Legends of Meras: The Ballad of Selvion Forcendi (II)

Author’s Note: This is the second chapter of the story to the prequel of The Rebirth of Meras. I was supposed to post this two weeks ago, but life happens and quarantine anxiety is not a condition I would wish on anyone save, perhaps, for certain people who really deserve to be broken for their part in this bloody sodding crisis.

But, for now, let us escape once more into a different world…

Chapter Two: Poetry and Prophecy

Thamance smiled when she saw her father and Selvion entering the dining hall. In their absence, the food had arrived and Lissom put the tea on to steep in the silver service that was brought to their table.

“We can eat,” she informed the others. “They’re here.”

“About time!” Torassen grunted as he reached for the platter of sandwiches. “I’m hungry!”

Lissom, who sat between him and his brother, lightly slapped his hand away from the food. “Can’t you wait another moment or two?” she hissed at him.

“Aw, Liss!” Torassen cried in protest. “I said I’m hungry!”

“Let the boy eat, Liss,” Poppa gently chided Lissom as he and Selvion took their places on either side of Thamance. He grinned and winked mischievously at the Omarch boys. “It won’t do to let the lad starve to death!” He eyed the teapot speculatively. “What’s brewing, young ladies?”

“Graceful Lady tea, Poppa,” Thamance replied with a smile as she poured a measure of the citrusy-smelling tea into her father’s cup. “And the kitchen staff say Mamma was in a proper snit earlier and baked chestnut cakes.”

Selvion perked up at this. “Chestnut cake?” he asked, eyes widening with interest. “Like those Enoise pastries my grandmother sends us at Frostide?”

“You mean the little ones stuffed with chestnut cream?” Thamance asked him.

“Yes,” Selvion replied, nodding vigorously. “With a swirl of whipped cream and a candied chestnut on top. I love those!”

As if on cue, a servant wheeled a trolley over to their table and set down a salver of small cakes which were, as described, split in the middle and filled with a paste made of mashed and sweetened chestnuts lightened with fresh cream, voluminous swirls of whipped cream and split chestnuts on top. Each one nestled in a frilly cup made of light-coloured paper. Thamance smiled and placed two of the little cups on Selvion’s plate.

“Mamma says she got the recipe from an Enoise classmate of hers at the Academy,” she explained to the delighted-looking boy. “I’ve never met her, but Mamma says she’s a lovely lady and I ought to meet her someday.”

She noted a somewhat sad wistfulness on Selvion’s face as he reverently picked up one of the cakes, carefully peeled off the paper, and took a bite. He closed his eye and a gentle smile curled his lips.

“Just like the ones Mother used to make before Father died,” he said quietly as he opened his eyes. “And the ones my O-haama sends for Frostide and my birthday.”

“O-haama?” Thamance asked.

“My grandmother,” Selvion translated for her. “It drives her kitchen staff mad whenever she marches into the kitchen, but everyone hankers for her chestnut cake.” He chuckled. “Even my O-yahji — my grandfather — camps outside the kitchen doors when word gets around that O-haama’s in a baking fit and has taken over the sweets pantry.”

Thamance looked sharply at her father who simply smiled and nodded. “Ask him,” he said. “It’s all right.”

“Selvion…” She noted that he had raised an eyebrow, but her nodded for her to continue. “Selvion, would your mother’s name happen to be Haina Yamajo?”

Selvion put down the cake in his hand and regarded her frankly. “It is,” he said calmly. “And, before you ask, yes: she’s the Haina Yamajo, the youngest child and only daughter of the High Shõgon of Eno.”

Thamance blinked at this, then narrowed her eyes at Selvion. In her mind, she could easily place him in his grandfather’s court, dressed in robes of rich, dark fabric, his countenance stern and demeanour courtly. She blushed as she thought: He’ll be quite handsome when he’s older…

“I wish I could meet her someday and thank her,” she told him, smiling shyly. “It’s my favourite cake, you see; Mamma always makes it for my birthdays.” She took one from the platter, peeled off the paper, and took a huge bite. “But she usually makes me a big one,” she added when she had swallowed the bite.

