The Year of the Dead Rose

by Rachel Parsons

Chapter 12
Chapter 13, part 2
appear in this issue.

Chapter 13

part 1 of 2

James Connell was irked. No, that was too mild a word. So was ‘angry,’ ‘livid,’ or ‘boiling.’ He was as angry as a volcano god, ‘though he did not believe in volcano gods. He was covering it well, listening to Queen Branwen’s chattering in their carriage. Man-God, the woman could natter.

All he wanted to do was think of the implication of the letter in his vest pocket, and all she wanted to do was talk about flowers. Orchids. Roses. Tanzanias. Wooster-lilies. Witch’s Feet. Matera lips. Gorgon’s heads. He hadn’t realized that the world had as many flowers in it as all that. He thought she must be making some of them up.

He listened with enough of his mind that he could respond if she said something directly to him. Which, blissfully, wasn’t very often. No wonder she was the virgin queen. It wasn’t that she had unsexed longings for the barbarian princess who was to be their hostess. It was that she was truly in love with the sound of her own words and there was no room for another relationship.

The other part of his mind was on the letter. He had no doubt of its authenticity and of the soundness of its words, as distressing as they were. He knew Dol Pelbin’s reputation. If he said he had the scroll, then he had the scroll. The cowled man’s agent had failed.

He had also heard that someone who was called ‘the naked woman’ also coveted the scroll. He smiled thinly to himself. That could only be one person, as only one woman would be naked and interested in the scroll. But it was precisely to keep the scroll from her that he had jumped at the chance of its acquisition when the cowled man had approached him.

Not that he believed in the mysteries of the scroll. Like an offworlder, he refused to believe in anything that he could not measure and master. But the important thing was that the, uh, naked woman did. It could be all that she needed to bring about the dreadful war. According to Queen Nattering Nelly, it wasn’t her ‘sister monarch’ that wanted the war, but he thought that was bull refuse. She had been humiliated by the men of New Dyved, and the war would be her revenge. How like a woman not to care if the whole world would be in flames, as long as the insult to her person was satisfied.

Men would fight for this woman too. Fight out of lust; fight because she was their injured princess; fight because they were idiots. But what sense they had might go away if they thought the war could be fought with supernatural means. For someplace deep in side of each man of New Fairy must be the realization that the men of the old world would back the men of New Dyved. And that their terrible weapons of mass destruction would make the whole world a grave.

But if the denizens of the grave could rise, then what boon these weapons? Their very power would be their undoing, as they would create an invincible force of the no longer living. For the ancient wisdom had it that death came for life, and, like death, the dead would too. And like death, they absolutely, positively could not be stopped until they consumed the living. The wielder of the death sword, what the prophecies said would be a woman sinister in all her glory, could direct them to the most vital of men, the offworlders (or so he thought of them). The scroll could bring about the prophecy.

He couldn’t believe he was even thinking these thoughts. But he knew all too well the power of belief. And what men believed, they would do. And if it mean war-

“I don’t think you are really listening to me, James,” Branwen said, hitting him on his thigh with her fist.

“Of course I am listening to you, your majesty; you are my queen.”

“Then answer me? Which do you think would be an appropriate garland? Horton roses or ladykins?”

“I am sure your majesty knows best on these subjects.”

“Meaning, I suppose, that you could care less.”

“I am sorry, your majesty, but my mind is occupied and is much heavy with what your sister monarch wishes.”

“You mean your mind is occupied and is much heavy with the thought of her exposed bosoms.”

“I certainly-”

“James,” said Branwen wearily, “it is well known why all the slaves in your household are female and under thirty. And how you unjustly enrich yourself at their expense by enwombing your seed with them, thus having endless merchandise to sell at the slave mart.”

This from a woman who would beat and kick a slave if she was but a minute late with her tea or hairbrush? But even though he was the true leader of his realm, his power came from the Senate, and they would not like his thoughts about his queen at the moment. Especially the ones involving her bare buttocks and the palm of his hand.

“I was about to say that I would certainly never interfere in your affairs, mistress.” Thwack! Thwack! Such a lovely thought.

“Are you suggesting that I am looking forward to an unsexed tryst with my sister monarch?” Rhiannon wasn’t really her sister, no more than Wynne was Rhiannon’s mother, but Branwen was in constant use of the honorific. “Or that if I were, you would be capable of interfering with that?”

James was saved from the necessity of a response by the guardsman nearest the carriage, who announced “Yonder lies your sister’s castle,” to Branwen. She began squealing and thrusting her head out the carriage window. Indeed, within sighting distance was Caer Rhiannon.

