They let the topic drop, moving on to debate which of them performed better in the moccasin and dish games they’d played last night. Still, hope sprouted in Lark’s imagination. Maybe there could be something more between her and Azaleen … maybe.
“Tell us about your current trade deals and how those are going.” Steven Batise shuffled to the next page on his clipboard and slipped on reading glasses. Again, he sat at the high chief’s right, with Steward of Treaties Laurent Kewatin to her left. This time, they gathered in a cozy den with the drapes to a generous window open, inviting in sunlight and fresh air. An exquisitely handcrafted dreamcatcher bearing a wolf motif hung above the dormant fireplace. Azaleen and Camille relaxed in large stuffed chairs with padded backs and comfortable armrests in a circle with High Chief Batise and her inner council.
Azaleen opened her mouth when Renée Rivard waltzed in, taking the last seat. “Sorry I’m late,” she offered with a sincere look. “Wahpun escaped the fence—again—and Mrs. Ochek will have a fit if he digs up her geraniums.” The young woman rubbed her thighs, forcing a smile. Batise wobbled her shoulders,her glare hard on her granddaughter. Azaleen was thrilled the elder chief had worn the gift shawl Orielle had crocheted. She took it as a promising sign.
“Aren’t you the one always fussing at me about keeping schedules?” Batise arched a brow.
“Yes, Kokum. I apologize.” In a demure gesture, Renée folded her hands in her lap.
The high chief returned her attention to Azaleen, who cleared her throat. “We engage with the West African Coalition—a very valuable trade partner—and several of the Caribbean islands. In the past, we honored a trade agreement with the Red River Republic; however, they disavowed it eight years ago and have grown increasingly hostile. Their disposition toward aggression is our primary concern in seeking an alliance with the wise and prosperous nation of AlgonCree.”
“Yes, well, we’ll get to that,” Batise said. “What reason did they give for breaking your pact?”
Azaleen exchanged a beleaguered look with Camille. With a nod, the ambassador took up the question. “The Republic cited social and religious differences between our societies as reasons they could no longer conduct business with us.”
The high chief blinked; Renée leaned forward in confusion. Steward Kewatin responded, “I don’t understand. We’ve not traded with the Iron Realm since the formation of our government—primarily because of the distance and Appalachia’s closed-border policy. They had no complaints with your prices or quality of merchandise?”
“No, sir.” Camille glanced between the Frostlands leaders and swallowed. “They claimed their strict religious edicts forbade them from exchanging money or products with those they deemed morally corrupt infidels.”
Mouths gaped, and eyes rounded.
“Is that what they called Verdancia?” Renée questioned. “What’s morally corrupt about you? Because I haven’t seen it.”
Azaleen stepped in. “We espouse many individual freedoms in our society, among them freedom of speech, religion, and expression. The Republicchampions the Old Religion, which is freely practiced in our kingdom. But so are many other faiths and belief systems. They consider any expression other than cisgender heterosexual to be perverted—sinful— while we respect all individuality.”
“They what?” Heat surged into Renée’s cheeks. “They cut off trade with you because people like me have a right to exist in your kingdom?”
“Little goose!” Batise admonished. “Please excuse my granddaughter’s outburst. Two-spirit people are esteemed in our society. She’s never been exposed to prejudice. Your enlightened views on personal freedoms are a value our countries share.”
Azaleen nodded, thankful to have another piece of common ground. “Who are your current trading partners?”
Steven answered, seeming relieved to move to a different topic. “Almost since the beginning, we’ve maintained a robust relationship with the Icelanders. They are always in need of timber, and, while our fisheries run over, we’re happy to acquire different varieties, and, of course, their aluminum.”
With a dumbfounded stare, Azaleen said, “Icelanders?”
War Chief Wasaykeesic raised a palm. “The island nation of the north between our land and devastated Europe. Britannia, bless their souls, was bombed into oblivion, but no warring faction cared about an inconsequential Viking holdover on a rock of ice and fire. I’m surprised you’ve never heard. With their progress practically uninterrupted, they must rival the West African Coalition on the world stage.”
The world stage.Other than wondering when shipments of tea and coffee would arrive, Azaleen had barely spared a thought for the rest of the world. She was too busy scrounging for medicine, producing electricity, and ensuring schools and clean water for every Verdancian. Engineers actively worked on repairing old railways and refitting engines to run on alternative fuels, while inventors disassembled old communication devices, trying various tactics to make them functional. Recently, her focus had shifted to defense with President Irons breathing down her neck. Suddenly, her world became a whole lot wider.
“They probably don’t sail so far south,” said Kewatin with a speculative expression.
“What other news have you from the rest of the world?” Discovering she was behind the curve on information, Azaleen wanted to know everything.
“We’ll catch you up, dear,” promised the high chief. “But first, tell me what your heart’s been bursting to say since you arrived at our pier. I am ready to listen.”
Taking a deep breath, Azaleen settled herself. In a calm and level tone, she spoke with the poise of a queen. “High Chief Batise, distinguished leaders, I am responsible for a kingdom of three million people—peaceful people, who just want to live their lives in safety and freedom, partly to regain what was lost, but mostly hoping to create something more. We have an abundance of arable land, forests, rivers—not unlike here—food to supply our population with plenty. And every year, our winters grow milder. What we don’t have are guns, ammunition, and soldiers to use them. Luther Irons and the Red River Republic have made their intentions clear. My spies report that an invasion could be underway even as we speak.”
She paused to catch each person’s eyes, emphasizing the stakes. “They have adopted a policy called Manifest Destiny—the belief the Republic should, by divine right, rule the continent and everyone on it. High Chief Batise, AlgonCree might be far away from the Iron Realm, but do not be lulled into a false sense of security. After they conquer my kingdom and Appalachia, Irons will come for you. Their lust for land and power is insatiable. It’s not only that I needyou, Madam Chief—we need each other.”
Renée leaned back in her chair, an uncharacteristically troubled look dominating her features. The counselors glanced at each other and Batise. The high chief rose, her authoritative presence filling the den. “Laurent, Secretary Navarro, will the two of you allow my granddaughter to observe and learn while you draw up the specifics of our treaty with the Kingdom of Verdancia? And Renée, dear, don’t be a bother.”
Excitement whirling in her chest, Azaleen stood, followed by all present. Batise stepped across the floor, extended her hands. Azaleen gratefully claspedthem. “We shall be friends. I will retire now to craft our Two Row Wampum belt as a symbol of our oaths and mutual respect. The treaty signing ceremony can take place in the city plaza, midday on Friday. That should give our diplomats and event organizers time to prepare.”
The bright old woman stretched up on her toes, kissed Azaleen’s cheeks, and stepped back with an infectious smile. “Welcome to the family.”
Chapter forty-two
Thunder Strikes
