THE SWORD AND THE ROSE

There had been kings before Aveline. There had been handsome kings, cruel kings, frightened kings, kings who had inherited crowns before they were old enough to understand what crowns cost, and kings whose names were carved so deeply into the stones of Caerwyn that priests insisted the kingdom itself would collapse if their bloodline ever ended. Then the old king died without an acknowledged heir, and for eleven months Caerwyn discovered just how quickly noblemen became wolves when there was an empty chair at the head of the table. They came from every corner of the realm to claim it. Dukes arrived with genealogies. Barons arrived with armies. Princes arrived with mothers who remembered exactly which cousin had married which forgotten aunt eighty years earlier. And in the courtyard of the great cathedral stood a black stone that had appeared on the night of the king's death, with a silver sword buried almost to its hilt inside it. Across the stone were seven words. LET THE HAND THAT SERVES DRAW THE SWORD. Every nobleman tried. None succeeded. Aveline was nineteen when she walked into the courtyard carrying a bucket. She was not dressed for destiny. Her boots were muddy, her brown hair was tied badly behind her head, and the old stable jacket she wore had belonged to a man twice her size. She stopped beside the stone only because a knight was shouting at one of the serving girls. "You spilled water on my cloak." "I am sorry, my lord." "You will be sorrier." Aveline placed her bucket down. "Leave her alone." The knight turned. He stared at Aveline. Then he laughed. "Who are you?" "Someone asking politely." "And if I refuse?" Aveline glanced at the sword. She had no weapon of her own. So she wrapped both hands around its hilt. "I suppose I'll borrow this." And pulled. The sword slid from the stone as easily as a kitchen knife from butter. The courtyard went silent. The knight stopped laughing. Behind Aveline, the forgotten bucket tipped against the uneven stones, spilling a thin sheet of water across the courtyard. Aveline stared at the sword. "Oh," she whispered. From somewhere behind her came the voice of an elderly woman. "Well." Aveline turned. Nerys, the strange silver-haired woman who lived in the western tower and whom half the court called a sorceress when she was not listening, smiled. "That complicates things." Nobody wanted Aveline to be queen. That was precisely why, Nerys said, she might make a good one. The nobles demanded proof of her blood. They received it. Aveline was the dead king's daughter, born to a woman he had loved before politics had separated them, hidden after threats against the child's life, and raised among ordinary people rather than courtiers. The nobles liked that even less. Within a month there were rebellions. Within six months Aveline had defeated three of them. Within a year the men who had laughed when she pulled the sword from the stone were bowing when she entered the hall. But Aveline's greatest victory did not come on a battlefield. It came with a table. A round one. "If I sit at the head," she told the assembled knights, "then every argument begins with the reminder that I am above you." A grizzled commander frowned. "You are above us." "Yes, Commander. I am trying not to become unbearable about it." Someone laughed. Aveline smiled. "So there will be no head." She walked around the enormous oak table. "At this table, a farmer's daughter who earned her spurs sits as near the queen as a duchess. We speak here as servants of Caerwyn, not as owners of it." Nerys watched from the shadows. And beside her stood a woman Aveline had never seen before. Tall. Dark-haired. Perhaps twenty-seven. Wrapped in a deep green traveling cloak, with rain still shining upon the shoulders. Aveline forgot what she had been saying. The stranger noticed. One eyebrow lifted. Aveline recovered badly. "And... that is all." The knights stared at her. Nerys covered a smile. Later, Aveline found the stranger standing in the castle garden. "You distracted me." The woman turned. "Did I?" "Completely." "That sounds like a weakness in the queen rather than a crime committed by a visitor." Aveline liked her instantly. "What is your name?" "Elara Vale." "The diplomat?" "The troublesome diplomat, according to your eastern lords." "I've met my eastern lords. That speaks highly of you." Elara laughed. Aveline would remember that laugh long after she had forgotten a thousand speeches, a hundred victories, and the names of most of the men who had tried to kill her. Elara did not