“And now, I present to you, the Aurora Fancy Shawl and Jingle-dress Dancers,” boomed the announcer. Five men carried out a huge bass drum, laid it on its side, and sat around it with padded mallets. They started with a steady beat pattern, all tapping the drumhead in unison. Five dancers in full regalia entered, feet moving to the rhythm—a man in turkey feathers, a woman draped in a knee-length, deep plum shawl, dangling gold and silver fringe, and the other three in blue and white jingle dresses with rainbow accents. They cavorted, knees high, feet tapping, as more percussion joined in. At various points, one or more would sing in a language foreign to Azaleen. Then they were joined by two whoop dancers, mirroring each other’s movements as they added more rings to their routine.
When the dance ended, applause swelled, and the lead dancer—the striking young woman in the purple drape whose effortless movements captured the audience—lifted her arms in invitation. Every child in the lodge rushed forward, hopping down steps and darting around adults. The drums thrummed, and the dancers led the children around the plank floor of the arena as they kicked up their heels with glee. Parents and elders smiled, pointing and laughing as they enjoyed the little ones’ frolic as much as the professional performances.
Azaleen pictured Eldrin and Caelen twirling with the others, though more likely Caelen. Eldrin had shifted into true teenager mode, serious and broody, acting like he had something to prove.It’s just a phase,she told herself. All boys go through it—only he doesn’t have a father … no uncle, no grandfather on my side. The secretaries are too busy. Perhaps I can ask Luke to spend time with him, take him on a hunting trip, or something.The idea that the prince and heir might wish to go stay at Stonevale horrified her.I must find him a male role model in Nelanta.
Two days later
Azaleen and Camille sat outside the High Council Meeting Lodge, the AlgonCree version of a capital building, waiting their turn. Over the past two days, High Chief Batise had been conferring with regional chiefs as part of the annual gathering. The queen and her entourage attended the summer potlatch, where they were showered with attention, reveled in the food, storytelling, gala events, and especially the redistribution of wealth that took place during the event.
AlgonCree collected taxes like any government, mostly in goods rather than coin, which were used for infrastructure and defense. Azaleen had learned that Aurora’s hydropower produced the electricity for lights and other appliances throughout the city, as it did in various population centers, though a nationwide grid or mass communications network was still beyond reach. The surplus resources were then redistributed to towns and regions with the most need. Batise and her family gave away vast quantities of personal wealth to orphanages, the disabled, and the infirm. It was fair to say that no person went cold or hungry in the Frostlands.
So why don’t they have clocks?Azaleen drummed her fingers on the tea table between her and Camille.
She soaked in the lovely summer day—flowers in bloom, green leaves swaying in a gentle breeze, the sun high and direct. Azaleen had noticed how early it rose and how late darkness fell at this latitude. With summer days being so long,she imagined they were equally short in winter. She preferred the more even distribution they experienced at home.
Lark and the rest of the VERT team were out on a hike with a local guide, showing them the most beautiful vista on earth, while she sat here waiting. She was about to complain when a young woman approached. Upon closer inspection, Azaleen recognized her as the lead dancer from a couple of nights ago.
“Is Kookomis still keeping you waiting?” she asked, sounding just as put off as the queen. She shook her head and lowered herself into a vacant chair on the porch. “I love my grandmother, but she can be as slow as Christmas.”
Camille replied eloquently, “We understand the annual meeting of chiefs is of great importance, and it’s not our intent to encroach on High Chief Batise’s schedule. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. I’m Ambassador Camille Navarro, and this is Queen Azaleen Frost.”
“Renée Rivard.” A bashful smile washed over the young woman’s face as if she were embarrassed for forgetting her manners. “Just call me Renée.” She rose gracefully and extended both hands to Azaleen, then Camille. They both clasped hands with her in greeting. “I am so pleased to make your acquaintance. Our greeting word is kwey, which is like hello.”
“Kwey, Renée.” Azaleen practiced the new word. Renée stood as tall as Azaleen, her long, straight brunette hair loose around her shoulders. Nut-brown eyes brimmed with questions and bright energy, a picture of her generation’s hope. “I must say how much I enjoyed your dancing the other night. You truly have a gift.”
