“Madam Queen, Chief Fontaine,” he greeted. He was a diminutive man, shorter than either woman, with close-cropped black hair and a white sash identifying him as a member of the capital staff. Post-war fashion had evolved from tattered rags to patchwork, and now to practical cool. All the men present, except for General Stark, wore shorts and unbuttoned vests or short-sleeve shirts with open collars. While women’s attire was required to be more modest—no bare-chested vests—they could choose between skirts, dresses, or pants, per their preference. Verdancia had reestablished the historical regional crop of cotton, rebuilt gins and mills, and carried on a modest textile industry using water wheels along rivers to power looms based on 18th- and 19th-century models found in books. It had been a slow process, wrought with setbacks, as her father’s generation had to relearn lost ways of doing things. The foundation of rediscovery and innovation they laid was beginning to pay off.Resilience.
“What shall I serve you? Lemonade, cucumber water, or a fresh peach wine?” He smiled politely as he polished the bar with a damp cloth.
Lou,Azaleen thought, as she tried to recall his name. “We have a meeting, so make it lemonade for me, please.”
“I’ll have the same, thank you,” echoed Sabine.
They took their beverages to a sofa with cream cushions and pastel throw pillows. Paintings from before the war hung on maroon walls trimmed in whitebetween tall, open windows overlooking the rear gardens. For an instant, Azaleen felt like Scarlett O’Hara from the classic novel,Gone with the Wind. Now, not only the Old South, but the entire world, was gone with the wind.
“There used to be more beverage choices,” she commented as she sipped the icy, sweet-tart drink. “My parents drank coffee and tea in the mornings, and something called ‘soft drinks’ in the afternoons. Then supplies of coffee and tea dwindled, raising their value so that they now must be reserved for special occasions.”
“My cousin Tatiana makes three fresh teas from dandelion,” Sabine said. “Tea made from the leaves has an earthy, slightly astringent taste, while the one made from the flowers is sweet and light. I’ve never had coffee, but my mother said that tea brewed from roasted dandelion root has a similar bold, nutty taste. I can get some from Tatiana if you’d like to try it.”
“I would,” Azaleen confirmed. “Thanks.” She shifted her gaze to Sabine’s earthy eyes, the color of a rich tea. “I don’t tell you thank you often enough. It seems there’s never time for Azaleen—it’s all consumed by Queen Frost.”
Sabine’s expression warmed toward her, a slight smile gracing her lips. “Speaking of which, the queen called for a meeting, which I’m afraid you must be on time for.”
“Indeed.” Azaleen sucked in a bracing breath and glided to her feet. Sabine followed, her posture equally perfect and her aspect every bit as regal.
“Your Excellency.” A fellow a decade older than Azaleen, wearing three days’ growth of beard bristle, brown homespun trousers, and a broad-brimmed hat, lumbered up to them. “I heard you called a meeting. That so?”
Silas Beaudean, Secretary of Agriculture, might have been aristocratic by birth, but he was an authentic man of the people. For generations, his family worked the land—corn, cotton, peanuts, watermelons, or whatever other crops came into demand. He’d outlasted storms, drought, blight, floods, fires, and ice, and he knew the soil as if it were part of him. He might not dress or speak like the upper class, but, before the Day the Sky Fell, his grandparents were the largest landowners in Old Georgia. People said you couldn’t spit without it falling onto Beaudean land.
“That’s right, Silas.” Looking up into his weathered face, Azaleen almost smiled. Seeing him always reminded her of Verdancia’s motto:From Root, Resilience. Silas’s roots ran deep, and he embodied the term resilience—exactly the kind of man she needed to help administer the most populous nation on the continent. “We’re heading upstairs now. Walk with us?”
She poised a hand, waiting for his arm to appear. With a country grin, he offered his forearm, and she laid her left hand over it. “I’d be honored, my queen.” Together, the three ascended the broad, arched stairway, with its red ribbon of carpet and smooth walnut railing, away from the remaining politicians, diplomats, aristocrats, and capital building staff to the most guarded enclave in the mansion—the war room.