become Aveline's queen quickly. She became her irritation first. Elara contradicted her in council. Corrected her maps. Rewrote her treaties. Once, during negotiations with the northern clans, she kicked Aveline beneath the table so hard that the queen nearly shouted. Later Aveline cornered her in the corridor. "You kicked the Queen of Caerwyn." "You were about to declare their chieftain a drunken goat." "He was a drunken goat." "He was also considering signing the treaty." "He signed it." "Because I kicked you." Aveline moved closer. "Perhaps I should appoint someone to kick me professionally." Elara's smile changed. "Perhaps you already have." Their first kiss happened three weeks later in that same corridor. Their second lasted considerably longer. By spring, everybody knew. By summer, Elara sat beside Aveline at ceremonies. And when the council delicately asked what title should properly be given to the woman who shared the queen's chambers, Aveline leaned back in her chair. "Queen seems convenient." Several councillors nearly swallowed their tongues. Elara looked at her. "You might have discussed this with me." "I was planning to." "When?" "Tonight." "Before or after taking off my dress?" Aveline considered. "During?" Elara tried very hard not to smile. The wedding lasted four days. Nerys predicted rain. The sky remained brilliantly blue. "You were wrong," Aveline told her. Nerys looked toward the distant western mountains. "Not about the rain." Those were the golden years. Caerwyn became the kingdom wandering poets later lied about beautifully. The roads became safer. The harvests grew larger. The Round Table filled with knights whose reputations spread beyond the sea. Aveline carried the silver sword into battle, and enemies began retreating when they saw it. Elara fought different wars. She conquered councils. She ended feuds. She could walk into a room containing twenty angry men and somehow leave with nineteen of them believing her proposal had been their idea. At night the queens returned to one another. Sometimes there were banquets. Sometimes musicians. Sometimes servants filled their chambers with flowers. But Aveline's favorite evenings were those when they dismissed everyone, opened a bottle of wine, and sat barefoot before the fire. "Do you ever miss being nobody?" Aveline asked once. Elara rested her head against her shoulder. "You were never nobody." "You know what I mean." "Yes." Aveline looked into the flames. "I do." Elara took her hand. "Then tonight you may be nobody." Aveline smiled. "And you?" "I shall be the woman sleeping with nobody." "Scandalous." "Terribly." It might have lasted forever. But kingdoms never do. Aveline's half-sister arrived during the winter. Morwen. Older than Aveline by nearly ten years, daughter of the old king's lawful wife, passed over because the ancient succession laws had never considered a daughter capable of ruling. She had spent years beyond the western sea learning arts that frightened priests and fascinated Nerys. Morwen entered the great hall dressed entirely in black. She bowed before Aveline. "Sister." Aveline descended from the throne. "Morwen." They embraced. Neither trusted the other. Elara saw it immediately. That night she stood behind Aveline while removing the pins from her hair. "She wants something." "Everyone wants something." "She wants something you cannot give her." Aveline met Elara's eyes in the mirror. "The crown?" "Perhaps." Aveline sighed. "She has more right to hate the old laws than anyone." "That does not mean she loves you." Aveline turned. "You don't trust her." "No." "Why?" Elara bent and kissed her forehead. "Because I love you, and people who love queens eventually become very talented at recognizing knives." Morwen did not use a knife. She used Maelin. Aveline's young cousin had been raised in the castle almost as her daughter, given command, education, wealth and a place at the Round Table. Morwen gave her something Aveline never had. Certainty. "You will always be beneath her," Morwen whispered. And slowly, poison became ambition. Rumors spread. Knights accused one another of treason. Old rivalries reopened. Border lords stopped answering royal summons. The Round Table that had once symbolized equality became a circle of suspicious faces. Then Maelin disappeared from Caerwyn with three hundred soldiers. A message arrived two days later. She had declared herself rightful ruler. The old wolves returned. On the morning Aveline rode to war, Elara fastened the queen's sword belt herself. "Let someone else go." "I