“She probably baked them now because you won’t be home by your next one,” her father said soberly as he reached for the cake plate. “That fit of pique notwithstanding, you’ll be at the Academy by the time the seasons turn, and she won’t be able to bake one for you.”

“Her birthday’s on the twenty-fifth of the month,” Phaandrom informed Selvion. “Yes, we will be at school when the date rolls around. We’re due back on the fifteenth.”

Selvion was quiet at these pronouncements, then he gently gave Thamance’s hand a squeeze. “It’s my favourite cake, too,” he informed her. “And my mother used to bake it every year until Father died.” He tilted his head to one side, studying her. “I think Mother would love to meet you, too.”

Thamance managed to blush and smile at him. But she turned to her father, puzzled. “Poppa,” she said, “why is Mamma in a snit right now?”

“Well, something caught us off guard and your grandmother wants her to handle it as she has her hands full at the moment,” Poppa explained. He slid a glance towards Selvion. “The High Shõgon is visiting next week and your grandmother nearly forgot all about it.”

Selvion grinned at Phaandrom who looked startled by the news. “No,” he said. “O-yahji doesn’t know I’m already in Meras. But I daresay he’s coming here because there’s been word that Gafdan warships have been sighted in the shared seas of Eno, Meras, and Xylia.” His expression became grave even as he took another bite of cake. “He knows that Meras — well, Bellom in particular — has no love for the Gafda Union; so he’s probably consulting with the Magistra.”

“Got it in one, lad,” Poppa declared, nodding. “Also, I understand your uncle’s youngest son is starting at the Academy, too?”

Selvion looked up and smiled hugely. “Cousin Torv,” he said in agreement. “He’s all right. A bit of a practical joker, but a fun person to be with. His eldest brother, Cousin Yuuji, was Head Boy when we were in First Form.”

“Yuuji’s very nice,” Lissom said, nodding. She grinned wickedly. “And so good-looking: all the girls from the Fifth to the Upper Sixth followed him around, probably imagining themselves at his side as his Jõ-onna when he becomes Shõgon someday.”

Phaandrom snorted with laughter at this. “I can’t wait till we get back to school,” he said. “I understand that Yuuji’s on the verge of announcing his engagement to Mariena Brissemont. The sound of hearts shattering on the floors is going to be nigh on deafening.”

“He’s that handsome?” Thamance exclaimed.

“Well, let’s put it this way,” Selvion said as he neatly folded up the used paper cup. “He wouldn’t be out of place in a film or one of those melodramas some girls are so fond of watching during the hols.” He smirked. “Except he can’t act and sounds like a dying goose when he sings. His talents lie in other directions: tactics, for one.”

“Military and political,” Phaandrom agreed. “It’s why he immediately took his two years of mandatory military service soon as he left school.”

“He went into the tactical corps,” Selvion agreed, starting on his second cake. “He was very good at it, but O-yahji commandeered him into his personal staff soon as his two years in uniform were up.”

Poppa nodded approvingly at this. “No sense in letting him go off to war,” he said after a sip of tea. “Too much of a liability, really. An expensive hostage and a fount of inside information too precious to give up.”

Selvion nodded in agreement. “He was terribly put out about it, sir,” he said. “But he knew neither his father nor our grandfather would let him risk his neck so needlessly.” He shrugged. “It isn’t like Yuuji can’t fight his way out of a situation, though.”

“He’s ruthless,” Lissom declared, but her tone was shaded with admiration. “I remember him schooling us in rudimentary manoeuvres and putting us through that brutal obstacle course he and the drill meister cooked up. But he is kind and friendly — and a ridiculous practical joker.”

“That’s very kind of you, Crell!” a mischievous-sounding voice declared. When they turned to see who it was, they saw a tall, handsome young man with dark brown hair striding up to their table. Alongside him, a sandy-haired boy of about twelve or thirteen came trotting up. “I’ll take ‘ruthless’ over ‘practical joker,’ though.”

Selvion was at his feet at once and scampered over to the newcomers. “Hey!” he exclaimed.

