“We simply do not have funds available,” Vera declared in a clipped tone.
“Queen Frost,” Rosalind addressed her in a more robust voice. “If our citizens aren’t taught factual history and continue to soak up fairytales, how will they learn not to repeat its mistakes? I know certain council members prefer the sanitized version that claims America was a blameless victim of foreign aggression, but—”
“Our parents and grandparents didnotstart that war!” General Stark thundered, his face reddening.
“Neither were they blameless,” Rosalind rebutted. “I’m old enough to remember.”
“Silence!” Azaleen held up a hand, her gaze sharp and unyielding. The tension in her neck and shoulders twisted tight enough already without listening to bickering advisors. She rubbed a throbbing vein in her temple.
“You are both correct. Our finances are stretched to their limits, and securing medical supplies and fostering a healthier population take precedence.” Withan empathetic glance at Rosalind, she added softly, “You know this.” She lifted her gaze, scanning the circle. “As for history, we must never bury facts simply because they are unpleasant. Speaking of unpleasant things, General Stark? What news from the borderlands?”
“Our spies report more rumors from the Iron Wastes,” he stated. He’d removed his worn, patched, olive green uniform coat, and his hat, pinned with his rank, lay in his lap, revealing neat, trimmed salt and pepper hair. “President Irons, the blowhard who talks out of both sides of his mouth, proclaims peace from the podium, yet plots to attack us in secret. He wants our food, our arable land, and he’s got most citizens of the Red River Republic believing in this Doctrine of Manifest Destiny he dredged up from the 1800s.”
Azaleen wanted to roll her eyes. She would have, had she not been presiding over an official meeting. No doubt, Vera would include it in her notes. While she’d never met her rival in person, she’d read some of his speeches and seen his likeness in the newspaper.Thank both the old and new gods that Grandfather had friends at The Atlanta Journal-Constitution. Five years after the ruin, they ventured back to Old Atlanta, got into the basement, and salvaged the ancient, iron, hand-operated presses. Brought back barrels of ink too.With no working radios, no television, no holograms, and no towers left to speak from, the printed word was king.
“The good part is,” Stark continued, “that he has no way of getting large numbers of troops across the Mother River without us spotting them and sinking their vessels before they hit our shores. I got a pigeon from Marchland just this morning. They’re disappointed the medicine didn’t arrive, as they’re suffering from an early malaria outbreak, but the troops are in good spirits, thanks to the musicians you commissioned for entertainment.”
Shipments sent in horse-drawn wagons over long, cracked ribbons of highways, once traversed in mere hours, were constantly at risk and often disrupted. Convoys had to detour around blast craters, and, if the road-clearing crews slacked off at their jobs, kudzu would take over, obscuring the roadway with relentless foliage.I’m grateful for the musicians. At least they seem to be taking the soldiers’ minds off their aches and pains.
“Skirmishes on the northern borderlines—warg, wildlings, bandits, a few mutants—but there always are. We’re doing our best to keep them out, but we can’t build a wall, and the troops are spread thin.”
Azaleen nodded—things she already knew. “Do you need more guns?” she asked, despite suspecting his answer.
Stark licked his lips and rubbed the back of his neck. “Guns aren’t the problem; we have more of ‘em than soldiers to hold them. It’s ammunition that’s in scarce supply. Still, I reckon our few cannons and the old-fashioned catapults and trebuchets we’ve got stationed up and down the river’ll keep those Iron Realm would-be invaders at bay.” He slapped his thighs with a satisfied expression.
“Thank you, General.” Azaleen shifted her attention to Diplomacy Secretary Camille Navarro. “Is there anything you can do to keep Luther Irons and his Iron Army at bay?”
The youngest advisor on the queen’s council, Camille was an attractive, mixed-race, Latina and Creole woman, fluent in English, Spanish, French, and Hausa. A daffodil sleeveless blouse, whose open collar drew Azaleen’s unbidden attention to the beads of sweat lingering there, contrasted with her dusky skin. Azaleen tamped the thought, refocusing. It had been too long; it would be longer.
Mixed race was so common in Verdancia that few citizens could trace a racially pure lineage. Although Azaleen’s fair skin, blue eyes, and palest blonde hair suggested the absence of Black, Hispanic, or Native genes, nobody cared. The only race that mattered here was the human race—mutants didn’t count.
Camille’s father had been King Edric’s ambassador to the West African Coalition, and, as a young woman, she’d spent five years abroad. Azaleen hadnotpicked her based on her alluring beauty, but on her qualifications.
“I’ve met with his diplomats several times over the past year,” Camille reminded her.
“A waste of time!” Stark interrupted. “They lie and say whatever Irons commands.”
Camille pivoted, regarding the general with polished grace. “Indubitably. However, I’m no fool. It’s how they say it and what they leave out that informs us all we need to know. And if you’ve any delusions about a preemptive strike, remember, that kilometers-wide river—with its bayous and swamps—presents the same barrier to our troops as it does to the Iron Realm’s. I’ve concluded that our efforts are best spent courting the favor of AlgonCree.”
“The Frostlands?” questioned Silas Beaudean, his brows shooting up in surprise. “Don’t they just huddle around in igloos, sustaining themselves on seals and blubber?”
“Hardly!” Camille looked appalled. Stark laughed. Rosalind buried her face in her palm.
Azaleen pinned her agriculture secretary with an icy stare. “The AlgonCree are the most prosperous of all the post-war nations of Ashland, based on my reports. In the past decades, the snows have lessened, and they enjoy a reasonable growing season. Additionally, their government is stable and trustworthy. Twelve years ago, when King Edric Frost sent a trade delegation, they established an agreement with the AlgonCree to trade our corn and soybeans for their handcrafted wood and leather goods. Our merchants brought home enough fine bows to equip most of our fighting men and women. They traded fairly and honored the arrangement.”
“Precisely,” Camille agreed. “We all know Appalachia is an isolationist nation—xenophobic to the core—and, quite frankly, unstable. I’ve been there. Talked to them. Listened. But the AlgonCree are resilient, like us, peaceful, and reasonable people. A powerful alliance—”
“A military alliance,” Stark inserted, sudden interest beaming on his face.
“We’d have leverage dealing with Irons,” Azaleen concluded. War was the last thing she wanted—but two against one? That changed the odds.
“More research into their customs and beliefs is warranted,” suggested Rosalind. “We don’t want to make a diplomatic misstep that might alienate our chances of becoming allies.”
“A trip to the far north will be expensive,” Vera pointed out. “We’ll need to raise more capital. Were you considering travel by ship or risking taking hot air balloons over the mountains?”
“Either way, you chance crashing or washing up onto Core Cult land,” Stark added, a worry wrinkle dampening his enthusiasm.
“The matter requires further study and planning, as Secretary Keane has stated.” Azaleen turned to Silas. “And what are our crop projections for this year?”
