The Promised One: The Chalam Færytales (Book I)

Chapter Six

"How was your meeting, father?" Elizabeth asked from one of the small armchairs around the fireplace. The dying embers cast a haunting glow about the dark room as her father entered the cottage, his shoulders heavy, his eyes limned with a thousand thoughts.

"I thought you'd be asleep," he said, absently hanging his cloak by the door. Not even the moonlight was bright enough to penetrate the cottage tonight.

Elizabeth shrugged. "Can't seem to sleep."

No, can't seem to stop thinking, actually. Of course. Because who could sleep after admitting to her best friend that she thought the queen capable of cursing her own son?

The paltry orange light from the dying fire cast the deep lines of her father's face into shadow as he smiled kindly, taking a seat beside her.

"Your meeting was long," she mused absently.

A heavy sigh. "It is a pity that the length of a meeting is no indication of its actual use. Or success."

She patted his hand where it rested on the carved arm. "I think perhaps a sip of tea is the antidote to both of our ailments," she smiled.

He chuckled warmly. "I'll stoke the fire."

Elizabeth nodded, standing to fetch the kettle and cups while her father tended to the hearth.

"What was the meeting about that it should last so long?" she asked over her shoulder.

The unmistakable huff of the bellow and soon her father had the fire licking merrily along the logs. "It would seem that the troubles with Midvar are far from over."

"I thought the army had been able to subdue the attacks at the border," she mused, ambling back to her father's side, contraband in tow. She set the cups down on a small side table, handing her father the kettle.

He hung it from a hook over the fire and all but collapsed back into his chair. "They had. But now there are more, along the northern end of the border. It seems that Midvar enjoys keeping our soldiers busy at all times. The king is eager to devise a better strategy. But alas, what strategy is there against pandemonium and senselessness?"

"Why do you suppose they are so relentless, father?"

"Who can say? To hear the queen tell it, our relations with Midvar have only improved. And I suppose, in some ways, they have. Sir Thomas insists that these are rebel attacks and have no association with their king. But I cannot help but wonder..."

Elizabeth tore her gaze from the dancing flames, looking at her father's profile beside her. "You're not suggesting..."

A sigh, even as he kept his attention rapt on the growing flames. "Alas, I have no answers to the games of kings, love. But I know this. The Midvarish claim to all of these lands goes back centuries. It may be a new king and a new generation, but those claims run deep into the very fiber of their being. And they have been relentless in their pursuit over the centuries. Of course, their tactics have changed, evolved. And it's true that since the reign of King Aiken and Queen Meria—or more specifically, since the birth of their first son—the Midvarish attempts have been thwarted, to say the least. But that doesn't mean they won't keep trying. They want Navah. And they want Haravelle. I think maybe they want the whole known world. And yes, I fear that the rebel attacks are not rebel attacks at all, but instead some sort of diversion. But of course, there is no proof of my claims, as they are nothing more than a hunch. And I'm sure when the king of Midvar finally pays us a visit, he will be prepared with a list of reasons a thousand strong why the rebels have nothing to do with him. And Sir Thomas, the Midvarish diplomat, takes a personal affront at such a notion, as well. And I would likely do the same if someone were accusing my country of sedition. So in the end, tonight's meeting was little more than a beating of a long-since dead horse. And we are no closer to a solution than when we started."