The young man stared at him in surprise, but he laughed and held his arms out. “Well!” he declared. “Cousin Selvion! I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, what with autumn term coming up and all.” Prince Yuuji Yamajo gave his cousin a tight hug. “Came here with Omarch, didn’t you?”

Selvion nodded as his older cousin released him and he clasped hands with the younger boy. “I wondered when you were coming,” he said.

“I wasn’t even supposed to go until next week!” the sandy-haired lad exclaimed with a grin. “But O-yahji said he needed to consult with Matriarch Bellovre over those damned Gafdan ships that have been seen recently. Dad said I may as well come along.”

“Is O-yahji here, then?”

“No, Sel; they’ll be along in a couple of days.” He jerked a thumb towards his older brother. “Dad and Yuuji volunteered to be the advanced party.”

Selvion turned to the Bellovres and bowed formally. “Your Highness Prince Vendron du Bellovre and Your Highness Princess Thamance, may I please introduce my cousins?” he said. “His Highness Prince Yuuji Ken-ichi de Martindale Yamajo, eldest son of the Crown Prince Gion of Eno; and His Highness Prince Torv Yuusuke de Martindale Yamajo, the youngest son.”

Both of the Enoise princes bowed deeply. Vendron acknowledged them by politely nodding towards them, then he rose and clasped hands warmly with Yuuji.

“I daresay your father told you about how he used to run us ragged when we were at school?” he asked Yuuji with a grin.

Yuuji laughed at this. “He actually told me to ask you if you still remembered the Scourge of North Hall,” he replied. “He’ll be with us shortly, as he’s conferring with Aunt Theone right now. She told me and Torv to run along and get tea here in the hall, and that you and your daughter would be here.” He playfully ruffled Selvion’s hair. “Didn’t expect to see my cousin here, though, so that’s a nice surprise.” He waved in greeting towards the Omarches. “Nor you two. Young Torassen joining you at the Academy, Phaan?”

“No, but Mam’s just keeping him out of her hair for the moment,” Phaandrom replied.

“No way am I going till I’m ready!” Torassen declared.

“Sit down and set to, lads,” Poppa advised the newcomers, gesturing to the empty seats at the table. “Better get some of those chestnut cakes before Selvion and Thamance eat them all!”

Thamance rolled her eyes at this, but Selvion chuckled and patted her arm companionably.

“Your mother makes lovely cakes,” he assured her.

“As good as your mother’s?” she asked him.

He grinned. “Almost,” he said.

