Queen Caroline

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“Princess? The barons wish to see you now.”

“Thank you, Gend,” she replied, not turning around to face him. She resolutely kept her gaze on the far-off wind-swept hills, the only barrier between her home and the harsh, unyielding dust storms of the desert. Most days she preferred to look to the south, where the green of hardy plants gave way to the blue of the sea. She did not like the northern view, with its sparse plant cover and hard-packed red dirt, and the hills that were a constant reminder that her home was separated from land that would welcome them, that through either the arrogance or foolishness–or perhaps both–of her forefathers her people had been made to live here and do the best they could with what they had.

Caroline had always been afraid of the desert.

But that was no longer enough. Sometimes sacrifices had to be made, and sometimes fears had to be faced.

She finally turned away from the window, nodding to her servant, who had not yet left the room. She picked up her cloak, black double-thick silk lined with green trim, and swept it around her shoulders, clasping it in the front with a gold brooch made in the form of a griffin, the symbol of the royal house of Arkijt. She quickly checked her hair in the mirror hung above her vanity to make sure no loose strands had escaped from the complicated knot she’d had her handmaidens put it into earlier that morning, and followed Gend out of the room.

She had walked the hall leading to the council chambers a thousand times, and usually did not pay attention to the elaborate paintings and tapestries lining either side of it. Today was no different. She wondered that perhaps she should take the time to look at them again, that it was likely she would never again see them by the light of day, but she did not feel a particular desire to do so. Paintings of a glorious history that had passed–if it had indeed happened at all–did not awaken feelings of nostalgia in her mind.

Two servants saw her and Gend coming, and bowed low before moving to open the thick, arched wooden doors leading into the council chambers. Caroline raised an eyebrow at them.

“Is the regard for my servant, or for someone I do not see?” she asked.

“For you, always,” said one of the doormen. “We are with you, no matter how the barons decide.”

“Careful of your words, for I may hold you to them.”

“Princess?” said the second doorman. “Is this to mean that you have a plan should things not go your way?”

“I may,” she replied. “Though I guarantee that it is different than what you think.”

She left them with that cryptic statement. Better her supporters not know details until after she had heard from the barons, and better they remain ignorant in the case her opposition found her out.

“Good afternoon, barons.” She addressed the group as a whole, bowing her head slightly. It should have been the other way around, but today it was her position in question, not their’s. She did not bother to look at all of them, but was not surprised at the sheer number. Fifty at least, representing the baronies scattered throughout small pockets of inhabitable oases in the midst of the wasteland that was their birthright. Pompous and dangerous, all of them, reveling in the measly wealth they had managed to scrape from the land, secure in their confidence and power as if Arkijt was still the most influential empire in the land, and not a beaten nation exiled to the deadliest part of the continent and hated by every other race.

Her eyes traveled over a few, focusing briefly on one face that seemed to stand out from the others with its young, hawkish good looks. Borant had been made baron recently and was only an adopted son, not raised in the arrogance that bred true sons of a kordesh. Thus he was not yet soft in the head nor hard in the heart, but she knew it was only a matter of time before his true self was suffocated under a misplaced sense of power. That was why she had refused to see him again. She would rather remember him as he was. Still, her eyes lingered, but for only a moment before she forced them to move on. He was the only one she would feel nostalgia for, but she could not allow that of herself right now.

She did not look at the dark presence sitting in the corner of the room.

“Caroline,” said one of the barons, a particularly fat man whose hair had gone gray with age. He was one of the wealthiest, ruler of a barony on the coast that did good business in the fish trade.

“She is still Princess,” said Borant. “We have not yet voted.”

“Then let us commence,” said Caroline, unappreciative of Borant’s support. She knew he did it only because of his feelings for her, not because he truly supported her. She could have told him right there that saying such things would not let him back into her bed, but would turn the barons against him. Hateful he might become, but she did not wish to see Borant made an outcast among the outcast.

