizzled into life.

“—many memorials are being carried out all across the nations to commemorate the event. Unfortunately even now, a full year after the Midnight Broadcast was carried out, The Glory Land is still filled with conflict, factions battling for control with the loss of the royal family.”

Eammon whistled between his teeth to the mare nearby. She perked up her ears and stepped quickly towards him. The sun shone off her white flanks as she approached, tossing her head back and forth. She was getting close, bigger than she had been in months with the life growing inside her.

“Inara Asanji continues to bring us word from inside the borders. We head to her now for an update on how this wrought nation is commemorating the loss of their royal family and two-hundred thousand other lives.”

Eammon ran a hand through his blonde hair. His chest was bare, tan shoulders freckled with the sun. The mare reached him, he let his hand trace down around her side as the radio changed over to the field reporter.

“Yes, thank you Jane. I’m coming to you from the capital city, where much of the conflict in the aftermath of the Midnight Broadcast is still centered. The city remains an area of contention between the four main factions that have been trying to gain control of the population. Shots and explosions are still being heard all across the nation, but today it seems there are fewer then there have been.

Walking past the ruins of the palace and national square, there are a few candles scattered along the stones. It’s still very dangerous for anyone out on these streets, but it seems that despite that risk the people of this nation are making some effort to express their sorrow on this the anniversary of such a devastating, and internationally shocking event.”

Eammon sighed and squinted up against the brightness of the sky. It was a pale day, clear blue, like a simple glazing separating them from everything beyond. Metra, the planet their home of a moon orbited, sat constant and all encompassing in the sky, just scrapping the hills on the horizon, her wide circular shape shifting with gases and dulled colors. They weren’t the only moon following her orbit, Fillia and Fillius were there too. This time of year Fillus was always smaller, off as a silver near the southern horizon. Soon he wouldn’t be visible at all. Fillia was larger, full and round as the flesh under his hands, resting by Metra’s side loyalty.

“What is the main concern inside the borders at this time, Inara?” The news reader’s voice returned. “Is it basic provisions for the citizens, is medical attention necessary? Are people trying to find leadership again or is it just personal security that matters now?”

“Well Jane, it’s hard to know exactly. The nation has been very closed off, and journalists have had severely limited access. These are the first several weeks I have been able to get inside the borders to speak with these citizens in over eight months. The fighting factions have sealed off the borders and control various points of entry. There’s a fear that anyone entering could be carrying supplies and weapons for one group or another. As you know shortly after the event all nations under The Graces signed a pact to refuse military support in any direction for the sake of non-interference, since there is no distinct claim on the throne, or what remains of it. The civilians are still trying to exit the country, an act made near impossible  by  the fighting, which has not abated for over a year now.”

Eammon wanted to turn it off, focus on the horse in front of him, and listen to  nothing but the sound of the fields and the animals. He wished the world wouldn’t touch some places. But it did. So he left it on.

Off to the east a shape was moving closer. He squinted at it, shading his eyes from the sun. Red horse, that meant Katlyn. She’d want to know how far along the mare was. He held the horse steady, patting her on her side as they waited.

“We will be bringing you updates from Gloriaterra as often as we can today, as well as coverage from many of the memorials taking place across the nations.”

Katlyn was riding fast, always so fast in the morning, dark hair trailing out behind her. The radio droned on behind him, but he stopped listening.

Katlyn’s stallion snorted as she pulled it to a quick cantering halt next to him. “How’s our Prince this morning?”

She was teasing him. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone called him that outside of the palace or abroad. Especially not in the fields. He wasn’t his mother after all. She was always her title, and it came effortlessly from all, as if there was nothing else she possibly could be besides Queen, Mother, Majesty.

He was Eammon, just about everywhere, and nearly always.

“You shouldn’t ride him so hard,” Eammon said, reaching out to pat the stallion who was still pacing eagerly.

“Boys like that in the morning,” she winked, swinging her leg and bouncing down to her feet.

“How would you know?” He grinned.

“I hear stories,” she smiled back.

She stepped closer, looking the mare up and down. Katlyn was all jeans and loose linen, dark hair falling free and cheeks flushed from the ride. Pretty, as always.