She glared at him, but when she saw the kindness in his eyes, she had to smile.

~~~~~~

“The recent incursion of those vessels has bothered my father and our government a great deal,” the Crown Prince Gion Yamajo said as a map showing the shared waters of Northern Meras, Eno, Tyuik, and Xylia was projected onto a screen on one side of the Magistra’s study. “You can’t say they’re just passing through: they’re moving too slowly for that.”

“Our people have noted that they bear the marks of commercial fishing vessels,” Matriarch Amicia Bellovre, Magistra of Bellom, remarked. “But we, too, have doubts about this.”

“They don’t seem to be violating any treaties, Your Grace,” Gion agreed. “But it’s better to err on the side of caution than otherwise.” He threw a grim smile towards the members of the Bellomere government. “We all remember how they slaughtered my brother-in-law and members of his staff on the pretext of coming in to discuss the economic embargo Xylia imposed on them some years back, seeing how they were shipping in tainted food products to Xylian markets.”

“Trawlers, then?” Princess Theone Bellovre, Heiress-Noble of Clan Bellovre, volunteered. “Our shared waters are teeming with various aquatic resources: food and sport fish, pearl-bearing molluscs, even mineral deposits.”

Gion nodded at this. “Father’s threatened to blow up any Gafdan ship foolhardy enough to destroy our coral reefs, though,” he said. “And rumour has it that King Theobarne has promised punitive reprisal if the pull the same stunt along the Xylian coastline.”

“The Dakhrans don’t care if the Gafdans make a pig’s breakfast out of their coastline,” Matriarch Bellovre murmured, but her forehead was furrowed with worry. “But their coast borders on ours — and, if they overstep their bounds, I will have something to say about it.”

“A lot to say is more like it,” Theone agreed with a grim smile. “Plus, we won’t have any scruples about bombing them.”

Gion narrowed his eyes speculatively at them. “I’ve always known that the matriarchal provinces of Meras are better equipped than the rest of the country,” he said. “But I have never learned to my personal satisfaction just how much better you all are.”

Mother and daughter turned to each other, grinning somewhat wickedly. Corbillon du Bellovre, Lord Maeston and Prince Consort, laughed at this.

“It was, I believe, Matriarch Thamance Bellovre VII who said that women don’t just get things done, but they get things done differently,” he said.

“The Black Rose of Bellom,” Amicia declared with a relish as she sat back and relaxed a little. “She whom the Gafdans named The Nine-tailed Fox because of the whip she carried — and used quite well, if I may add.”

“Thamance VII was the one who established what is known in diplomatic code as The Five-pointed Star: a confederacy of Meras’ five matriarchal provinces,” Corbillon explained as he began gathering up papers and folders on his side of the conference table. “Bellom in the north, Akhsi in the south, Hamir in the east, Alquith in the west, and Escher in the centre of the nation.”

“In non-diplomatic terms, we’re referred to as The Coven,” Amicia chuckled. “To quote the Magister of Dakhra, we’re ‘those bloody-minded meddling women’ who have pretty much thrown a wrench into his Clan’s plans of getting the Gafdans to annex Meras as a colony.” The grin faded from her face and she looked quite stern. “A slave colony, to be exact.”

“The Five-pointed Star covers the four cardinal directions and the heart of the country,” Theone explained to Gion.

“I gathered that,” he murmured. “But that still doesn’t explain how or even why you womenfolk can easily step in and rule so well. Except, I think, for the fact that you Bellovres used to rule all of Meras.”

“And might well again,” Corbillon murmured cryptically.

“Well, contrary to what most people think,” Theone began.

“Mind you, Gion: ‘most people’ refers to half the Magisters of Meras,” Corbillon added wryly.

“Women’s minds run on practical lines,” Theone continued, rising from her seat and gathering her things. “We consider what would work best and run that way. If that doesn’t work, we don’t mind going back to the drawing board until we get it right. We don’t do workarounds unless they can be turned into permanent solutions.” She threw him a grave look. “We do what is necessary whenever necessary, but we try to plan ahead and see where we can retool and recalibrate if need be.”

“That especially applies to matters like defence and commerce,” her mother agreed. “We look to our defences in peacetime, and we never let our guard down regardless.”

“Continuity is another thing,” Corbillon chimed in. “Keeping commerce running, people fed and sheltered, healthcare, and education — that’s what these provinces have been good at for millennia.” He put his papers away into a nearby filing cabinet, then re-joined them at the table. “That and being able to silence the most vocal of idiots among the Sixteen, if I may add.”

“And we choose our allies,” Amicia said, “carefully cultivating relationships with friendly nations over the passage of time.”

“Not quite intermarrying with them, though I do know that generations of Bellovres, Yamajos, and Omarches have befriended each other during stints at The Academy,” Gion noted. “But if I recall my history lessons, the consort of the first Thamance Bellovre was a prince of Taryan, your southern neighbour.”

