Aurora, Friday
Azaleen crossed the platform in a gown of deep Verdancian green, its gold trim catching the sunlight. Across her shoulder lay a white-and-blue sash woven in AlgonCree patterns, while a multicolored beaded belt at her waist echoed the same designs. The blend spoke more eloquently than words: queen of her own people, ally to theirs. Camille, also dressed in an appropriate blend, accompanied her to stand opposite the high chief and Steward of Treaties, Laurent Kewatin.
Juliette Batise looked stunning in her formal white, draped with the symbolically stitched shawl Azaleen’s mother had crafted so many years ago. Her gray hair fell loose, breeze-touched, while a flowered laurel crowned her head. Dressed in ceremonial regalia, Steward of Spirits Enola Misquah stepped between them, lifting her palms skyward to lead an opening prayer.
Hundreds, if not thousands, of people filled the plaza on the pleasant day, squeezed in tight, bright smiles shining. Azaleen’s people occupied the far end of the platform erected in front of the Grand Meeting Lodge so all who gathered could see the proceedings. AlgonCree security teams patrolled the grounds, with a squad close at hand to protect their high chief should danger arise. Each shouldered a bow or a rifle with a sabre and a sidearm on their belts.
“Oh, Great Spirit, whose voice I hear in the winds and whose breath gives life to the world, we give you thanks.” Enola’s words rang over the hushed crowd. Even the birds’ songs fell into tempo with her prayer, the scent of pine and a honey-sweet floral fragrance invigorating the air.
“You have filled our land with abundance, our hearths with plenty. The mountains, forests, creatures of the land, and fish of the rivers praise your goodness. We are blessed and appreciative of our blessings. Guide us, even today, to walk in a good way with creation and one another.
“Today is a day of healing, of harmony, and of looking toward the future. Just as two rivers carve paths to the sea, may our path and that of our Verdancian friends lead to the same destination, one of peace, good faith, and good fortune. May the spirits of our ancestors guide our community, from many nations, yet one people, bound together in respect and purpose. Hiy! Hiy! Aho!”
The people repeated the phrase. Renée had said it translates, “It is true,” kind of an “amen.”
Enola stepped back, making way for the scholarly Steward of Wisdom, Benoît Tremblay-Maskwa, who raised the Two Row Wampum belt. Azaleen’s focus remained on the elderly high chief who’d weighed and measured her, tested her patience, and found her satisfactory. The entire experience had been good for the queen, who admitted she could use a lesson in humility. She had become too accustomed to issuing orders and gaining immediate results. Although she didn’t comprehend all the ins and outs of how AlgonCree’s government operated, she knew it involved cooperation from more than one individual or small group.
Studying Batise’s face, regal yet beaming with joy, she recalled a conversation she’d had with Lark yesterday. The impertinent woman had asked why Verdancia decided on a monarchy in a manner suggesting she could have easily concocted a more suitable government over afternoon tea.
Azaleen had spelled it out to her in no uncertain terms, beginning with a key correction. “Constitutional monarchy. Why does everyone forget that part? When my grandfather, father, and their leadership team locked themselves in a room to come up with a national plan, they considered all possibilities.If you think about it, throughout human history, monarchies have been the predominant form of government, and not without cause. Legislative bodies are slow to act. Voters are fickle, easily manipulated, and often apathetic to a fault. We wanted a system where things could get done rapidly—decisions made, action plans initiated, results confirmed. However, we did not desire a dictatorship, where the strongest warlord could trample on the people’s rights. In a monarchy, a family raises its children to rule, provides them with the best education, and instills in them the duty and responsibility that accompany power. They drew up a document of laws, ensuring individual liberties, spelling out the powers and restrictions of the king or queen, establishing noble houses, and a council of advisors to oversee their various departments. Is it perfect? Perhaps not, but no system ever tried has been stronger and more efficient than a benevolent monarchy.”
Lark had shrugged before an impish grin curled across her adorable face. “You’re so passionate about it.” Azaleen remembered flushing like she’d just bitten into a fiery red pepper. Well, she was zealous about her nation and the part she played in ruling it. It seemed to be working so far, and this treaty might just be the linchpin to hold it together.
From the corner of her eye came movement in the crowd—a flash of light, sharp reports like fireworks. Then a hail of bullets.
Azaleen rushed at High Chief Batise, assuming her to be the target. Someone slammed into her, knocking her to the platform. It hurt like hell. Her nose burned from powder smoke, her hip and shoulder from the impact. Azaleen forced open her eyes, trying to focus through the pain. Her head spun, her heartbeat racing so fast she feared it would burst.
She glimpsed people diving for the ground. Screams erupted through the gunfire. Soldiers rushed into action. Assassins attempted to flee. The scene spelled utter chaos.
Then she felt it—wet, warm, thick. The coppery odor overwhelmed her.
“Are you all right? Were you hit?” Lark’s desperate voice scared Azaleen most of all, as her guardian’s hands searched frantically over her body.
“I don’t think so,” she answered, still in shock from the unexpected turn of events. Had Irons found out about their negotiations? Did he send assassins to stop the treaty from going through? “But there’s all this blood.”
She turned her gaze to Lark and immediately knew. The scrappy fighter’s face, hovering just above hers, paled and grimaced in pain. She lay protectively atop Azaleen, crimson spreading across her uniform shirt.
The world went away. No longer was Azaleen aware of the tromp of rushing guards, the shrill, panicked cries, or the pop of gunfire. In that instant, no one surrounded them on the platform, shielding dignitaries from harm. She stared, horrified, into the face of the woman who’d just thrown herself in front of a spray of bullets meant for her.
“Yeah,” Lark admitted. “It’s probably mine. But you’re OK?”
A jagged red hole in her shirt … but she’s lying on top of me. How’d she get hit there? Twisting in midair before knocking me down? Shots coming from two directions?Stranger things had occurred during shootouts.
Too frazzled to think, Azaleen wrapped her arms around Lark, pressed her cheek to hers, and clung tight. “I’m OK. You’ll be OK. We’ll get you a doctor as soon as this damn shooting stops. Hang on, Lark. Hold onto me and don’t die.”
“I’ll do my best,” she murmured … and passed out.
An hour later, Azaleen, surrounded by the Verdancian delegation, paced the surgical waiting room, anxious for a report. High Chief Batise had called for the city’s leading surgeon and Steward of Medicine, Noel Starblanket, to head Lark’s medical team personally. Azaleen hadn’t even changed out of her blood-soaked dress. She couldn’t do anything until she heard the words, “Ms. Sutter will be just fine,” from the doctor’s lips.
Batise had only suffered similar bruises to hers when War Chief Wasaykeesic had dived on top of her during the incident. He’d been grazed on the shoulder and was now off interrogating the culprits arrested at the scene.
“Please sit down, my queen,” Luke urged as he gently took her shoulders. “You’re not steady on your feet.” She wasn’t. Her stomach churned; her vision swam.
He steered her into a chair beside Camille, who immediately wrapped her in a hug. Across the waiting area, Renée Rivard sat beside Skye, her eyes shut tight, a cedar rattle scented of sage clutched in one hand. Her lips moved in silent prayer.
Why do I do this? I know better than to allow emotions room. You can’t get attached to people, Azaleen. They just die on you. It’s too hard. Batise was wrong. Love isn’t power—it’s a knife to the heart.
She wiped her hands down her face, just to ensure a tear hadn’t leaked out. Then she straightened, forced a smile toward Camille. “I’m all right. Thank you. It’s just—”