He wondered sometimes what the girls on the farm thought of his looks. He was twenty-two after all, he was allowed to wonder about things like that. He didn’t have the wide-frame that filled in with solid strength like other men in the services or out on the fields. Jon who helped Viola down in the forge was at least three time Eammon’s size and three years younger still.

It wasn’t that he was weak. He just wasn’t particularly strong. At least that was what Sarai used to say to him. She’d also said his hair looked like the hay they shoveled out with the compost, and well, maybe it did, but she’d always conceded that he had decent eyes: kind and warm and always ready to take in more of the world. Calves eyes she’d said, which he’d hated when they were eight. He still had an eight year old’s clumsy smile, but that wasn’t a total loss, and brightness made up for art in that department at least.

“She’s almost there,” Katlyn said, feeling down the mare’s sides carefully.

“I know, seems crazy doesn’t it,” Eammon said. “It always happens so fast.”

Katlyn petted the mare’s mane down her back, easing her fingers through it thoughtfully, eyes focused. “Sarai should be here.”

“Running a country is more important than watching her horse give birth,” Eammon smiled.

Katlyn rolled her eyes, as if that’s exactly what she thought of that.

“How is she?” She asked finally.

“Oh, you know, Queenly,” Eammon answered. “Busy.”

“Especially now...”

“Especially now.”

Ever since the Midnight Broadcast Sarai’s new home had done twice the business as a major port. Some more insensitive broadcasters were calling Lenexa the new Rhodyne. Godwin and Sarai had been dealing with the increase marvelously. His mother was very proud of her, and so was he.

The radio was still droning behind them. Katlyn gave it a sharp look and Eammon switched it off.

“Thanks,” she said. “It’s all bullshit anyways, wedding dresses one minute and bloody murder the next. I don’t know why you listen.”

“Part of the job,” he said.

“Is she happy?” Katlyn asked.

“Who, Sarai? Yeah, of course.” He wasn’t sure if it was a lie.

“Do you miss her?”

Eammon looked back at her as he ran a hand down the neck of the mare. He remembered when Sarai first got this horse. She’d been so proud, naming her just right: Rhealla, vehicle of war and strength. She’d rode circles around Eammon for hours until he was almost tired of asking her for a go, and then she’d finally let him. They’d ridden together on her all day, and then most of that week, ripping through the fields as fast as they dared.

He’d always had Sarai. She’d always been a sister, even if she was truly only a cousin. He’d never had a real sibling, something he was never allowed to forget. If he had a sister, everything would be different.

“Of course I miss her,” he said. “Do you?”

Katlyn nodded half to herself. Eammon remembered the first time he saw them together, Sarai leaning over the door of a stable to pull Katlyn close. Sarai had always had girls around the farm, she and Katlyn had been close for years, riding together, falling into fields wet with night-dew and kissing under the light of Metra and her children.

Every girl on the farm had been with more women then he had. Most of the men too. Katlyn always teased that if they ever really needed a good harvest they could just sacrifice him since he was the biggest virgin of them all.  It wasn’t that he’d never had chances, moments. Sure, there were a few quick kisses, maybe a handful of longer ones, but the moments passed and he let them sweep by.

Sarai said it was because he was as awkward as a new colt around girls. But maybe it just wasn’t his time. He might have told her the stars hadn’t aligned yet, if he didn’t think she’d laugh her ass off for a week if he tried.

Eammon’s radio buzzed against his hip with sudden ferocity and he pulled it free.

“Eammon—“ the voice crackled through, “Her Majesty would like to see you.”

“What?” Eammon gaped. “When did she get here?”

“Ten minutes ago. She needs to see you.”

Eammon sighed as he leaning over the horse, rolling his eyes dramatically at Katlyn who smiled back. “When?”

“Now,” The voice crackles back, “she’s waiting at The Grange.”

“I’m on my way,” Eammon said. He snapped the radio back to his hip and swept his shirt off a nearby fence post.

“Duty calls,” he said.

“Take Jory,” Katlyn said, tossing her head in the direction of the stallion, “sounded urgent.”

“What about you?”

“I’m going to stay with her a while, make sure everything’s progressing as it should. Whenever Sarai comes back she should be able to see a healthy little one.”