The train was modest by Branwen’s standards, consisting of her carriage, three caravans that carried her traveling necessities, a band of guards, wagons for their necessities, and some handmen loyal to James Connell. As to servants, Branwen would be at the mercy of her sister monarch, as slavery was not allowed in New Fairy, or nudity, with, of course, the one notable exception. (Branwen was thinking of lawful practices, as nudity was not only allowed, but encouraged at Wynne’s Inn.)

The train went through the outer gate of the palace, which was opposite the quad where, in the spring and summer, the House of Oset sprouted its own Bazaar. Without one, there would still be some merchants and vendors to give Branwen pleasure, but that would have to wait until she and Rhiannon could visit Arbeth Dactyl.

She frowned at that thought, as the times they had spent shopping had been chiefly to fill their redundantly and splendidly overflowing wardrobes. Still, there were other things to buy than clothes and shoes, although Branwen was not sure what they would be. It was still thrilling to be in this savage, outback kingdom; perhaps that in itself would provide her pleasure.

The train stopped at the palace doors. Ostlers and handlers of all sorts emerged, as if from the trees themselves, to take care of them. Horses were taken to the royal stables, wagons to the barracks, and the boxes of clothes, perfumes, jewelry, toiletries, and sheer junk of the kind that Branwen had declared she would rather be caught dead than leave behind were being lifted down and taken to her chambers. The same as before, she reckoned.

James took her arm, as she stepped down, and led her through the tall, stone doors that were pulled opened by draught horses. He blinked when he realized that they were white to the point of brightness and had long, ivory horns coming from their foreheads. Unicorns? They had been declared extinct by New Prydain’s science council. Together, queen and minister proceeded into the Great Hall.

Branwen was so startled, that for a moment that James considered blissful, she stopped talking. In the reception area of the Great Hall was Rhiannon. So was naked, as was to be expected, given her delusions about being cursed. But to her right side was an equally naked woman, shaved intimately, as was Rhiannon, but with magnificent, shoulder-length brown hair and startling green eyes. To her left was an equally startling sight. A wolf. And not just any wolf, but a six-foot long specimen, with a silvery coat, mechanical-looking legs, and teeth that looked like they could cut through forged steel. If Branwen hadn’t known better, she would have sworn it was a legendary Lycaon.

The Queen of New Prydain recovered quickly and, leaning over, started toward Rhiannon and her weird entourage, holding the ladykins in her hand. James hadn’t been much help, but she had risen to the occasion and picked the right lei.

As she walked briskly toward her friend, her eye took in the change in the wall of portraits. It was much as it had been before. It started with Heveydd the Old, the king of Old Fairy; had afterwards, Bran the Talking Head, who, legend had it, lost his body in a game of cards; Pryderi the Older, Pryderi the Younger, Pryderi the Middle-Aged, Heveydd the Tall, Heveydd the Short, Guri of the Golden Locks, Guri of the Fêted Locks, Matholuch of the Loam Lochs, Guri of the Shorn Locks, Guri the Pouter, who thought the world was out to get him, and not just the council, as was the case; Guri the Flouter, who went against tradition by wearing his hair in a bun with a bone of one of his slain enemies in it; Guri the Pooter, who had had his bung hole sewed up by assassins, who fed him beans until he burst.

She noted Hu the Mighty; Hu the Wimpy; Hu the Eater of Pork and Beans. The notorious Math of the Eagle Eye followed by his bespectacled son, Math of the Four Eyes and his cousin, Math the Knife.

There were six Modrons, all in black with white doilies around their bosoms, looking severely disapproving, especially the one of the current Rhiannon’s mother. There was Rhiannon of the Birds, Rhiannon of the Lake, Rhiannon of the Song, Rhiannon of the Nix, and all those in between until it got to the current Rhiannon.

Unlike her predecessors, who were in kingly or queenly garb, Rhiannon’s portrait had her bare-breasted, with a peculiar look on her face, as if fire ants or pincher beetles were crawling up her legs or toward a part of her the portraitist had discreetly omitted. She looked like her portraiture belonged on a gentleman’s wall, along with pictures of nymphs dancing in the woods, or courtesans lounging on couches, their hands firmly planted on their womanhoods so as to not shock or offend.

Below her, written with a flourish: “Rhiannon the Nude.” Branwen just knew how much her friend would love that sobriquet. She didn’t know whether to laugh or be embarrassed for her.

The portraits were commissioned by the Council of Barons, and were intended, along with the nicknames, to show something distinct about the monarch. It was abundantly clear what the artist, or his patrons, thought was distinct about the current soon-to-be queen. Her pair looked almost three dimensional. Branwen was almost sure that the painted nipples were following her across the room, taking aim.

Proceed to chapter 13, part 2...