Xaviera I, first of her name, by the Grace of the Gods, of Tyria and its Dominions Queen, was dead.
Whether this was an actual fact or just a political one was a matter hotly contested among the court in Tyria. After all, no body had ever been found. No rumor had ever reached them that the Queen was injured, let alone dead. And in her absence, the formidable Queen Dowager ruled the court and the Council with an iron fist.
But the letters had stop coming. The letters assuring the Queen Dowager of Xaviera's health and survival. The letters that had allowed her to string the Council along, get them to dance to her tune. Her control had been weakening for weeks, but the death knell of her power had come just a week before when the Council had broken with her entirely, overruling her veto and issuing a declaration that Xaviera was dead. It was, she knew, less about Xaviera herself and more about seizing power for their own. Some on the Council had said that she was too friendly with the Empire, too eager to entangle the fate of Tyria with the fate of their god-emperor. The legal murder with which they had dispatched Xaviera was a means to that end: if the monarch was dead and had no children to succeed her, then no regency could survive. A new monarch would be chosen, a new dynasty would sit on the throne of Tyria.
The funeral was a formality, but one that had to be observed.
Jaliah's power would last only as long as the mourning period. She would be lucky to survive a week after. But she had buried a husband and a son and even a daughter-in-law that she hated. She suspected that if Xaviera was alive -- and she desperately hoped that her granddaughter was alive -- she would never speak to the old woman again. Not that Jaliah blamed her. The Queen Dowager had done things in the service of a political vision that made her feel filthy. Allowing her own granddaughter to be kept captive while Jaliah negotiated the delicate relationship between city and empire was the worst and most recent. If Xaviera was dead, it would be Jaliah's fault. Jaliah, who had paid her captors to keep Xaviera out of the way until the vision she had for Tyria was secure.
It was horrible. If there was a hell, surely Jaliah was headed for it.
Yet, she would have done it again in an instant.
Tyria could survive the coming conflagration if only they would be flexible. Unfortunately, flexibility did not come naturally to Tyrians. It never had.
Still, she would be damned if she let the bastards seizing power parade her around like some conquered foreigner. Nor would she be seen to stand by idly and endorse their little schemes. She was packing her things, and would be gone before the end of the funeral games. If the Council wanted to wield her power, they would have to learn quickly.
She was signing a few orders in her quarters in the midst of packing some treasured things -- clothes and jewels and a significant portion of the Tyrian treasury -- when there came a knock to the door. "Oh what the fuck is this now?" she rasped irritably. "Come!" she shouted and continued signing the orders. An aide entered and bowed. "What do you want?"
"Your Majesty, there is a woman here requesting an audience."
"Who? I have nothing on the diary."
The aide handed the Queen Dowager a sealed note. Jaliah sighed softly and broke the seal, looking down at its contents. She read it once, then again, then a third time, then she closed it and finished signing the orders. The aide stood in uncomfortable silence until Jaliah handed the orders over. "See that these are handled right away, and send her in. Now!"
A few moments later the Dowager Queen came face to face with the mysterious note-bearing woman. Never one to beat around the bush, the Queen Dowager held up the note. "What the fuck is the meaning of this cloak and dagger bullshit?"
Whether this was an actual fact or just a political one was a matter hotly contested among the court in Tyria. After all, no body had ever been found. No rumor had ever reached them that the Queen was injured, let alone dead. And in her absence, the formidable Queen Dowager ruled the court and the Council with an iron fist.
But the letters had stop coming. The letters assuring the Queen Dowager of Xaviera's health and survival. The letters that had allowed her to string the Council along, get them to dance to her tune. Her control had been weakening for weeks, but the death knell of her power had come just a week before when the Council had broken with her entirely, overruling her veto and issuing a declaration that Xaviera was dead. It was, she knew, less about Xaviera herself and more about seizing power for their own. Some on the Council had said that she was too friendly with the Empire, too eager to entangle the fate of Tyria with the fate of their god-emperor. The legal murder with which they had dispatched Xaviera was a means to that end: if the monarch was dead and had no children to succeed her, then no regency could survive. A new monarch would be chosen, a new dynasty would sit on the throne of Tyria.
The funeral was a formality, but one that had to be observed.
Jaliah's power would last only as long as the mourning period. She would be lucky to survive a week after. But she had buried a husband and a son and even a daughter-in-law that she hated. She suspected that if Xaviera was alive -- and she desperately hoped that her granddaughter was alive -- she would never speak to the old woman again. Not that Jaliah blamed her. The Queen Dowager had done things in the service of a political vision that made her feel filthy. Allowing her own granddaughter to be kept captive while Jaliah negotiated the delicate relationship between city and empire was the worst and most recent. If Xaviera was dead, it would be Jaliah's fault. Jaliah, who had paid her captors to keep Xaviera out of the way until the vision she had for Tyria was secure.
It was horrible. If there was a hell, surely Jaliah was headed for it.
Yet, she would have done it again in an instant.
Tyria could survive the coming conflagration if only they would be flexible. Unfortunately, flexibility did not come naturally to Tyrians. It never had.
Still, she would be damned if she let the bastards seizing power parade her around like some conquered foreigner. Nor would she be seen to stand by idly and endorse their little schemes. She was packing her things, and would be gone before the end of the funeral games. If the Council wanted to wield her power, they would have to learn quickly.
She was signing a few orders in her quarters in the midst of packing some treasured things -- clothes and jewels and a significant portion of the Tyrian treasury -- when there came a knock to the door. "Oh what the fuck is this now?" she rasped irritably. "Come!" she shouted and continued signing the orders. An aide entered and bowed. "What do you want?"
"Your Majesty, there is a woman here requesting an audience."
"Who? I have nothing on the diary."
The aide handed the Queen Dowager a sealed note. Jaliah sighed softly and broke the seal, looking down at its contents. She read it once, then again, then a third time, then she closed it and finished signing the orders. The aide stood in uncomfortable silence until Jaliah handed the orders over. "See that these are handled right away, and send her in. Now!"
A few moments later the Dowager Queen came face to face with the mysterious note-bearing woman. Never one to beat around the bush, the Queen Dowager held up the note. "What the fuck is the meaning of this cloak and dagger bullshit?"