“It’s rather lengthy,” Camille said, concern etched on her face. “But the gist is that before they can sign a treaty, High Chief Batise wishes to look into your eyes, weigh your words, and glimpse your soul,” she stated, gazing straight at Azaleen.
“They want our queen to travel all that way—past the Core Cult and the Dead Coast—so their chief can look at her in person?” General Stark’s voice dripped with incredulity. “Preposterous!”
“I agree,” declared Rosalind Keane, eyes sharp, jaw set. “It’s too dangerous.”
“The logistics would be a nightmare,” Vera Sutherland added in a pointed tone.
Silas gestured toward the open windows. “Hurricane season is getting underway. That would create hazards for travel by boat or balloon.”
“There’s no safe passage through Appalachia,” Desmond Shaw reminded them as he fingered his hat between his hands. “Their borders remain closed, and if they caught you …” The implication hung in the air.
“Why doesn’t she come here?” Stark asked, his bushy brows drawn together in suspicion.
“We could request a compromise,” Camille suggested. “Maybe select a neutral meeting spot.”
Azaleen glanced around the room, the massive carved map table claiming the middle ground. Her cabinet mirrored the kingdom’s diversity. Three men, three women; two Black, three White, one mixed-race—two if you counted Sabine—whose ages spanned three decades. Seldom had they all agreed on anything. Yet, on this point, her cabinet stood in solidarity.
“We’ll find another way,” Rosalind asserted.
Azaleen rose, walked to the map. Peering down, she judged the distance from Verdancia to AlgonCree, the perils in between. Her focus shifted west, to the Red River Republic. The five thousand recruits from Clearwater had been dispatched, split between Fort Hammond, Fort Jasper, and New Charleston Point. She drew her finger through the Gulf speculatively.
“Queen Frost cannot leave the country when our enemy mobilizes his invasion forces,” Stark avowed.
Her gaze moved up the Mother River from Fort Hammond to Marchland and beyond. Stonevale was fortified to the northeast of Marchland, but only farmland and small villages lay between. Too many variables. Too many weaknesses. Not enough troops or ammunition.We need an ally. If Verdancia is to survive, if my father and grandfather’s vision of a peaceful refuge of hope is to endure, I must secure this treaty. While I focused on butter, Irons chose guns. Now he has nothing to feed his people, and I haven’t enough of an army to defend mine. Only the AlgonCree have remained receptive to peaceful relations. The Confederacy of Pacifica is too far away and disorganized. Our only hope lies with the Frostlands.
The secretaries had continued espousing reasons for Frost to stay put, proposing alternatives to the hazardous journey. She walked to the top of the map, taking up a position at the northeast corner. Lifting her chin, Azaleen adopted a regal posture and passed her gaze among her advisors.
“I’m going.”
Secretary Beaudean stopped mid-sentence. Silence fell as shock rippled through the room.
“You can’t,” Shaw proclaimed.
“I can, I must, and I will. I appreciate your concern, but the final decision is mine. My life is trivial compared to that of our nation. High Chief Batise wishes to meet me face-to-face. I can respect that. Camille, please compose a reply telling her I am honored to accept her request and will arrange travel immediately.”
“But, my queen—” Sabine’s voice faltered. Leaving her stance by the door, she took a tentative step forward.
Azaleen stretched taller. “This is my decision. It is the only decision. Without an ally, we might postpone the inevitable, but we won’t prevail.”
“Then I’m coming with you,” General Stark declared.
The queen met his eyes. “No, Rueben. You must remain here in case the Iron Army strikes.” Regaining her commanding air, Azaleen ordered, “In my absence, General Stark will be in charge of finalizing all decisions. Sabine will be here to see to the day-to-day running of the government. All of you must continue to operate your departments as usual.”
“But Your Excellency,” Silas protested.
Azaleen raised a palm, jaw set, eyes hard. “Secretary Navarro, I won’t order it, but I’ll ask—will you accompany me?”
“Certainly,” she replied without hesitation.
“But your security.” Stark rose to his feet in objection.
“I’ll bring VERT as an escort,” Azaleen said. “There’s a sailing craft, a cutter, that my father restored. It’s docked in New Charleston Harbor. We took a week-long trip on it when I was young. It’s a sound craft, and the wharf master keeps it in top condition. Shaw, dispatch a balloon at once to scout the weather in the Atlantic. I’d like to set sail no later than the day after tomorrow.”
Shaw nodded. “I’ll get on it. Madam Queen, are you sure you want to do this? It’s a tremendous risk.”
“My mind is made up. I will go, take the proper gifts, and meet with the chief so she may discern my sincerity. I also must impress upon them the danger Luther Irons poses to their nation. He has publicly proclaimed his commitmentto Manifest Destiny—which means eventually he’ll come for them too. Now that this is settled, let’s move on to the other business for the week.”
Shaw excused himself to send out the hurricane hunters, and the meeting proceeded on an uneasy note. Azaleen remained steadfast in her decision.
