Ch. 17: For the Length of a Song and Ch. 18: What It Meant

Chapter 17 — For the Length of a Song

A movement farther down the floor caught Hagen’s attention.

Carrow and Hestin were dancing together.

They had been arriving at court functions side by side for longer than Hagen had been alive. Hestin missed a turn. Carrow laughed. One of Carrow’s granddaughters applauded from the edge of the floor.

No one stared.

Hagen watched them for another moment.

Carrow had married young. His wife had died decades ago. There were children, grandchildren. His estate and succession had been secure before Hagen was born.

Hestin had two brothers, four nephews, and no title anyone particularly feared would vanish for lack of his personal contribution.

Men were afforded considerable freedom once the necessary heirs existed.

Sometimes even before.

A nobleman could marry a woman, father two children, then spend the next century conspicuously devoted to a man, and the court would congratulate itself on being broad-minded.

Women were not granted the same separation.

Their marriages carried the heirs inside them. Their pregnancies were visible. Their fertility was discussed by physicians, councils, families, ambassadors.

Practical, people called it.

As though practicality made ownership polite.

Serali followed his gaze. “What?”

“Lord Carrow has been attempting to teach Lord Hestin that turn for at least forty years.”

“Perhaps Lord Hestin dislikes it.”

“He dislikes being corrected.”

“A reasonable position.”

“He also dislikes stepping on Lord Carrow.”

Serali looked at him.

Hagen smiled. He had become very good at smiling.

Avalusia could have accepted his sister loving a woman. Hagen knew that. It might even have accepted one woman in particular for decades.

Quietly. Discreetly.

A companion whose rooms were conveniently close. A “close” friend whose place at court everyone understood and no one named.

Provided Allandra first married a man from a respectable family and that the private woman never interfered with the public husband.

The kingdom would have called itself tolerant while requiring Allandra to divide her life neatly between what she wanted and what her body owed the Crown.

Hagen hated how reasonable everyone would make it sound.

Everly’s birth had answered one question. It had not ended the court’s interest in asking others. One child was a fragile succession. The same people who adored his niece could discuss another royal pregnancy as though it were a precaution Allandra had neglected to take.

And even the limited discretion they might permit her would never extend safely to Serali.

Every touch could be recast as influence, coercion, espionage, alliance, claim, or treason. Every private kindness could become evidence of a foreign power’s access to the Queen.

Serali was not the sort of lover the court could agree politely not to notice.

Hagen’s hand tightened around hers before he caught himself.

Serali glanced up. “You are doing it again.”

“What?”

“Thinking.”

“Appalling habit.”

“Your face gets worse.”

“That is hurtful.”

“You stopped leading.”

“Ah.”

He corrected their path.

But the thought remained.

If the Mantle had chosen him, the question of heirs would have been his problem.

He could have married. He could have fathered enough legitimate little princes and princesses that Verya eventually declared the succession statistically secure and threatened anyone who raised the subject again.

He would have taken the responsibility seriously.

He had expected to.

And Allandra could have done whatever she damned well pleased.

Married a woman. Hells, she could have married another thirty years later if death made life cruel.

A third after that, if longevity and catastrophe combined with Allandra developing truly dreadful romantic judgment.

Hagen would have complained about the paperwork while signing every document.

The kingdom would have survived.

If she had chosen Serali—

Well.

Serali would still have brought Lyehira, Vulmar, foreign succession arguments, and enough diplomatic complications to kill three ministers.

But they would have been Hagen’s complications.

Allandra could have been his sister. A princess. A commander. An ambassador. A terror at council.

He could have absorbed the political cost.

Or at least stood between her and the people presenting it as a reason she ought to spend her life alone.

He did not imagine it would have been effortless. He knew the families, the interests, the objections. He had spent enough years learning how to answer them.

That was part of what being king would have meant.

The thought was profoundly unfair. To himself. To Allandra. To a past neither of them could alter.

Hagen knew that.

He still wanted, sometimes, to have been given the chance.

Serali stepped on his foot again.

Hagen blinked. “You do that whenever I become introspective?”

“You stopped leading again.”

“Perhaps you should take over.”

“I would kill us both.”

“Then I remain essential.”

“Unfortunately.” Her mouth twitched, then settled. “Is something wrong?”

“No.”

Serali looked unconvinced.

Hagen looked toward Allandra once more.

His sister had turned back to her conversation. Perfectly. Too perfectly.

“No,” he repeated. Then, because Serali deserved something closer to truth, he added, “I was thinking the crown makes simple things difficult.”