“Yes,” said the fat baron, who seemed to have appointed himself master of the proceedings. “You are all familiar with why we are here. The throne of our great nation is empty, and there is question as to the legitimate heir.” He turned toward Caroline, a snarl on his lips. “Princess Caroline, only child of our late king, wishes that the normal rules of inheritance apply, and that she become Queen. Her cousin, however, the Baron Dahzahn, maintains that he should be next in line for King.”

She could no longer avoid him. Caroline raised her gaze to the man sitting in the corner of the room, wearing the black and green of the royal house, same as she. He wore a smirk, confident already in his victory. How she hated him.

“The laws are clear,” said Borant. “Eldest child of the king inherits the throne.”

“They are clear,” said Dahzahn, speaking for the first time. “Eldest son of the king inherits the throne. Unless there is something our pretty Caroline is not telling us, the king had no sons.”

The barons tittered as a group, and Caroline’s face burned.

“So there is disagreement,” said the fat baron unnecessarily. “Arkijt has never had a woman ruler. There is fear that her inherent weakness would lead to the downfall of our great nation.”

More than it has already fallen? That would be quite an accomplishment, Caroline thought. But she dared say nothing aloud, instead keeping her eyes trained on the floor in deference to the baron.

“In this unusual case, we have gathered the barons together for a vote,” the fat baron continued. “It will be done quickly, with a raising of hands. There is no reason not to begin now. Those who are in favor of Baron Dahzahn.”

As hands went up, Caroline let her mind wander, musing on the circumstances that had led to this moment, to her future dependent upon a group of arrogant noblemen raising a hand into the air. She did notice that Borant did not raise his hand at first, but as hands continued to rise and it became clear that Dahzahn was to be the next king, he joined them. She thanked the gods for his cowardice.

“Anyone in favor of Caroline?” asked the fat baron, a smirk curdling his face. Not one hand went up. “It is settled, then. Caroline, you are hereby disowned from the royal family. Baron Dahzahn will be coronated as king tomorrow evening.”

“Do not be sad,” said Dahzahn to Caroline. “I will permit you to live on the grounds. Or,” his eyes traveled up and down her body, “perhaps there is a chance you could come back to the royal family?” He grinned at her.

“Thank you for your consideration, your Highness,” she forced through lips that seemed to have frozen in horror at the thought. “Do I have your permission to return to my quarters?”

He waved a hand in dismissal. “You will attend to me tomorrow night,” he said before she left.

Caroline nodded, grateful that she was able to keep her face and steps schooled to a calm gracefulness despite the way her cousin was looking at her. She hurried out of the council chambers.

“Ah, Princess,” sighed one of the doormen. “We knew it was unlikely, but we hoped.”

“The people wanted you,” said the second. They wrestled the door closed.

She whirled around to face them, her eyes burning from either anger or tears, she did not know which. “Are you truly with me?”

The doormen seemed taken aback by the ferocity of her question. “Until the end of days,” said one.

“Then meet with me, tonight, when the moon has reached its zenith,” she said. “And I will tell you of what I have planned.”

She left them, walking briskly down the hall back to her room. Caroline did not dream, but the night before she’d had what she thought could only be a vision, images of the barren desert giving way to fertile river plains and finally snow-capped mountains. Herself at the head of a crowd of people.

She abruptly changed direction and went to the library instead, where she found a large map of the continent. Spreading it upon a table, she traced a route straight north with her finger. A mass of mountains without political boundaries fell under her digit, the words “Savage Lands” scrawled across them in the mapmaker’s hand. She allowed herself a smile. She would be Queen, but not here, in this waste of land. She refused to be an exile any longer.

She was afraid of the desert. But with the help of her followers she would cross it, and begin a new life for her race elsewhere, away from corruption and a soiled history. A new nation.

She rolled up the map, returned it, and went to her room to prepare.

"Queen Caroline" is copyright © K. B. Cunningham 2004

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