Her blush deepened. “Thank you. It’s what I love to do. Unfortunately, it isn’t an art I get paid for, and Kookomis has grand plans for me to take on some leadership position, most likely in diplomacy. Creator knows we need a push in that direction.” A nervous chuckle fell from her lips. She was about to return to her seat when the meeting lodge door opened.
Azaleen felt like she and Camille were in a receiving line as dozens of chiefs—most male, but a good number of female—streamed past, bowing and clasping hands. Each dressed according to the fashion of their ethnic groups. Itsurprised Azaleen how many appeared White, with others of African or Asian descent. Long hair, short, braids, headbands, cloth, buckskin, cotton, and furs were all represented, embellished with colors and styles too many to remember. She recalled the phrase, AlgonCree mosaic—many patterns to form one piece of art, separate yet cohesive.
Once the line of chiefs dissipated, a middle-aged, fair-skinned man with trim brown hair and admiral-blue eyes halted at attention before the queen. Standing taller than the women, he dipped his head, hands clasped behind his back. “Queen Frost, Ambassador Navarro,” he named in calm, crisp English. “I am Laurent Kewatin, Steward of Treaties for the AlgonCree government. It is my great pleasure to invite you to an audience with High Chief Batise. Renée, your grandmother wishes you to attend and observe.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
Kewatin frowned. Renée’s smile broadened.
Shooting Renée a hard stare rather than a verbal reprimand, the steward extended an arm. “If you would please come with me.” He ushered the women inside.
Past a lobby and several offices, the lodge widened into a rustic, inviting conference hall where Batise occupied the middle seat at a large, oval cedar table. The flags of many people groups draped behind her, foremost among them the blue and white wolf banner of AlgonCree. Steward Kewatin offered Azaleen and Camille seats across from the high chief, while Renée slunk off to the farthest end of the table from his spot.
No love lost there,Azaleen presumed as she took her seat. She glanced around at the others present, recognizing Steven Batise from their first meeting. Also present were a broad-shouldered man with a crooked nose, a short, stout woman with a round face, and an olive-skinned man, his long hair streaked with silver. All other seats at the immense table lay empty.
“Thank you so much for making the time to see us, High Chief Batise,” Camille began in a grateful tone. “Aurora is such a beautiful community; it has welcomed us with open arms. We are honored by your hospitality.”
The old chief smiled, lines crinkling at her bright eyes. “Queen Azaleen is the first head of state to visit us. It is I who am honored. My steward of treaties, Laurent, whom you have met, was most certain you’d never accept our invitation. I consider it a win that you proved him wrong.”
Batise smirked at Kewatin, who opened his palms on the table, lifting a shoulder. “We’ve issued invitations in the past, but everyone deemed such a trip too dangerous.”
“Let me introduce the stewards of my council.” The high chief gestured to her right. “You’ve met Steven, my son, and beside him is War Chief Joseph Wasaykeesic, whom I’m certain is the man you are most interested in impressing.” She indicated the muscular man with the crooked nose and weathered brown skin. A black ponytail trailed down his back over a military-style coat. He nodded to Azaleen.
“And this is Enola Misquah, our steward of spirits.” The old woman motioned to the round-faced woman on her left. She carried the scent of cedar and smoke, radiating with an aura of wisdom beyond her years.
“If I may ask,” Azaleen ventured. “I’m not familiar with the title ‘steward of spirits.’ Are you a religious leader?”
Enola’s knowing eyes shone with good humor. “In a manner of speaking, but not like you might suppose. We believe humans are but a part of creation, all of which is sacred to Creator. My purview includes forestry, conservation, and spiritual leadership, as it is our responsibility to live in harmony and respect for nature. Forty-five years ago, human mistakes brought the terrible Rain of Fire and Time of Smoke upon all the land. Now we must work with Mother Earth to heal that which was rent, both on the planet and within our souls.”
“Thank you, Steward Misquah,” Azaleen replied. “Yours is truly a worthy calling.”
Enola pressed her lips into a curved line and lowered her gaze in humility.