Serali followed his gaze.

Her hand tightened slightly in his. She did not look at Allandra for long.

“No argument there.”

Hagen looked at her.

Her expression had changed. Softer. Sad. Private.

Serali glanced back at him. There was a question in her eyes now, wary beneath the understanding.

Hagen gave her no reason to ask it. He could wait for Allandra to tell him what he already knew. Or she could choose never to tell him. That was a choice that she could keep.

“You know,” he said, “if you keep looking tragic while dancing with me, people will assume I am boring.”

“Perhaps you are boring.”

He turned her beneath his arm.

Serali managed it cleanly, then looked offended by her own competence.

Taken from NovelPhoenix, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

“There,” he said.

“What?”

“You improved.”

“I adapted.”

“That is improvement.”

Serali smiled.

Hagen saw Allandra notice from across the ballroom.

For a moment, his sister’s attention caught and held.

Then someone spoke to her, and she answered.

Hagen wished, suddenly and fiercely, that Allandra could walk across the room and ask Serali for the next dance.

That the Queen could be a woman for the length of a song.

Instead, Allandra stood beneath a crown she had never expected to wear.

And Hagen, who once had expected that crown to be his, held the woman he suspected his sister loved because he was the safer person to do it.

There was something grotesquely funny in that.

He almost laughed.

Serali eyed him. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“That is never true when you say it.”

“Family matter.”

“Worse.”

“Yes.”

The music began to resolve. Around them, couples prepared for the closing turn.

Hagen guided Serali through it.

She did not step on him.

“Excellent,” he said.

“Do not be patronizing.”

“I was praising you.”

The final note faded.

Hagen released her waist, then stepped back and let her hand slip from his.

One dance.

He had promised.

“Now the next person who asks you has to behave as though you belong here,” he said.

Serali looked toward the edge of the floor. A few guests were already looking away.

“They may still decide I am dangerous.”

“Probably. But they will have to find something more interesting to say about it.”

“You set a low standard.”

“It is court. We must begin somewhere.”

She shook her head, but her expression had softened.

Hagen glanced toward Everly, still watching beside Lessa.

Serali followed his gaze. “The director appears satisfied.”

“A demanding critic.”

“She will expect another.”

“Then she will have to negotiate with you herself. I have completed my commission.” Hagen bowed. “Royal Mage.”

Serali inclined her head. “Your Highness.”

He offered Serali his arm to escort her from the floor. She took it.

And as they walked back toward the edge of the ballroom, he thought that crowns were very good at deciding who belonged to a kingdom.

They were considerably worse at letting people belong to each other.

Chapter 18 — What It Meant

Allandra knew exactly why Hagen was dancing with Serali.

That did not help.

She stood near the eastern alcove with one hand wrapped around a glass she had forgotten to drink from and watched her brother place his hand at Serali’s waist.

Perfectly appropriate. Politically useful. Entirely innocent.

Hagen had brought Serali onto the floor and placed the Prince of Avalusia’s approval around her more efficiently than any proclamation Verya could draft.

It was helpful.

Allandra still wanted to remove his hand from her waist. Possibly from his wrist as well.

“Your Majesty?”

She turned her attention back to the Aurenne ambassador, whose tone remained impeccably polite.

Damn.

“I beg your pardon, Lady Talienne.”

“I was saying that Queen Celestine appreciated receiving a copy of your response to King Vulmar.”

“Then I hope she also appreciates our insistence that his next communication address the armed incursion.”

“Her Majesty has little patience for attempts to rename an attack a family disagreement.”

“An admirable quality.”

“And an interest in keeping the trade routes between our kingdoms peaceful.”

“As do we.”

Talienne inclined her head. “The distinction was very clearly stated. Lady Verya’s work?”

“Mostly. Prince Hagen contributed.”

The ambassador glanced toward the floor. “He appears to be continuing to contribute.”

“He has a talent for making political statements look accidental.”

“A useful quality.”

“Occasionally.”

A burst of applause drew Allandra’s attention toward the subscription tables.

Merrow had stationed himself beside the ledgers, signing one while listening to a proposal for restoring an old Watch memorial. Another representative waited with a folio bearing the seal of a historical preservation society. Beside them lay a subscription for the conservation of wartime correspondence.

Merrow signed that as well.

Of course he did.

The Spring Benefactors’ Gala existed to separate wealthy people from their money while allowing them to feel virtuous about it. Veterans’ relief. Temple kitchens. Apprenticeship funds. Hospital endowments. An astonishing number of historical societies, several of which Allandra suspected existed because their founders had once lost arguments with other historical societies.

