The Mountain Queen

Part III, Chapter Three: Trials

When Lysandra rode through the gates of Castle Dryman the following morning, she did not meet the welcome she expected.  By now she had heard news of Brax's death and Collux's seizure of the throne, and she and Diana were braced for barred gates, armored sentries, perhaps even a touch of boiling oil to greet them upon arrival.  Instead, the gates were flung wide open, the sentries wore their customary cloth, and there were garlands of flowers placed about the entryway, as if the castle itself were blooming in welcome.

Weary, caked with road-dust, astride panting horses that slipped and stumbled on the uneven flagstones, Lysandra and Diana rode straight on into the castle, through a broad dark corridor that no horse-hoof had touched in two hundred years.  The castle was strangely, eerily silent.  The hair rose on the back of their necks.

Flank by flank they entered the throne room, and pulled to a halt just inside.  They had been ready—so they thought—for anything.  But the sight that greeted them now made them gape in sheer amazement, and their hearts filled with a nameless dread.

The great room was packed to the edges with people.  People spilled out of every doorway and hung over every balustrade.  It was a mass of humanity so thick and expansive that the room seemed to breathe with a single hot breath.

Courtiers were there, and servants—familiar faces, in familiar costumes, with a familiar deferential blankness in their eyes.  But they were outnumbered twenty-to-one by farmers, rough and browned and sullen, and the pink, sturdy shapes of farmers' wives.  There were even children, grave-eyed and apple-cheeked, gazing mutely at the new arrivals, or darting blithely after one another through the warm press of the throng.

The throne room had never played host to a horde like this.  It was unthinkable; it was almost a sacrilege.  A pretender seated on the throne of Dryman—that was something Lysandra had prepared herself for.  But not this sickening carnival of high-piled peasants.  This was more than a queen could bear.

The sea of bodies parted, and a corridor opened up before them, leading down the length of the room to the foot of the golden throne.  That throne sat empty—gleaming and inviting.  But between herself and her prize, Lysandra could discern a dozen faces—and at the front of them all, as irritating and inscrutable as ever, was the pleasant, smiling face of Cressock.

Lysandra spurred her mount, and Diana fell in close behind.  The sound of hooves rang imperiously in the rapidly-hushing chamber.

As the two women drew near, Cressock stepped forward and gently seized the bridle of Lysandra's steed.  The horse halted; Cressock gave a little bow and held up his hand.  Lysandra hesitated, then took his hand and dismounted gracefully.  Her eyes found his.

"Cressock," she whispered, "what is this?"

"A reckoning," he said softly.  "For all of us."

Then he released her hand, spun outward, and raised his voice to address the gathering.

"We are assembled here today to decide who will sit on the throne of Dryman.  Two challengers have arisen to contest Lysandra's right to rule.  Today they will plead their cases, and we will hear them.  I have asked you all here so that you may bear witness.  Let no man say this was done in secret, in the dark rooms of conspiracy.  Let men know for all time to come that the fate of the kingdom was decided in full view of her people."

He paused, and the room grew cool with the weight of his words.  From my place behind Cressock, near the foot of the throne, I shot a glance at Lysandra.  Her bearing was still proud, but her eyes were bewildered.  I could guess what she was thinking.  Two challengers?  Who was the second?  Was it Cressock himself?