Many Partings (yes, stolen from Tolkien)

I loved TTT, no matter about Aragorn-cliff thing and evil-Faramir, only wish I had thought to put immortal-twist into some of the families in these stories. Oh well, *shrugs* Kay looks like Galadriel, Saro looks like Aragorn, and Yevgen moves the same way as Legolas and can look like him given a couple of hours in the bathroom…that will have to do.

I will not write about the party itself. You can imagine it from the aftermath.

“It has gone so quickly,” Lianne mused as she packed, several days later.

“Are you sorry?” Kalasin raised an eyebrow, “You’ve barely arrived, and now you’re back home again, at the insistence of Buri and Master Numair.”

“I’m not going back to Tortall, Kally,” Lianne looked up from folding her clothes. “Not for a long time. I’ve lived a dutiful life too long, bartered off whenever a political alliance looms. I’m going to live for myself for a while. I’ll be travelling east into the Empire proper with a few of the others – Radanae, Noor, Lizzie and Odette.”

“..and Kelvar?” Kally asked, but already knowing the answer.

“And Kelvar.” Lianne’s voice had a definite challenging note to it.

“Have fun then,” Kalasin said lightly, enjoying the look of disappointed indignation on her sister’s face. “Bersone really is beautiful – but do pack a warm pair of slippers – they’ve got this unnerving fascination with marble floors.”

Lianne humped. “Where is everyone this morning?” she asked. “They can’t all be sleeping off the farewell party last night.”

“Oh, Good Morning, Lord Rasoul,” Odette rolled over with a whisper of sheets and propped her chin up on her hands.

The Deryni adept did a very credible impression of a landed fish, garbled something and then slammed the door. Odette looked at the closed door for barely a second before turning back over and giving the sheet-shrouded form beside her a rather undignified shove.

“Get up Liam,” she said impatiently, “I’d like to get dressed, if you don’t mind.”

The King of Torenth sat up abruptly, and blinked several times in consternation. “Odette?”

“I would certainly hope that’s my name,” she snapped, sliding out of the bed now that the sheets had loosed sufficiently, and then groping around for her clothes, tossed in a most random manner around the bedchamber earlier in the morning.

“Odette, I’m, I…” Liam stammered, the memories flooding back, just as blood rushed to his face.

“You’re what?” she challenged, pulling the long sleeveless dress she had worn the previous evening over her head and then sitting on the ground to lace up her shoes. “A loud snorer, for a start,” she grumbled, getting up off the floor and making to leave.

“Odette, wait,” Liam cried as she opened the door.

His only answer was the dull slam as she departed.

“I think I finally understand where the prohibition of alcohol came from,” Noor groaned as she leaned out of the bed, then, feeling queasy, untangled herself from the sheets, waking her companion in the process.

Dhugal McArdry McLain stared, wide eyed, though it was unclear whether it was in shock or disbelief. He flung aside the sheet and had a very hard look at the surroundings.

“What happened?” he moaned, but, as soon as the words left his mouth, knew it was precisely the wrong thing to say.

His only answer was a glare as Noor gathered up her clothes and swept from the room.

He fell back on the pillows, confusion crossing his features, and then a self-satisfied grin. “Well, there go any chances of holy quests.”

“One of these days, we have got to do this when we’re sober,” Radanae observed matter-of-factly as she too woke up that morning, but unlike Odette or Noor, she did not immediately leave the comfort of the bed. For a start, it was her bedroom after all – and she had known her bedmate for somewhat more than a few days.

“Yes, we must,” Saro agreed with her sleepily as he propped himself up on his elbows. “It would be interesting.”

They could hear the commotion dimly through the thick walls, and out in the courtyard below. Preparations for the departure of the guests and helpers who had eventually proved unnecessary, and also for the Imperial forces.

Radanae made a little noise of discontent as she reached down for her clothes, then, giving up, got out of bed and to the wardrobe to rummage for clean clothes in readiness for the bathhouse. As she made to leave, and as Saro got up to collect his things, he said softly. “’Danae…last night…I wasn’t drunk, you know.”

Radanae turned to him and gave a small, unreadable smile. “Neither was I.”