Eammon nodded. He snatched the top of the worn saddle and swung easily up onto the red steed’s back. It instantly started pacing under him, eager to continue it’s ride. He kicked it once and they were off.

The Grange was the same as it had always been. Eammon had always thought it aged as well as the land around it. It never seemed to slowly fall apart like other houses and buildings, just shifted, easing into each season and out of it again with the stolid acceptance of the stones under it. It wasn’t nearly the size of their palace in the capital, but it was the home they spent most of the year in and had to be accommodating in that sense. The base was stone, cut directly into the rock beneath, the rest was made of ancient weathered timbers that stretched up to the elaborate shingles of the roof. Balconies and wide windows looked out from the various folds of the house to the fields and farmland surrounding the property.

It was large enough to host at least thirty guests, with ten suites and five diplomatic rooms. There was a conference hall and a small ballroom that opened up into an expansive stone portico and vast field for events and occasions. There was even a steel-encased panic room in the basement that sealed off and opened the way to an escape tunnel that only he, mother, and their own body guards knew about. His mother had always hated it. She said that if there was an attack she’d be on the roof with her rifle before sealing herself in some room. He didn’t doubt it. In fact he was sure no one did. Christa, the head of her guard, probably had a secret plan on how to efficiently render her unconscious to prevent any hassle if such circumstances did arise.

Eammon skidded to a halt just in front of the door, jumping down and giving the stallion a good pat. A few of the girls from The Grange’s stable headed over to guide the horse away, and Eammon finished buttoning up his flannel shirt, stepping up the stone lined steps to the main house.

The door was opened for him. He remembered when they’d had hardly any staff here at all, a few cooks, the stable and farm help, one or two security women, basic upkeep. But the Broadcast had changed all that. There was always more security now. It wasn’t nearly what he’d seen in other royal households, but he still couldn’t help noticing it. The house always felt three times as full with his mother in it. It wasn’t just the extra hands she had to bring along, or the security requirements her position merited, there was something about her that filled rooms, like sunlight pouring into a space. Home felt like home when she was in it.

He could feel her in the house now, in the slightly straight spines of the servants, the quicker steps of everyone inside, that sense of warmth and action filling up the place.

“She wanted to see me?” Eammon asked a nearby man. The servant stopped, George, Eammon was almost sure. He was carrying his mother’s tack. She always had to go riding as soon as she got out of the capital. Eammon was surprised she waited to speak to him first.

“Yes,” Probably George said, “she’s in the library, waiting.” He put particular emphasis on the last word, causing Eammon to double his pace until he got there.

The heavy wooden door opened silently under his rough fingers and he stepped inside. His mother’s back was to him. She was standing by the window, looking out over the fields. Her long hair, the same dirty blonde as his own, was tied up with twine behind her head, simple and elegant. She wore sturdy linen, no ornamentation besides a few silver bangles on her strong wrists.

He shut the door behind him with a small click, and when she turned she was smiling.

“Eammon,” she opened her arms to him, “there you are.”

He grinned and let himself walk into her embrace. She smelled the same as always, like cut wheat and rain-clogged springs. She was always so warm to the touch, and still an inch taller then him. He was starting to think she always would be.

He pulled back and she held his face like she always did, squinting her sharp eyes in a way that made the lines encircling them spring to life.

“You didn’t shave.”

“Not this morning,” Eammon tried.

“Not for a few mornings,” She corrected.

“No good?”

She scrutinized a little closer and finally tousled his hair. “Very manly,” She teased, letting go for good.

“Go on, sit down,” she said, gesturing to the chair across from the wide oak desk that had always held a spot in the library. “I need to talk to you.”

“Sounds serious,” Eammon joked as he slid into the seat.

She didn’t say anything. Her smile remained, small, patient, and suddenly his stomach felt tighter than it had. It was serious. Whatever it was.

“Tonight we’re going to the capital,” She started.

“There’s an event?” He asked. He usually only went to the capital when he absolutely had to. She was the Queen, she handled that end of things day to day.

“A memorial,” she continued. “We’re lighting a vigil for what was lost during the Broadcast.”

Eammon nods. Of course, he should have assumed it was about something like this. It was only right. But she remained where she was, unflinching. There had to be more.

“Why did you come all this way?” He began again, “You could have let me know, I could have just come on my own today. You didn’t have to come all this way just to head back again tonight.”

