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Extended Work
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| River Dun | |
| By Abigail | ||||||
| 01 September 2008 | ||||||
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This is the first few pages of a larger story I've been working on. The premise is a series of events that lead to a six year old who is named queen of an entire country and thrust into the middle of the power struggles and feuds of the people surrounding her. Castle Ultan The Eighty-Ninth Year in the Reign of Queen Ceala the Good The night wind blew cool over the stone balustrade and washed over the balcony. This was the coolest place in the castle. Even in the worst part of summer, the wind lost its heat while moving over the water of the Dun River, and by the time it reached this place the air felt more like early spring. The old woman breathed deeply of the breeze; it was heavy, and tasted of water. It ruffled the sheets spread over her legs. It blew her hair down into her face, as white and feathery as cotton. The crone lifted a small bony hand to her face, to push a wisp of hair out of her eyes. A young man sitting at her feet saw the slight movement and sprang to attention. “Do you need anything, Excellency? Are you ready to go inside?” His voice was tense and eager, and more than a little nervous. The old monarch restrained a laugh. It would hurt the poor boy’s feelings, she mustn’t laugh at him. Still, his boyish enthusiasm had touched her in a soft place, it made her want to giggle like a girl, and in some ways, to cry a bit. “No…” she searched for a name. “Thomas. I want to stay a bit longer.” So young. No more than twenty. Had she ever been so young? Yes, she could still remember it. In her minds eye she still looked that way. Raven black hair that fell to the backs of her knees. A perfect nose, slanting eyes. That was how she thought of herself, that young woman. And every time she looked in the mirror, a part of her still expected to see that. A tiny part of her was shocked, horrified, by each line, each winkle, staring back at her. Surely it had not been there yesterday? Men called her a beauty. She had been once. They continued to call her so even when she grew old. She remembered the first time she began to suspect they did not tell her the truth. She also remembered when she finally became so aware of her own age, their praises felt like mockery to her. Now she was so old, no one said it at all anymore. The most sincerely spoken compliment could only have been interpreted as jest. This boy was so young. He must be new to her service. He spoke nervously, wanting desperately to please. He was young enough to be completely flustered by the honor of serving in Castle Ultan. Even though she was old, there could be no denying the emotion pouring out of his eyes. Love. The boy adored her. As did many. She had been Queen for as long as anyone could remember. As old and as certain as the hills. A living relic, in her own time. She looked down upon her claw-like hands, resting in her lap. It was an oppressively hot night, but they had insisted upon covering her with a sheet. Her legs were useless twigs making little bulges under the white linen. She lay in a litter, propped up into an almost sitting position by pillows. The litter was carried by four men, soldiers by the look of them, although she wasn’t sure. She had been too tired to ask. She had simply instructed them to bear her up to the third floor balcony, on the south side of castle Dun. The coolest spot in the castle. Maybe then she would be able to catch her breath. She breathed in, breathed out. A glob of mucus caught suddenly in her throat, she choked and gave a hacking cough before she was able to spit it out. Thomas stared at her worriedly. The boy loved her, and did not want her to go. She was the Good Queen. Queen Ceala of the People. The ruler who had brought about the Time of Peace. It was what they all thought. But they didn’t know what had bought that peace. When she was young and beautiful, in that time long ago that no ones grandfather could still remember, she had been thrust alone and unprepared onto a fragile throne. She had fought tooth and nail to hold her place, had given bribes and favors. She used every weapon she had, a tense combination of promises and threats to hold the Noble Houses in their place. And she had won. She secured her strength and ruled over a time of prosperity and peace for her people. But beneath the surface of that peace, lay always what she would let no one else see. She never stopped paying for the crown she had bought so dearly. For years and years after she was secure, people came to demand the favors she had borrowed, something she could not refuse. And the more she involved herself in these shady practices, the more her friends and enemies had to hold over her head. The gentle lad kneeling at her feet had no idea that just last week and innocent man, a member of the guard, had disappeared, his body flung into the river. And his crime? Witnessing a conversation he should not have overheard. Another victim for keeping the peace. One more man sacrificed for the sake of the multitudes. But everything seemed peaceful, here in the Dunland. People sang the praises of this queen and her Golden Age, an age of justice for the people. And so it was, for many of them. For most of them. But is that really enough? The question that had burdened the monarch all her life went once more through her mind. Did her ends really justify her means? And even if they did, had she really done all this for love of her people, as she so often proclaimed, or was it all because deep in her soul she cherished the cold weight of a crown upon her head? An indrawn breath became trapped in her throat. Ceara threw her head back, gasping desperately without sound. She could not breathe, neither could she get enough air to cough and fight to open her airway. Panic rose sharply in her chest, and that feeling increased as she realized no one had noticed her plight. The four litter-bearers, the servants all standing at a distance, no one was looking straight at the queen, and she could not make a sound to alert them. This is it then, this is how I die. She thought, her mind like a bird trapped in a cage, thoughts fluttering about, panicking. Her hands went uselessly to her throat, then they flew about her. Just as weakness began to overtake her, just as the edges of her vision turned black, her claw-like hands landed, clutching at the collar of the boy at her feet. “Excellency?” Her turned to look at her, confused, then terrified. “Queen Ceala!” He cried, and lifted the tiny body in his arms. A noise arose around them, gasps and cries as the others were alerted to the danger. But they sounded very far away to the dying queen. Then the soldier shook her, softly, then harder, as hard as he dared. The phlegm in her throat loosened, and suddenly she was able to cough again. Not to breathe well, but at least to cough. And summoning the great will that had carried her thus far through life, the ancient woman fought to live a while longer. Her Excellency, the Good Queen Ceala, spent the next twenty minutes coughing and sputtering, surrounded by throngs of loving servants who did not want their lady to leave them yet. After the fit was over, she was so weak she could not speak, and she was carried inside to her bedroom to rest. And a lot of good that will do me, she thought. It’s too bloody hot inside, it makes this fluid in my lungs thicken, and my cough grows worse. It has become ten times worse since the warm weather began. I cannot breathe inside; the best place for me is on the balcony. But it would do no good to try to explain. They wanted to bring her inside, and she didn’t have the strength to argue with them. I remember a day when it was I who gave the commands around here. She thought to herself. But she could find no fault with those who loved her. They only wanted her to remain with them. She had heard people speaking, how fortunate the queen had lived through another winter, they would have her for a year yet, at least. They did not know it was the summer that was killing her. For the woman Ceara had finally come to understand one thing. She was dying.
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