Merrow funded a remarkable number of them.

He liked his name on donor lists. He also believed people with wealth and influence owed something to the communities that sustained them.

Allandra disagreed with him on a great many things.

That was not one of them.

On the floor, Serali laughed at something Hagen said.

The bond brightened.

Allandra felt the warmth before she quite saw Serali’s smile.

Talienne paused.

Allandra looked back at her.

“I have lost you again,” the ambassador observed.

“Only momentarily.”

“I have known you since you were seventeen.”

“That has never prevented you from requiring diplomatic courtesy.”

“No. But it allows me to recognize distraction.”

Allandra took a measured sip of wine. “Then kindly exercise discretion.”

“I always do, Your Majesty.”

Fortunately, one of the restoration patrons approached to claim the ambassador, leaving Allandra a moment in which no one required an answer.

Hagen turned Serali. She recovered the step and looked offended at having done so.

Allandra knew that expression.

Amusement moved along the bond, threaded with nerves.

She knew how Serali felt without touching her.

That should have been enough.

It was not.

Hagen could put a hand at Serali’s waist and make her safer. Allandra could do the same and make every decision concerning her newly suspect.

She had stopped pretending their relationship was truly secret.

Palaces contained servants who politely decided which things they had not seen.

Ivelle had accepted the explanation of a working dinner with an expression that suggested Allandra need not trouble herself with a more elaborate one. Lessa had developed a remarkable ability to discover urgent tasks whenever Allandra and Serali occupied the same room too long.

Some of the older staff had known Allandra when she was small enough to hide beneath banquet tables.

They looked at Serali with expressions Allandra preferred not to examine.

Fond ones.

Occasionally unbearably smug ones.

Mara had done excellent work in the servants’ hall. Frightening stories became less persuasive when someone could answer them with an account of the actual woman living upstairs.

The household saw Serali with Everly. They saw her speak to people whose names the court rarely bothered to learn.

They saw Allandra smile more.

Beyond the palace, people would have less to judge them by.

Rumors would spread. Perhaps they already had.

Allandra could manage rumors.

Given time, she could defend a relationship. There would be accusations of favoritism, questions about Serali’s appointment, claims that Vulmar’s daughter had insinuated herself into the Queen’s bed.

Allandra could answer those.

Serali’s oath. Her work. The council vote. First Sun.

There was a record of service, and Allandra would insist that people examine it.

The bond was different.

Her fingers tightened around the glass.

Someone would say compromised. It would not matter that Allandra could disagree with Serali quite easily and frequently did. They would ask whether the bond gave Serali unnatural influence. If Allandra’s decisions were truly her own.

Vulmar would use the accusation before the ink dried.

A darker thought followed.

There were ways to reassure a court worried about its queen’s attachments. A respectable husband. Another child. A public arrangement under which Serali could be dismissed as something private.

Allandra’s stomach turned.

She stopped there.

She would not spend tonight imagining how to make the woman she loved into an acceptable secret.

“Mama.”

Everly stood beside her. Lessa waited several paces away.

Her daughter’s gold slippers were damp at the toes.

Allandra looked down. “The fountain?”

“The fish splash.”

“I had gathered.”

Everly watched the dancers. “Uncle Hagen and Serali look nice.”

“They do.”

“Could Serali be Uncle Hagen’s romance?”

Allandra nearly inhaled her wine. “His what?”

“His romance.”

Of course.

Lessa had acquired a suitor recently. Since then, Allandra had fielded an expanding catalogue of questions about flowers, ribbons, garden walks, and why adults required so much time to decide whether to hold hands.

“Uncle Hagen does not have one,” Everly continued.

“As far as I am aware.”

“You do not know?”

“Uncle Hagen is allowed secrets.”

“Why?”

“Everyone is allowed secrets.”

Everly’s expression suggested this was a serious defect in family organization. “But he likes Serali.”

“He does.”

“And Serali likes Uncle Hagen.”

Allandra watched Serali step on his foot. “In her way.”

“So they could have a romance.”

“That is not quite how it works.”

“Why?”

“People have to want the same kind of relationship.”

“They both like me.”

Allandra’s mouth twitched. “An excellent qualification.”

Everly nodded. “And Serali already has a room here. And she comes to breakfast. And Uncle Hagen is already her friend.”

A structure was forming.

A dangerous one.

“If they had a romance,” Everly said, “then Serali would stay.”

Allandra’s chest tightened.

