Exile's Valor

Surely some of those people can manage to sort out their troubles by themselves.

“Certainly, Majesty,” the Seneschal said, with a little smile. “If Your Majesty will forgive my voicing my own opinion, you are just a trifle too accessible. Restricting your availability will make people think before they request an audience for which they might have to wait several days.”

She blinked, then nodded. And here she had thought he was going to disapprove! But the prospect of a simple walk in her gardens was enough to elevate her spirits for the entire morning, even though the Exchequer occupied her for most of that time with budget and tax allotments. Just the simple knowledge that she was going to escape his stuffy little office was enough to set her to work with more energy than she’d had in weeks for such things.

And the audiences did not seem as tedious either. And when the Seneschal announced that she would not be seeing any more petitioners that day, it was all she could do to keep from leaping up out of the throne and flying out the Privy Door behind the dais to get to her chambers and out of her robes of state.

She changed into a simple, split-skirt gown without calling for her maids, collected a ball and racquets, then gathered up her rather startled ladies-in-waiting, and bustled them all down the hall like a goose-girl hurrying her geese to the pond.

And when they were out into the garden, she acted like a child newly-freed from lessons, dropping every bit of her dignity to lead them all in a game of “tag,” then taking each of them on in turn at racquets. In fact, she wore some of them out with her energy, until they all begged, laughing, for a moment of rest.

Which she graciously gave them. And while they sprawled on the lawn, or lounged on benches, she walked alone among the flower beds. She hadn’t intended to actually pick any flowers, but this spring there was a superabundance of blossoms, and she found herself taking one here, one there, not deliberately selecting anything, just picking them from places where the blooms seemed crowded or scents were especially intoxicating. I’ll put them in my bedroom, she decided, feeling an unaccustomed glee. Just stick them all in a vase full of water. No formal flower arranging, no careful selection of “harmonious colors.” The kind of bouquet—no, bunch of flowers!—I used to pick for myself as a child!

She didn’t—thank goodness—have to think twice about wandering about here alone either. It was safe enough for her to be unguarded here in the Queen’s Garden. There were Royal Guards all around the grounds, and the grounds themselves were walled off, of course. No one could come here who wasn’t a member of the Court or Collegia, and it was a matter of etiquette not to invade the Queen’s Garden when the Queen was in it unless you were specifically invited.

So she was a little surprised to look up from picking another bloom and see the Rethwellan Ambassador, followed at a slight distance by a young man she did not recognize, coming toward her on the path.

He dropped to one knee when he reached her, and she automatically extended her hand for him to kiss, then gave it a slight tug, indicating that he should rise.

“Ambassador Brenthalarian, whatever is it that brings you here?” she asked. “I hope you aren’t going to trouble my afternoon with a problem—”

“Nothing of the sort, Majesty,” the Ambassador said smoothly. “Indeed, I only wished to inquire if your Majesty would be willing to receive King Megrarthon’s second son, Prince Karathanelan. He has come bringing His Majesty’s belated personal condolences, for you have already had His Majesty’s official ones.”

“Yes, I recall,” she replied, looking at him with a feeling of interest tinged with excitement. So—here was her answer to the question “what foreign princes were there?” before she had even asked anyone about it. A foreign prince, from Rethwellan! Princes did not travel abroad unless they had very compelling reasons for doing so. . . .

She cast a surreptitious glance at the young man who waited just out of earshot, and felt another thrill, this time of pleasure. He was handsome. Very handsome. His coloring was an intriguing mixture—dark chestnut hair, quite curly and almost shoulder length, and blue eyes that were a lighter color than her own, the color of a sky with a thin, high haze of cloud over it. He had a long nose, high cheekbones, and a narrow face with a cleft chin. He looked—

:Like centuries of inbreeding,: Caryo said sardonically.

:Oh, hush, silly!: she replied, keeping a watch on him out of the corner of her eye. :What he looks like is not like a Valdemaran, which is a refreshing change. I think he’s lovely.:

“When could the Prince come to Court, do you think?” she asked, pretending that she had not already guessed that the Prince was right here in her own garden. The Ambassador knew very well that she knew, and so did the Prince, but greeting him straightaway would spoil the game. And it was likely to be a very amusing little game. Surely this is one of the “foreign princes” that Orthallen was talking about! ”I would, of course, be delighted to receive him at any time.“

“Then in that case, gracious lady, let the Prince prevail upon your noble nature and present himself!” the young man said, flinging himself at her feet in the most romantic posture possible. “My curiosity brought me here, but my heart will not allow me to remain outside of your regard for a single moment more!” He seized her hand and