The Year of the Dead Rose

by Rachel Parsons

Chapter 2, Chapter 3
appear in this issue.

Chapter 4

Rhiannon retired to her bedchambers and, after inspecting all the pewter pots to make sure they were still smoldering, sat at her escritoire. She picked the finest parchment, laid it out before her. Then she unstopped an ink bottle, took a quill and dipped it in. Then, smiling sadly, she began to write.

My dearest Rosalyn, How I wish you were with me. The turmoil in my heart and in my kingdom is great. I am asked to quell the latter, but to do so, I must quell the former. I am asked to be queen, to assume absolute power. I can hear your laughter at this. ‘What’s the problem?’ you would say. Oh, how I long to hear your laughter, even though I was often the butt of it.

But how can I, a mere woman, and a naked one at that, assume such power? Again, I hear your laughter, as you taught me that even under the heel of men, a woman, naked and in bondage, can have power.

But this is all why I need you and your presence. I am giving this letter to my agent, who I will commission to find you.

With all my love,

Rhiannon
Princess of New Fairy

She blotted the letter, folded it, and used her royal, purple sealing wax to press her seal on it. Then she folded her head to the table and cried.

Rosalyn Morgan was her truest companion and the woman who had saved her life when she was left, naked and humiliated, to fend for herself on the streets of New Dyved; she who had been trained to be a lady and a useless adornment and who would have been devoured by the male denizens of those streets if not for this strumpet, who trained her to forget the ways of ladies and learn the ways of courtesans. Rhiannon cried, for very likely, Rosalyn Morgan was dead.

Rhiannon got up, pushing her leather chair back, causing the stone floor to protest. She left the parchment on the escritoire, and padded back and forth. It had been six weeks since she had come again to live at Caer Rhiannon. It had taken her another two weeks to get here, hiding from the men of the queen of New Dyved, Rhiannon’s hated enemy even before she had killed her husband. She had left the kingdom in turmoil, after assassinating its monarch, and her truest companion had been stuck somewhere in the middle. In civil war, some will die; and Rhiannon knew that somehow Rosalyn, if alive, would have made it to her. Her separation from Rhiannon would be as painful as Rhiannon’s separation from her.

So eight weeks, four times the length it would take a fugitive to get from New Dyved to New Fairy, must mean Rosalyn’s death. But before she accepted such a heart-sinking verdict, Rhiannon had to be sure. But how? She could not hunt for her friend, not in her condition. She had had the goddesses’ own boons to get home safely; a woman on the road was prey, pure and simple, especially a naked one, even if she had been dragging along a death sword. Eligor, forged by her godfather the Goblin King, at the behest of Heveydd, had been the gift of love which had convinced her that she could go home again, even if as a disgraced, naked whore. But even a death sword couldn’t fight against all enemies.

Besides, if Ioseff was right, her duties were to New Fairy. She had to stay, a visible presence of the House of Oset; a rallying point; ‘why men fight,’ if war came about.

She didn’t know what to do. She needed Rosalyn to tell her. She needed a champion. She had none. But she did know where to search for one.

To be continued...