Amicia nodded. “Rinian von Haikahn, our ultimate grandfather,” she agreed. She narrowed her eyes at Gion speculatively. “But I would suppose your parents have made you aware of The Ballad of the Winter Prince?”

Gion, who had risen and was in the process of putting back documents into his briefcase, turned to her sharply. He was silent for a moment, and then he sat down.

“They have,” he began slowly. “But well beforehand, I read that as a poem at school and wasn’t even aware that it was actually a recorded prophecy until a little over a decade ago.” He regarded the Bellovres seriously. “And I, personally, have reason to believe that I already know which of ours it is.”

“Not your youngest boy, I suppose?” Theone asked, a small smile on her face. “Torv is a nice little lad, though.”

Gion shook his head. “Certainly not Torv,” he said, “much as I would like him to be. But Torv was born at the beginning of winter, not the heart of it. Also, the weather was quite calm when Andrina gave birth to him.” He grinned. “I should know: she had me running out of the Palace to get her some spiced squid dumplings whilst she was in labour!” He sat back, his mind running towards his younger nephews, and smiled. “I daresay it’s Selvion, Haina’s younger boy. Lad was born in the middle of winter during the heaviest blizzard Xylia had ever had.”

Theone stared at him. “Pale little boy?” she asked, leaning forward in her seat. “Very dark hair, only it shines chestnut in the light? Grey eyes? Looks more Enoise than Xylian?”

Gion turned to her, startled. “Yes, that is what he looks like!” he exclaimed. “But, how could you know? As far as I know, Tellereon and Haina never travelled here with any of their children!”

“He’s here,” Theone informed him. “Remember: he’s Raghassen Omarch’s godson and he attends The Academy.” She looked worried. “Rags and Carlissea sent him and both their boys here earlier today, a week early. There was an incident.”

“What sort of incident?” Gion demanded.

“An attempted kidnapping, most likely,” Theone replied. “And it was the boys who thwarted it. I agree: best to keep them all out of harm’s way while they’re investigating.” She checked her wristwatch for the time. “And I daresay they’re in the dining hall right now with Vendron and Thamance. Your sons may have run into them by now.”

There was a tentative knock on the door. “Come,” Amicia called and smiled when a pretty little girl with the vivid red hair typical of Clan Bellovre poked her head around. “Yes, ‘Mance; what is it?”

Thamance Bellovre came in and curtsied deeply to the Magistra. “Poppa wants to know if you’ll be coming down to tea, Granny,” she said. “Or if he should send trays up for you.”

“Come in, darling,” the Magistra said, holding an arm out to her granddaughter. “We’re almost done and we can head downstairs together.” She gave her a tight squeeze that sent both of them into delighted giggles. “There’s my good girl.”

Gion chuckled and turned to Theone. “Is this your little girl?” he asked. “Why, the last time I saw her, she was just a babe in your arms!”

Theone smiled proudly and beckoned her daughter to her. When Thamance came to her side, she tenderly put an arm around her shoulders and planted a kiss on the top of her head.

“She’s almost ten now,” Theone said, smoothing the little girl’s long plaits which fell to her waist, “and starting at The Academy next week.”

Gion rose and bowed formally to the little princess. “It is a pleasure to meet you, young lady,” he greeted her. He placed a hand on her head. “May the blessings of the Lord and the Lady be upon you.”

“With you, as well, Your Highness,” she replied with a graceful curtsey. She smiled up at him. “And the pleasure is all mine, sir.” Impishly, she added, “Poppa said to tell you that he’d be happy to challenge the Scourge of North Hall to another game of ajedrez with you after dinner later.”

The Crown Prince threw his head back in delighted laughter at this. “Your father is a formidable opponent and I regret that we don’t live any closer to each other,” he declared. He winked at Theone. “Otherwise, our wives would be forever shouting at us night and day to get anything done!”

“He’s playing with Phaan Omarch downstairs right now,” Thamance informed him. “And Phaan plays pretty well.”

“He would,” Corbillon laughed. “His granddad taught him well — and Theobarne used to beat me every other match.”

“Grandpapa’s the only other person Poppa plays with,” Thamance whispered to Gion. She slid a glance at her mother who simply rolled her eyes and laughed. “He says Mamma cheats.”

Gion noted at this point that the little princess had been regarding him somewhat intently.

“Selvion kind of looks like you,” she said, in response to his unspoken question. “Only, he’s ever so much fairer than you, sir, and his eyes are all silvery.”

“He has his father’s eyes,” Gion agreed. “But, yes: Selvion does favour our side of the family more, though he was the apple of Tellereon’s eye, gods bless that poor man.” He smiled. “He’s my favourite nephew, by the way — and I have quite a number to choose from! — and he’s also Father’s favourite grandson.”