Yevgen had been up for hours already, breakfasting early with Kalasin, spending some time with the determinedly unflappable Lillias, and then overseeing the preparations for their own departure for the capital in the lowlands. He made a mental note to arrange for the expansion and re-stocking of the wine cellar as soon as possible. Even without catering for the specialist-legion (few of whom drank while on duty anyway), the larger-than-expected parties of guests had put a substantial dent in the best vintages. He was making some last-minute arrangements with Callum regarding the transport of his arms when he caught sight of King Kelson in the garden pavilion where they had first met, leaning against a pillar, looking pensive.

“A lovely pavilion, Yevgen,” Kelson said before turning around, “I never had a chance to compliment her Majesty on its beauty,”

“I thank you,” Yevgen said diplomatically, not mentioning that it was in fact he who oversaw the construction of the Summer Palace, and he who had designed the mosaics and frescos. “I shall pass on your regards,”

Kelson nodded, then came a slight pause as Yevgen stepped up into the pavilion itself. They were much of height and build – Yevgen having the slight advantage - dark and fair, like opposites facing across an invisible chasm. “You are fortunate,” Kelson said, at last, “in such a gracious Queen.”

Yevgen forced himself to limit his reply to a very slight incline of his head.

“I regret that circumstances dictated a necessarily short meeting with her Majesty the Empress,” Kelson began again, tension between them growing as it would have done from the first had there not been other issues to deal with.

“She is of course attentive to relations with all realms which border her own,” Yevgen said non-commitally, as he sat down on one of the benches built into the gaps between the pillars. It wasn’t particularly host-like to continue the staring game with one’s guests, after all. Rislyn, of course, as her wont, had again made her farewells and departed as soon as it was apparent that her presence was not required. Yevgen the King thought it was her way of showing that she would not intervene in the affairs of Sarain that did not concern the Empire proper. Yevgen the brat of a younger brother knew that despite her protestations, the Empress desired to return to home and family, to daughter and irritatingly even-tempered husband.

“I would not have thought otherwise,” Kelson made an answering incline of his head.

“Oh, here comes Lord Rasoul,” Yevgen changed the subject swiftly as he leaned around the bench, to watch the Moorish nobleman stride out into the garden, distraction clear in his step and in his features, to pace in a seriously displeased manner. Whatever the source of his consternation, it was certainly not his niece, who walked boldly past the open corridor from the guest wing assigned to those from the Eleven Kingdoms to the rest of the Palace, dressed in wrinkled long tunic and carrying an equally wrinkled mantle, both of which she had worn the previous evening, as Lord Rasoul made quite visible expressions of shock and disapproval.

“I say…” Kelson trailed off, a little taken aback but not entirely surprised, considering the state that Dhugal and the R’Kassi noblewoman had been when he had departed the dining hall, and the giggling he had heard in the outer reception room in the early hours of the morning. He supposed it was too much to hope that it had only been the Duchess Richenda over-indulging away from her children. His foster-brother, was, despite being the son of a Bishop, a man after all, and the rules governing relations between the sexes did not seem quite the same as they were back home. However, that didn’t stop the very faint feeling of envy stirring at the pit of his stomach…

“Odette!” the voice was clear, penetrating. Odette looked up to see her cousin Yelizabeta bearing down on her. “Where have you been? We’re leaving ten minutes ago. I hope that you’re packed.”

Odette gaped at the older woman.

“Oh, surely you knew?” Lizzie paused for a second, “oh, no perhaps not. You’ve been trailing along with that boy for the last few days. A pleasant enough distraction, I grant you, but a distraction all the same. It was a holiday fling, no more, Odette. It’s time to go back to the real world. Our world.”

“But, but…” Odette spluttered. “I thought…”

“You thought what?” Lizzie raised an eyebrow (it was a family characteristic), challenging. “How else could it end, ‘detta? You’ve far too much potential to be permitted to fritter away your life mouldering away with a barbarian King. The games are over, cousin. Go, speak to him, write to him, even attempt to be assigned to embassies to his land when you are of age – but romantic fantasies have no place in the life of a knight or a princess.” She paused momentarily, “I’ll see you in the courtyard with your things.”

After her kinswoman left, Odette stayed in place for a second, not entirely sure what had just happened, but then, with steady step and without so much as a glance backward went to the family rooms to collect her things. Lizzie, brutal as she had been, was right. It had never been more than childish imaginings, of things that never were to be. Even if Liam was rather cute…

After putting a few smaller clues together (and most definitely after an amused Lizzie, and then a slightly preoccupied Odette had crossed his path) Yevgen was not at all surprised, on arriving at his study after a migraine-inducing conversation with Kelson Haldane, to find a slightly nervous Liam Furstan waiting for him.