“Sunbeam,” she said carefully, “perhaps Uncle Hagen and Serali should decide their own romances.”

Everly sighed. “They take too long.”

Allandra laughed before she could stop herself. “That is sometimes true.”

“Lessa took a long time.”

Lessa turned her head. “Your Highness.”

“Perhaps romance requires patience,” Allandra said.

Everly looked horrified. “Why?”

“I do not know.”

“Mama.”

“I am being truthful.”

Everly considered this, then looked toward the floor. “Would Uncle Hagen have to bring flowers?”

“Possibly.”

“Serali might not like flowers. She doesn’t like flowers on her dresses.”

“No, she might not.”

Everly thought. “What about honey buns? She likes honey buns.”

“Not as much as you do.”

Everly leaned against Allandra’s skirts.

Allandra rested a hand against her hair.

She could not promise Everly that everyone would stay. She had already learned how badly promises like that could fail.

But Serali was here tonight.

The music resolved. Hagen stepped back from Serali and released her hand.

Allandra watched them exchange a few words. Serali’s gaze lifted briefly toward her.

Want warmed the bond.

Small. Carefully held.

Allandra’s breath caught.

Then Serali looked away.

Hagen offered his arm and escorted her from the floor.

Everly tugged lightly at Allandra’s skirt. “You have not danced.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I have been working.”

“At the ball?”

“Yes.”

Everly looked disappointed by the concept. Understandable. “You should dance.”

“With whom?”

She thought, then held up both hands. “Me.”

Allandra smiled. “I thought Uncle Hagen was your preferred partner.”

“He already had a turn.”

“We cannot have unfair allocation.”

“What?”

“Come here.”

She set aside her glass and took her daughter’s hands.

The musicians began a slower dance. Allandra led Everly toward the edge of the floor.

A few people noticed. Then more.

Everly looked uncertain. “I do not know this one.”

“We shall do our own.”

“Are we allowed?”

“I believe I can authorize it.”

Everly considered that adequate and stepped directly onto Allandra’s foot.

Allandra laughed.

“Sorry,” Everly said.

“You are not.”

“No.”

“One foot back.”

Everly moved the wrong foot.

“Other one.”

“Then why did you say one foot?”

“Excellent criticism.”

They moved badly.

Everly counted under her breath, lost count, and started again. Twice she tried to turn herself and nearly tangled in her skirts.

Allandra caught her every time.

“Serali is watching,” Everly announced.

Allandra did not need to turn.

Warm amusement moved along the bond. Tenderness beneath it.

“What is she doing?”

“Smiling. You should look.”

Allandra did.

Serali stood beside Hagen near the edge of the ballroom, her cheeks faintly flushed.

She was smiling.

Not the careful smile she gave nobles. Not the sharp one she gave Hagen.

Allandra’s heart hurt.

She wanted to hold out her hand.

Come here.

Everly would correct their steps. Serali would object to the instructions. Hagen would say something unbearable.

Allandra could imagine it too easily.

Then she saw the guests beyond Serali.

Watching.

She turned Everly again.

The dance ended with her daughter announcing that they had won.

Allandra did not ask what competition had been taking place. “You should sit for a while.”

“I am not tired.”

“Of course not.”

“I am five soon.”

“Not for several months yet.”

Everly sighed. “Five later.”

Lessa approached with a proposal involving water, which Everly accepted only after establishing that they could drink it near the fountain.

Allandra kissed the top of her daughter’s head and watched them go.

“Your Majesty.”

Serali had walked over to stand next to her, Pell several paces back and Orran farther toward the wall.

“You survived,” Allandra said.

“Barely.”

“Hagen?”

“The court.”

“Ah.”

Serali glanced toward Everly. “You dance badly.”

“You noticed.”

“Everyone noticed.”

“Cruel.”

“Accurate.”

The bond warmed.

Allandra wanted to say dance with me.

Beyond her stood Merrow at the subscription tables, several ambassadors, and a collection of nobles whose individual opinions did not matter until, collectively, they did.

Serali followed her glance.

Understanding crossed her face.

That hurt too.

“I would have said yes,” Serali said quietly, keeping her eyes on the room.

Allandra looked at her. “I know.”

A pause.

“Another time.”

Serali’s mouth curved faintly. “That sounds dangerously like a promise.”

“A hope.”

She looked at Allandra then. “Those are allowed.”

Behind them, another donor ledger closed. The musicians began again.

Allandra let herself remain beside Serali for another moment.

She could have that much.

For tonight.