Stone of Tears

Queen Cyrilla held her head high. She refused to acknowledge how much the coarse fingers of the brutes who held her were hurting her arms. She didn’t resist as they walked her down the filthy corridor. Resistance was hopeless, anyway, and would bring her no aid. She would conduct herself now as always: with dignity. She was the queen of Galea. She would endure with dignity what was to come. She would not show her terror.

Besides, it was not what was being done to her that mattered. It was what was going to happen to the Galean people that grieved her.

And what had already happened.

Nearly one hundred score of the Galean guard had been murdered before her eyes. Who could have foreseen that they would be set upon in this, of all places: on neutral ground? That a few had escaped was no solace. They, too, would probably be hunted down and killed.

She hoped that her brother, Prince Harold, had been among those who had escaped. If he had gotten away, perhaps he could rally a defense against the worse slaughter that was yet to come.

The brutal hands on her arms brought her to a halt next to a hissing torch set in a rust-encrusted bracket. The fingers twisted so painfully that a small cry escaped her lips despite her will to stifle it.

“Are my men hurting you, my lady?” came a mocking voice from behind.

She coolly denied Prince Fyren the satisfaction of an answer.

A guard worked keys at a rusty lock, sending a sharp, metallic sound echoing down the stone corridor when the bolt finally drew. The heavy door groaned on its hinges as it was pulled open. The viselike hands forced her on, through the doorway and down another long, low passageway.

She could hear the swish of her satin skirts, and to the sides and behind, the men’s boots on the stone floor, splashing occasionally through stagnant, foul-smelling water. The dank air felt cold on her shoulders, which were unaccustomed to being uncovered.

Her heart threatened to race out of control when she thought about where she was being taken. She prayed to the dear spirits that there wouldn’t be rats. She feared rats, their sharp teeth, their clutching claws, and their cunning, black eyes. When she was very little she had nightmares about rats, and would wake screaming.

It an effort to bring her heart back under control, she tried to think of other things. She thought about the strange woman who had sought a private audience with her. Cyrilla wasn’t at all sure why she had granted it, but she now wished she had paid more heed to the insistent woman.

What was her name? Lady something. A glimpse of her hair beneath the concealing veil had shown it to be too short for someone of her standing. Lady… Bevinvier. Yes, that was it: Lady Bevinvier. Lady Bevinvier of… someplace. She couldn’t will her mind to remember. It didn’t matter anyway; it was not where the woman was from, but what she had said, that mattered.

Leave Aydindril, Lady Bevinvier had warned. Leave at once.

But Cyrilla had not come all this way, in the teeth of winter, to leave before the Council of the Midlands had heard her grievance, and acted upon it. She had come to demand that the council do its duty to bring an immediate halt to the transgressions against her land and people.

Towns had been sacked, farms burned, and people murdered. The armies of Kelton were massing to attack. An invasion was imminent, if not already under way. And for what? Nothing but naked conquest. Against an ally! It was an outrage!

It was the council’s duty to come to the defense of any land being attacked, no matter by whom. The whole point of the Council of the Midlands was to prevent just such treason. It was their duty to direct all the lands to come to the aid of Galea, and put down the aggression.

Though Galea was a powerful land, it had been gravely weakened by its defense of the Midlands against D’Hara, and was not prepared for another costly war. Kelton had been spared the brunt of the D’Haran conquest, and had reserves aplenty. Galea had paid the price of resistance in their stead.

The night before, Lady Bevinvier had come to her, and had begged that she leave at once. She had said Cyrilla would find no help for Galea from the council. The Lady Bevinvier said that if the queen stayed, she would be in great personal danger. At first, when pressed, Lady Bevinvier refused to explain herself.

Cyrilla thanked her but said she would not turn away from her duty to her people, and would go before the council, as planned. Lady Bevinvier broke down in tears, begging that the queen heed her words.

She at last confided that she had had a vision.