“He would be if he managed to get into The Academy at ten!” Amicia exclaimed. “Yamajo-no-Uchi sets great store on intellect and wisdom, as does your mother’s side of the family, as I recall.”

“Not surprising, seeing how my uncles are still regents and active faculty at the Central Polymathic in Escher!” Gion laughed. “Academics till the day they die, they say.” Soberly, he returned the subject to his nephew. “Selvion stopped being a child when he saw both his father and grandfather die,” he said. “Unlike his older brother, he has this innate sense of responsibility for his mother and sisters.”

“Selvion says he doesn’t like his big brother, sir,” Thamance said quietly.

“I’m their uncle, child, and I don’t like him, either.”

“Bad?” Corbillon asked.

“Well, let me put it this way.” Gion paused for a moment, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he considered the words to use. Finally, “For all the hope that his parents had in him, Alserion did not turn out too well.”

“Perhaps he was jealous of his younger brother?” Amicia suggested.

“No, Your Grace,” Gion said, shaking his head. “As the eldest son of a nobleman as well as the son of a Princess of Eno, Alserion has always had some grand notions of what he’ll eventually turn out to be.”

Corbillon looked grim at this. “You know, most families — noble-born or otherwise — usually knock that sort of thinking out of a child early on,” he remarked sternly. “We teach them to humble themselves as children, but to be prepared to serve when their time comes.”

“My parents taught us pretty much the same way,” Gion said in agreement. “So was Tellereon, for all that his own grandfather was a national hero.”

“But what happened?”

“Tellereon’s mother stuffed the boy’s head with nonsense that he could be a greater nobleman than any member of House Forcendi,” Gion grunted in disgust. “It didn’t help that Alserion’s a charming rascal who could easily make friends and enter certain circles. Unfortunately, he isn’t exactly the brightest tool in the shed.” There was a glint of malice in his smile. “I guess that’s what prompted my sister and her husband to try again — thrice, as a matter of fact.

“But this fact remains: Alserion was born towards the end of the year during a snowstorm.”

The older Bellovres stared at him in consternation and Theone half-rose in her seat in horror.

“Surely, he doesn’t fancy himself The Winter Prince?” she exclaimed, suddenly drawing her daughter closer to herself, arms wrapping instinctively around the child to protect her.

Gion nodded and groaned in dismay. “Unfortunately, he does,” he said. “But, let me assure you, Theone: that boy will never ascend to any throne by either blood or marriage.”

“Why so?” Theone demanded as she sank back into her chair. Thamance, on the other hand, had fallen silent but stared in wonder at Gion.

Again, Gion paused as if choosing his words carefully. Then, “You are all aware that different families are blessed with certain, ah, gifts?” When they had all nodded in assent, he grimaced. “There’s your answer: he has none of them.”

Amicia stared at him in horrified disbelief. “You don’t mean to say…” Her voice trailed off and she shivered visibly.

“I’m afraid so, Your Grace,” Gion said. “For all of the magic flowing through the veins from both sides of his family, Alserion Forcendi is a dud.”

The Bellovres looked horrified by this and Gion could not blame them. More superstitious people were of the belief that a powerless child born to a family gifted with supernatural abilities was a judgement from the gods for one transgression or another. Thamance, however, was intrigued by something her mother had said.

“Your Highness,” she began tentatively.

“You may call me Uncle Gion, child,” Gion advised her kindly.

“Uncle Gion, then.” Thamance gulped and looked at him frankly. “The Winter Prince is just a character in a fairy-tale, right? The one in the story that goes ‘born in winter as the storm of storms raged, a child of snow with a heart of fire?’”

Gion studied her in silence. Then, he looked to Theone. “How much have you told her?” he asked.

“She knows the poem by heart,” Theone replied with a smile. “It’s been one of her favourite tales since she was little. Vendron and I used to read it to her at bedtime.”

“Could you please recite it for me, little one?” Gion asked the princess, his eyes intent.

Thamance brightened at this, curtsied deeply to those in the room, drew a deep breath, and began to recite in measured cadence a poem that long had significance for several nations.

Hear me, gentles all,

For the tale I dare tell

Concerns thee and thine kin:

Listen keen and listen well:

Time will come and the specter of war

Will loom over the earth and all within

Will tremble, will quail at a dragon’s might

Strong in greed and hate and sin.

But, lo: a maiden of the Golden House

Will bind herself to a northern youth

And from their union will come forth

A hero raised in grace, in truth.

He will be born in the winter

As the Storm of Storms rage:

A child of snow with a heart of fire

Mighty in anger, but a most gentle sage.

Short his boyhood will be

Too soon will a child become man

And the anger born of tragic loss

Will strengthen both mind and hand.

He will take to wife a maiden fair

Child of fire and daughter of queens

To battle they ride hand in hand

To defeat that dragon with all their means.

