After a long pause, she set it aside and pulled out a tabard of blue and white velvet and embroidered with an airion, rearing up, its sharp claws extended.
“He wore this at his investiture, when he was named Prince and Heir. I embroidered it myself.” The Queen Mother held it up. The cloth glittered in the firelight, on the silver and gold threads. “He was so proud that day, so glorious. Handsome, the sun shining on his sweet face as his father placed the coronet on his head.”
Yfin knelt beside her, admiring the crest. The airion looked so fierce, with the head and wings of a bird, and the body of a horse, and the legs of a lion.
The old lady gripped it firmly in both hands and brought it up to her nose, her eyes closed tight. Like maybe she could still smell something on the cloth.
Then she tossed it into the flames.
Yfin jumped, reaching for his poker, sure she’d made a mistake, but she gripped his arm and stopped him. “Let it go,” she commanded. The cloth burned and the gold threads curled up and melted.
She hesitated over a sheaf of letters tied with ribbon. “Ah, Kahn, my love,” she whispered, letting her fingers linger over the ribbon. “You wed me to bring the Airion and Wyvern families together and it only drove them all further apart. It might have worked, but for your death. Our Wellan just was not strong enough.”
Yfin shifted his weight from one foot to the other. She didn’t look at him, just tossed the bundle on the fire. The paper sizzled and turned black.
“Build up the fire,” she commanded. Yfin placed two logs and added more kindling to create the brightest, hottest flame.
The Queen Mother reached into the box again and pulled out old cloth gloves, stained brown.
“His first kill at the hunt,” she said, placing the gloves in her lap. “My golden boy, laughing in the courtyard as his father the King smeared the blood on his cheeks and forehead. So young, so happy, and his father and courtiers all gathered around, praising him. He basked in everyone’s approval. I was so proud, but I hurt as well. I lost my little boy to manhood.”
With a flick of her wrist the gloves went into the fire, landing on a log as if they’d been put there to dry.
Yfin watched them blacken, then returned his attention to the old woman to see her drawing a leather cuirass from the box, clearly made for a little one even smaller than him. The leather was dry and cracked, worn thin from use. Something clattered to the floor as she pulled it out; a small wooden sword and shield had been tangled with the leather.
Yfin couldn’t resist; he reached for them, eager to swing, then froze, realizing what he’d done in his excitement.
The Queen Mother eyes crinkled at the corners. “Go ahead,” she said.
Yfin grasped the sword and took up the shield in his other hand, taking a stance like he’d seen the guards do at practice. He slashed at his enemy bravely, holding his shield high. The weapons felt so good in his hand, for all that they were toys.
Would that they were real. He closed his eyes and took up the stance again, standing strong, seeing the monster before him, and his blade…
He stopped, taking a breath. Yfin’s shoulders slumped as he came back to himself.
The Queen Mother’s blue eyes were fey and wise as she stared at him. “What is your name, lad?”
“Yfin, lady,” he said awkwardly, then remembered his lessons. “Your Majesty.”
“How old are you?” she asked.
Yfin shrugged. “Last I remember, my mam told me I was ten. She died before the war,” he mumbled the last, not really wanting to think on it.
The Queen Mother’s smile dimmed. “So you, too, know of loss,” was all she said as she gave a nod toward the fire.
Yfin bowed his head in obedience and tossed sword and shield into the flames, trying to ignore the stab of pain it gave him.
The old lady tossed the leather cuirass in as well. Yfin thought for sure the smell would drive them out, but the smoke just grew black as the leather curled and darkened. The wood of the shield was dry enough that it was soon burning, the sword as well. They watched for a bit as the flames consumed everything.
“More wood,” she commanded. Yfin quickly obeyed until the flames roared up the chimney and it seemed to him that the stones of the mantle were turning red. Sweat poured off him like rain.
The old lady’s face also glistened in the light. He thought it was sweat.
But maybe it was tears.
She tossed smaller things, then, a bouquet of dried flowers, tied with a blue ribbon. Those crisped before they even touched the coals. Next was a child’s wooden tablet, with faint chalk marks. She brushed her fingers over them, tracing the letters. That went fast, the fire crackling around it.
The last thing, as Yfin stood and watched, the very last things she brought out, were a white baby gown, with ruffles and ribbons, and a tiny white cap.