Chapter two
Stars in the Dust
Six department heads gathered in a locked second-floor chamber with the queen and her chief of staff—a striking contrast of scuffed hardwood and Persian rugs. One wall sported open windows, the other three, cherry wainscoting and desert mirage plaster. Bookshelves loaded with volumes on history, law, government, philosophy, and diplomacy stretched across the far end. A harp that nobody knew how to play adorned a corner like a statue to a fallen hero of old.
Dominating the chamber stood an expansive table carved in the shape of the transformed continent. Azaleen’s father had brought her to see it when his carpenters and woodworkers first completed the map. She had been a teenager then, in awe of its beauty and detail. She’d spent countless hours admiring and studying it, moving markers around, marching Verdancian horses and flying hot air balloons into foreign lands. Her tutors used it as a tool to teach her geography, tactics, and environmental science. It wasn’t long before she’d memorized every town, mountain, river, and danger zone, dancing across them when she dreamed. Every so often, the map needed updating—a new hazard discovered, town incorporated, border altered, or other feature to add or take away. The craftsmanship and artistry of the table-map had always fueled her imagination.
Eight leather wingback chairs surrounded the table, interspersed with tea tables, leaving ample space to stand and interact with the map. Oil lamps affixed to walls and candelabras on pedestals provided substantial light for evenings orcloudy days. This afternoon, sunlight streamed in, illuminating dust particles that hung in the air like so many stars suspended in the breath of heaven. When Azaleen sat, the others followed.
“This meeting of the Verdancian council is hereby called to order. Her Excellency, Queen Frost, presiding,” Sabine announced, taking her seat last.
“Where’s Franklin?” Vera Sutherland asked, her tone more interrogative than concerned. She straightened, chin lifted with the authority of someone used to being obeyed. Her gray attire, dull compared to her peers, washed out her pale skin tone. With her frosted acorn hair arranged in a severe bun, reclaimed glasses perched on her nose, and a pencil poised over her ledgers at the ready, Vera embodied her post of treasury secretary.
“Mr. Pickett will not be joining us,” Azaleen replied straightforwardly, her anger over his absence having subsided.
“Damn fool got himself lost in a red zone’s what I heard,” Silas Beaudean grumbled, scratching his stubbled chin.
Another headache—now she’d have to find a replacement, Azaleen was reminded.Not the easiest job to fill. Dangerous. Requires tenacity and knowledge. Skills.The others tsked and shook their heads, mumbling with each other about Franklin’s reckless stupidity.
“Enough of that,” Azaleen declared. “Reports. Secretary Keane?” If Azaleen didn’t call on her, the demure woman, old enough to be her mother, might never open her mouth. Draped in brilliant jewel-tone fabrics and pre-ruin beads, possessing vibrant skin like fertile earth after rain, she appeared in stark contrast to the drab treasury secretary. She was a full-figured woman with a long, loose braid, who could recall the Day the Sky Fell in vivid detail. One might suspect she’d never missed a meal. Azaleen knew otherwise. Rosalind Keane suffered from a thyroid illness, one Nelanta’s doctors hadn’t the proper medication to treat.
“Three new libraries have been opened in Spartanburg, Murfreesboro, and Troy,” she replied in a delicate voice. “The salvage crews have discovered additional books in fair enough condition to be housed in them, along with duplicate copies of volumes found in our capital library. Counting Marchlandand River City, Verdancia now boasts six well-stocked public libraries.” A glow rose in her round cheeks. She fingered a light scarf that cascaded with color.
“Excellent,” Azaleen praised, though she wondered how many rural residents could read the books even if they wanted to.
“When the new school in Saltmarsh Reach begins its classes this fall, our kingdom will boast forty-six primary schools and ten gymnasiums for older children,” Rosalind continued. “According to our best reports, that’s more than any other Ashland nation—although, we can’t be certain about the Shattered Edge. We have so little contact with the Pacifica Confederation.” She lowered her gaze.
“Impressive, Secretary Keane.” Although Azaleen’s lips remained tight, she acknowledged Rosalind with a nod. “You have managed to double our number of schools in less than a decade.”
“Thank you, Madam Queen. If I may be so bold, there is the matter of funding for our capital’s proposed college,New Lyceum.The planning team has found a suitable building we can modify to accommodate the classrooms. The abandoned houses nearby can be repaired and turned into dormitories.”