~~~~~~

Meanwhile, Selvion found himself walking down a marble-floored corridor together with his cousin Torv and Lissom Crell. Uncle Vendron, for that was what the Bellomere prince insisted the boy call him as a friend of his late father’s, had suggested that Lissom tour the younger boys around the Sapphira, the stronghold of Clan Bellovre, seeing how it was their first time to visit.

He found it fascinating: quite different from the Grand Palace of Rossai where his godparents lived and the Kiku-kyūden in the Enoise capital of Heian where his grandparents lived, but it nevertheless exuded the same aura of power and authority that both places seemed to have. This building was so called because the stones used to built it were raw sapphires mined from the mountains that separated Bellom from its neighbours.

“Sapphires are as common as sand here,” Lissom explained when Torv murmured something about the palace costing a fortune to build. “But they’re stronger than most stones, so the Bellovre ancestors opted to build their fortress with them. The foundations are actually more than ten thousand years old and later generations just built and repaired or refurbished, as necessary.”

“And they’re all redheads, I think,” Selvion remarked as they entered a corridor lined with formal portraits of long-deceased queens and Magistrae. He noted the very strong resemblance between these ancestors and the three current generations of the family: Matriarch Amicia, Princess Theone, and Princess Thamance. “I supposed theirs is a single, linear bloodline?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Lissom agreed. “Though there were several rare cases where thrones were passed to younger daughters as opposed to the eldest. Thamance VII, in particular.”

They stopped in front of a strikingly different portrait: the face of the woman therein had the same heart-shaped face and exquisite features as the rest of her kinswomen, but she had black hair and steely blue eyes rather than the usual red hair and green eyes of the family. She was, Selvion noted, dressed like an adventuress with her ankle-length skirt slit to the thigh on both sides so as not to impede her movements, a sleeveless leather jerkin belted at her waist, a pistol holstered on one side and a sabre sheathed on the other.

Selvion stared at her and blinked, realising that little Thamance would look very much like the woman of the portrait when she was older.

“Aunt Theone says it’s tempting fate to name a daughter in this family Thamance,” Lissom explained. “All of those Thamances went and did amazing things. Thamance I united Meras against the first onslaught of the Gafdans millennia ago. Thamance III was the one who brokered the peace treaty among Meras and its northern neighbours. The fifth gave up the throne to establish the way Meras is governed to this day, and the seventh saved us all from the madness of her power-drunk mother Keolla VI.” She reached up and patted the frame, an admiring smile on her face. “She was the youngest of Keolla’s nine daughters and named on a whim.”

“I take it that ‘Thamance’ is a name usually given to eldest daughters?” Torv asked.

Lissom nodded in response. “When her mother slaughtered all her sisters in this mad bid to become immortal, Thamance fled to the sea to become a pirate who developed a reputation for raiding the Gafdan coastline,” she continued. “She swore never to return, but she was compelled to come home when it became apparent that she was the only one who could stop her mother — and, as the story goes, she blasted Keolla into oblivion with a lightning bolt.”

She motioned for them to continue walking. “She didn’t want the throne, but she didn’t have a choice,” Lissom said with a shrug. “Being the youngest, she didn’t expect it. In fact, historians say that she wasn’t even planning to marry or to start a family.” She shrugged and sighed. “But, like I said: naming a daughter ‘Thamance’ in this family is pretty much like asking for trouble.”

“Or possibly a wish or a prayer for great things,” Selvion murmured, half to himself.