“No, I didn’t,” She answered. “I came because there’s something else, something we will be announcing after the memorial.”

The tightness in his stomach increased. “What?”

“Your wedding.”

For a moment there was no sound but the distant and gentle rustle of the household around them.

Eammon stared. “I’m… getting married?”

“Yes. In eight months.”

“Eight months?”

She nodded quietly.

He stared at the empty expanse of the desk for a long time. “How long have you known?”

She folded her hands on the surface in front of her. “We signed the contracts ten years ago.”

“We?”

“The royal families. We were convened and we all signed a series of agreements for The Graces to ensure the sanctity of our lines.”

“Why?” Eammon managed.

She frowned. “You know why. These past years have been full of unease and chaos. Kings and Queens are dying in all corners of the world without warning, The Great Doom saw an entire nation swallowed by the sea with only one survivor of the royal bloodline, and now, an entire family has been consumed by fire and there’s nothing but ashes and war where they once stood.”

Eammon watched her hands on the table. Her knuckles were knitted together, worn from work, only a plain gold band on one finger.

“This past year, three royal marriages,” Eammon began, “and before that, Sarai—?”

“The pact was very deliberate. The Graces arranged the couplings, and we all agreed not to raise argument with their decisions. They acted for the greater good as they always do, and we allowed them to do so.”

The Graces. He wasn’t sure anyone ever knew who they were, or how many there were. The only thing he knew was that they had always been necessary, pointing the way, trusted. Oracles, living amongst volcanic mountains in the middle of the sea, advising the rulers of the lands with letters and summons. Always unseen.

He imagined a bunch of black cloaked figures sitting around a moonlit stone slab matchmaking with glossy photographs. Crazy thought.

“Do you understand, Eammon?” His mother’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Do you understand what has to happen here?”

He looked up. His mother’s face remained calm, but there was a small line of worry against her forehead.

He swallowed. “Who is she?”

Something in his mother’s face relaxed. She reached into a pocket on her trousers and pulled out a small photograph. She slid it across the table.

Eammon lifted it. He was surprised for a moment at how steady his hands were.

“Her name is Linnea,” his mother said, “from Erraviquo.”

Eammon stared at the picture. It was simple, pale. It was a formal royal portrait. He had one of himself around somewhere. He wondered absentmindedly if the girl in the picture was looking at that one of himself now.

There were two figures in the photograph, a boy and a girl, both around his age, but there was something childlike about them he couldn’t quite place. The way the boy’s hand was on her shoulder reminded Eammon of how he used to hold Sarai when they were little, tight, constant, innocent, and maybe almost afraid.

The girl was seated, the boy standing behind her. There was no denying they were siblings. They looked so similar. Their cheekbones were high, their eyes soft and bright. Faces solemn, limbs slight and pale with a slight play of freckles. And their hair—

“They dye their hair?”

“Hm?”

Eammon held up the photo. “It’s, um, purple.”

“That’s their color,” she said. “It’s not dyed, it’s just how they are.”

Eammon gazed back at the photo. “Huh.”

He focused on the faces. The girl stared back at him. There was something so wary, like a lost creature that wasn’t sure weather to run or trust whatever was approaching it. The brother’s expression was harder. There was something burning there, something ready to lash out against whatever was getting closer to them.

“I heard…” Eammon started uncertainly. “Haven’t they been living in a cave or something?”

His mother gave him a stern look. “No, Eammon, they haven’t been living in ‘a cave or something’. They’ve been in seclusion. They were raised by priests and other religious figures after their parents died.”

Eammon tried to fill in the scene around those faces: mountains, hard and cold, sharp stones and brilliant snow. He imagined the stars overhead, brilliant and vast. Some people said that the stars were so numerous in those mountains that they outweighed the darkness in the sky. They said it made the people who lived in them mad, that they couldn’t see the ground any longer because the sky was so beautiful. But people said lots of things. They said his land was all women ruling men with the same lashes the raised against their animals. Showed what people knew. They never lashed their animals.

“What’s she like?” Eammon asked. He suddenly needed to know anything, everything.

9“You’ll have plenty of time to learn,” his mother said. “She’s arriving in less than a month.”