“Good Morning, Liam,” Yevgen greeted his younger neighbour cheerfully, shutting the door, “Much as I regretted the circumstances of your visit, I regret still more that we must part.” Trite stuff, but the young King of Torenth appeared not to notice.

“Majesty…” Liam trailed off, and then began again, “Yevgen, forgive me, I am not so familiar with the ways of your people as I should like, but…” he swallowed audibly, “…I should like to .” The last few words tumbled together, most uncharacteristic for the usually articulate young king.

Had Yevgen not already had advance warning of such an event, he might have laughed aloud. As it was, he had sufficient difficulty holding back a small smile at the discomfited teenager. “Wine?” he asked, surprising Liam.

The King of Torenth shook his head, still uncomfortable.

“This is regarding Odette, I assume,” Yevgen said lightly, sitting gracefully on the large leather-upholstered armchair, deliberately drawing out the moment.

“You know it is,” Liam said tightly.

Yevgen allowed himself a small shake of the head, an amused smile, “Majesty, what makes you think that I would have the power to grant your request? I am but the lady’s cousin – male cousin, at that. If consent is what you wish, perhaps you would be better advised to consult with the Empress, the lady’s mother, or, better yet, the lady herself.”

Liam opened his mouth, but then shut it as Yevgen continued.

“But even so, it would not be relevant. How old do you think Odette is?” Yevgen asked, knowing full well that Liam, if he had been paying attention, knew perfectly well.

“Fourteen.” It was said almost defiantly.

“No, not until after Midsummer,” Yevgen corrected quietly. “Though that makes little difference. It will be more than five years before she is of marriageable age by our laws, more than ten beyond that by our customs. Will your councillors permit you to wait that long without a consort, my lord of Torenth?”

Liam knew that they would not. A year, two years, five at most he could delay, but no more. Certainly not the…

“Fifteen years?” he said incredulously, staring at his southern neighbour. But…that would mean that Yevgen, married three years according to the reports of the spies would be more than twice Liam’s age, instead of the bare decade of seniority that Liam had supposed.

Yevgen evidently caught his look. “The custom for ladies of the Imperial House, not princes,” he corrected, “but I wed young even by that standard.”

“But…” Liam trailed off, confused. More than ever he regretted not having a more extensive network of spies. “The Queen Consort of Maren is an Imperial knight,” he offered, not sure where that would take him.

“Yes, Dama Natseyah Q’ok,” Yevgen confirmed, not at all ruffled by the outburst. “But Queen Natseyah is not a daughter of the Imperial House. Her children will never have claim to the Diadem. Odette’s will.”

The words hovered between them in the air.

“No daughter of the Imperial House leaves the Empire, my lord of Torenth,” Yevgen got up, decisively, reminding Liam of the height difference between them. “No son either,” he added, “they bring Consorts and territory into it. Would you be willing to leave your people, Majesty? Would you be prepared to see the triple-headed Eagles of the Empire over your cities?”

Liam’s silence was all the answer necessary.

“A princess,” Yevgen continued clearly, “with Odette’s gifts, her talents, her potential, is not a prize to be given to an ally, no matter how well-respected he may be, nor is her body a bribe. Do not ask me for something I would not give even were it in my power to do so, Liam of Torenth.”

“But I’ve sullied her!” Liam blurted at last, then stilled his tongue when he saw the look, somewhat precariously balanced between perplexion and amusement on the older man’s face.

“How? By having sex?” It was the matter-of-fact tone more than the frank words that sent the red flaring across Liam’s cheeks. “Liam, we’re Imperials. We’re not like you of the Eleven Kingdoms.”

That could not be more clear. We’re civilised, Liam heard the undertone, though it was never openly expressed, you’re not even fit to scrape my cousin’s boots.

“…had she been unwilling last evening, or indeed, this morning, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You’d be dead.” He paused for a second. “In the Empire, we, all of us – male and female – are free to enjoy the company of whomever we desire, without all the restrictions that seem to so plague you in the north. Odette is starting a little younger that her cousins are comfortable with, to be sure, but she’s old enough to know her own mind. It’s over, my lord of Torenth. It was never more than a dream of a summer never meant to last until the leaves fell. She leaves presently.”

