Queen Adelaide laughed aloud, a brief sound that seemed to alarm even herself. She put a hand on her rib from the exertion. “I’m not sure. Do you speak, Dierdre?”
“I prefer to listen,” Dierdre said flatly, turning to me. Her voice solidified her existence, as cold as it was. Aged, pale eyes met mine with all the recognition she would have afforded a houseplant. “My ears have kept our queen from all manner of dangers over the years.”
“Dierdre’s silences are seldom broken without proper cause,” Queen Adelaide further explained. There was a kindness in her tone that implied a depth to their shared past. “Because of this, I have learned to heed her every word. And I have learned that quiet people are often cleverer than they appear.”
Queen Adelaide let the dust settle on her words before closing the tome on foreign trade with decisive finality. “Come. A council meeting is about to commence, which should allow you some practice in the art of governance.”
She led us back through the library and into another chamber previously forbidden to me, leaving Dierdre to wait at the door. The room was well-guarded, lined with tapestries that told stories of treaties and coronations, the duller side of kingdom affairs.
Already the seats were half-filled with advisors, most of whom were familiar faces from around the castle, though there were a handful of complete strangers that caught my eye. Nicolas stood near the great hearth, Quinn close to his shoulder as they reviewed a document.
Both men looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps. Nicolas restrained himself as he caught sight of me, though beneath that royal composure, he was clearly delighted.
“Your Highness,” Adelaide said to her son with pointed formality, “Lady Alana will be observing today’s proceedings. She’s to sit at the council table.”
A murmur rippled through the assembled advisors.
“Of course,” Nicolas said carefully, fixing his posture. “Where would you have her placed?”
“Between yourself and Lord Navarro. You can guide her through our protocols, while the viscount can provide perspective on our Hadrian petitioners when they arrive.” She paused, her gaze sweeping the room for signs of disapproval. The whispers ceased, and I was guided to the massive oak table. As I sat down, Quinn’s steady presence did little to mute the radiating excitement from the prince on my left.
Nicolas brushed his knees against mine beneath the table. His voice gave nothing away, but I knew he felt our point of contact. “Let us first hear from Lord Merin of Norsomber.”
The tallest man I’d ever laid eyes upon stood at the calling of his name. A wig made for a smaller head rested snug against his scalp. “Thank you, Your Highness. Your Majesty. I, Lord Jean Merin, third of my name, Baron of Norsomber, Keeper of the Northern Coast, and humble servant to the Crown of Antier, do most graciously thank this esteemed council for granting me audience on this, the fifteenth day of Fintrus, in the year of our realm seven hundred and eighty-two.”
He paused to bow again, the gesture made awkward by its height. I wondered if the wig would fall, holding my breath.
“As was my father before me, and his father before him, stretching back to the glorious reign of King Connor the Just, may the gods rest his noble soul, my family has served as loyal stewards of the northernmost shores where the Gelded Sea meets ourkingdom. From the Mauled Cliffs to Dusk Harbor, from the village of Lesser Norsomber to Greater Norsomber proper, we have maintained the Queen’s peace and collected the Queen’s taxes with dutiful precision…”
My attention wandered as Lord Merin launched into a very detailed account of his family’s various honors and services. Beside me, Nicolas shifted slightly, his hand resting on the table where I could see him discreetly extending two fingers, then three, then four, counting off what seemed to be the traditional length of these preambles. If this was a common occurrence, I wondered how closely anyone paid them attention, and if the speakers ever snuck in a completely random word or two just to see what they might get away with.
“…which brings me, with great sorrow and trepidation, to the matter at hand. For it was on the Waning Eve, when the autumn rains had swollen the Omber River beyond all memory of man, that the great dam, built in the reign of King Everett Montfort, grandfather to Queen Adelaide, did catastrophically fail, leaving no fewer than eighty of Your Majesty’s subjects without shelter as winter’s grip tightens upon our coastal provinces…”
Straightening, I finally caught onto the issue. The man spoke tediously of a flood in his region that had unhoused a large number of his citizens. My thoughts went to the protesting women of Caermont and their struggle to put food on the table. Would this worsen the food disparity?
The queen tapped her ring. Nicolas leaned closer, whispering into my ear. “See how she touches her hand? She’s already drawn a conclusion.”
“Lord Merin.” Queen Adelaide’s voice cut through the chamber. “The Crown acknowledges the hardship visited upon Norsomber. You shall have a complement of builders dispatched within the fortnight to assess and begin repairs on the dam. The treasury will provide a stipend of three hundred stags for immediate relief efforts.”
I considered the number: three hundred months of pay to a skilled laborer. That, divided by eighty, would equal three months’ pay for every affected person. But some of that would have to goto food, to construction, to re-establishing the land. It seemed so high a number, but was it truly enough?
The tall lord’s wig shifted precariously as he bowed once again. “Your Majesty’s generosity knows no—”
“However,” the queen continued, her tone sharpening, “this catastrophe couldn’t have come at a worse time. As this council is aware, our kingdom faces an unprecedented shortage of grain. The flooding of Norsomber’s fertile valleys means we have lost not merely this year’s harvest of barley, which feeds our nation’s livestock, but likely next year’s as well, given the silt deposits your report mentions.”
Antier was importing wheat when it should have been self-sufficient, there were protests in Caermont, and now there was a failed harvest in Norsomber. I was to inherit quite the struggling nation.
I wondered if I could use magic to alleviate the food shortage, but if that was possible, it was strange that it had not been thought of already. I put a pin in the thought, plotting to bring it up to Florence.
“We must face an uncomfortable truth: Antier cannot feed itself through the coming year without significant intervention.”
Nicolas shifted, placing a hand on my leg. I couldn’t determine if it was from the tension of the moment, or a poorly-timed flirtation. Either way, I squeezed my thighs together and struggled not to show how flustered I’d become.
“Master of Trade,” the queen commanded, “can we increase our imports?”
Marquis Trefor’s ink-stained fingers tapped along a book of figures. He rose from further down the table. “Your Majesty, at current prices, we could manage perhaps another sixty-thousand bushels per month from Baselia, but our neighbors are experiencing their own shortages. They will not sell at a price we can afford to pay repeatedly.”
Sixty-thousand bushels seemed tremendous, but the queen’s expression remained stony. My heart sank. “And this would alleviate what portion of our shortage?”