Liam couldn’t help but feel that the pun was deliberate. Looking past Yevgen, out the tall, narrow windows that lead to the courtyard, he could see the commotion as the various parties made their preparations for departure. A composed-looking Odette was sitting patiently upon a blue roan riding horse, waiting as a guard formed up around her. At an unseen signal, she nudged her horse into a trot, out the gate and onto the road east.

She didn’t look back.

Afterwards, when the dust had settled, and no trace of their guests remained but flattened grass in the camping field and seriously depleted storerooms, the King of Sarain turned to his Queen as she came up beside him, their daughter in her arms.

“Are you ready to go back south?” he asked her, knowing that she wanted to as much as he.

“Yes,” she replied, as behind them the last of those to depart this mountain retreat scrambled over last-minute arrangements. “It’s time to go home.”

So they did.

And they all lived happily ever after, until the end of their days.

The reign of Empress Rislyn the Wise, called Rislyn Silver-tongue, and (behind her back) Rislyn the Icicle, was long, prosperous, peaceful, and, well, rather boring. There were no major wars, no dangerous in-palace factional brawling, no scandal, no rebellions, no uprisings, no disturbances whatsoever that were of any note in the records of the Imperial Archives. The highlight of her reign was the introduction of a new tax system, and the reform of laws relating to the governance of provincial treasuries. But for whatever her perceived shortcomings, the reign of Silver-tongue nonetheless gave a solid foundation to the reigns of Ishtar the Great and Berenice VII, called ‘Gloriana’, and the grand third Golden Age of the Empire – which would not have been possible without the foresight of the Empress Rislyn.

Rislyn, was, of course, fortunate in both friends and family, most especially her younger sister Berenice Sword-bearer, who kept the peace at the furthest reaches of the Empire and at its heart. During Rislyn’s reign the Sword-bearer was more loved, and more renowned than the Empress herself, but neither sister showed any sign of discomfiture at the turn of events. Berenice’s loyalty to Rislyn was unquestioned, as was Rislyn’s fondness for her younger sister. Berenice was assassinated, together with her aide Felera Eriel and secretary Rosgrana Feuerin, in her favourite northern fortress. The other chief aide of her youth, Justinia Ferox, had then left her service to become the first female Field Commander, the highest post in the Imperial Army. Berenice left no children or lover, but the list of bequests, both small and large, for all her former lovers, male and female, took up several pages of her will. The justice meted out after her death by the Diadem was both swift and devastating in its brutality.

And of the Empress’s brother and his wife, who ruled quite happily beyond the western borders of the Empire for more than three decades? Things there were as peaceful, and as smooth as the running of any kingdom in the wilds. They maintained good relations with all their neighbours, with only the very occasional difficulty, easily resolved. However, in the end, it was not battle, nor an assassin’s blade, nor even sickness that ended their reign. Nothing more than a simple accident, as the Queen rode out one morning in the mountains near the capital. A little thing, her horse simply losing its footing on the mountain path that they had travelled so many times before, and tumbling down the rocks, taking the Queen with it.

She hovered, Kalasin Dawn-bringer, between life and death for several days once they brought her back to the Palace. They say that the very heavens wept those days, cold rain drenching the land as a growing crowd kept vigil outside the Palace, praying for the Queen’s recovery. It was not to be, for she who had brought new life, new hope to Sarain gave up her own one grey dawn. They say that her husband, Yevgen the Golden, killed himself rather than live without her, that in the darkness of the last night, when there was no hope, he sent away their attendants, the healers and stayed with her in the stillness of their chambers, waiting for the dull dawn that neither of them would see. Some say he took poison that night, still others say that he fell upon his sword or opened his wrists, but those few who were there when the door opened the next dawn, upon the arrival of their three children, knew that it was none of those.

Whispered through the streets of the city, through fields, and mountains, forests and plains came the news, that the king had died of grief – for there was no poison found in that chamber, where sword and dagger blade were clean and unsullied. There was, in all minds, no other explanation, for the king had not been riding that fateful morning, and had been in the very peak of health, looking, in his middle age, very much as he had in his prime.

After their deaths, their elder daughter, Lillias, became Queen of Sarain, and her reign, long and prosperous as it was, had its own share of marvels.

THE END

Notes:

1. Of course Rislyn fiddled with the records.
2. If people didn’t pick it up earlier, yes, Kay is bi – it’s just that I’ve only really written about her on-duty life, and that so of thing is considered unprofessional, especially for a commander.
3. Mercy isn’t an Imperial virtue.