cannot." "You always say that." "Because unfortunately I continue being queen." Elara's hands stopped. "I have negotiated with armies, Aveline. Give me three days." "She has already crossed Blackmere." "Two days." "Elara." "One." Aveline caught her hands. For several seconds neither woman spoke. Then Elara whispered, "I have spent twenty-three years helping you build this kingdom." "Twenty-two." "Do not correct me while I am frightened." Aveline smiled faintly. Elara's eyes filled. "I don't care about Caerwyn today." "Yes, you do." "No. Today I care about you." Aveline touched her cheek. "And that is why Caerwyn survived this long." Elara closed her eyes. Aveline kissed her. Not like a queen leaving for battle. Like the muddy nineteen-year-old girl who had once pulled a sword from a stone because somebody needed help. When they separated, Elara kept her forehead against Aveline's. "Come home." "I will." It was the only promise Aveline ever made to her that she could not keep. The Battle of Blackmere began before sunrise. By noon the field had become mud. By evening it had become history. Maelin's rebellion broke. Her army scattered. But when Aveline found her near the ruined chapel, the girl she had raised was waiting with a spear. "Don't," Aveline said. Maelin was crying. "You stole everything." "I gave you everything." "Everything except the crown." "I never wanted the crown!" "But you kept it." Maelin charged. The silver sword struck the spear aside. Aveline could have killed her. She hesitated. Maelin did not. The broken spear entered beneath Aveline's ribs. For one astonished moment they stared at each other. Then Aveline whispered, "Oh." It was almost exactly what she had said when the sword first came free. Maelin stepped backward. Aveline fell. The battle ended shortly afterward. Nobody ever agreed upon what happened to Maelin. Some said Morwen took her. Some said the lake swallowed her. Nerys merely said that legends require unanswered questions. Elara found Aveline at dusk. The battlefield had become strangely quiet. She ran through the mud without cloak or guards, dropped beside her, and gathered Aveline into her arms. "No." Aveline opened her eyes. "Hello." "No." "That seems to be your entire vocabulary." "Be quiet." "I am dying. Surely I may talk." "You are not dying." "Elara." "No." Aveline smiled. "Still stubborn." "You promised." "I know." "You promised me." Aveline lifted one shaking hand. Elara caught it and pressed it against her cheek. "I am sorry." Elara bowed her head. For the first time in twenty-three years, the woman who could negotiate peace between armies had no words. Aveline looked toward the distant water. "The sword." It lay beside them. "Take it to the lake." "I'm not leaving you." "Then take me too." They reached the lake after midnight. Nerys was waiting. Elara did not ask how. There were some questions one stopped asking around Nerys. Mist covered the water. Aveline could barely stand now, so Elara supported most of her weight as they reached the shore. "The sword," Aveline whispered. Elara picked it up. For a moment she could not release it. This ridiculous piece of silver had created their entire life. Their kingdom. Their court. Their enemies. Their marriage. Their legend. "Throw it," Nerys said. Elara hurled it into the darkness. The sword turned once beneath the moon. Then a pale hand rose from the lake. Caught it. And disappeared. Elara stared. "I always hated magic." Nerys smiled. "No, you hated not understanding it." A boat emerged from the mist. Three women stood aboard it, dressed in white. Aveline looked at Elara. "Apparently this is where I go." Elara helped her toward the boat. Aveline stopped. "You cannot come." Elara looked at her. Then at Nerys. Then back at Aveline. "Try stopping me." For the first time that night, Aveline laughed. It hurt terribly. It was worth it. Elara climbed aboard. The women in white pushed the vessel away from shore. Caerwyn slowly disappeared behind the mist. Aveline lay with her head in Elara's lap. "Do you remember," she whispered, "the first time you saw me?" "You forgot your own speech." "You were very distracting." "You were very easily distracted." Aveline smiled. "Elara?" "Yes?" "If there is another kingdom wherever we are going..." "No." "But—" "No kingdoms." "A small duchy?" "No." "A village?" Elara bent and kissed her. When she finally lifted her head, Aveline's eyes were closed. But she was still breathing. Beyond the mist, faint lights appeared upon a distant island covered with apple trees. Elara held her closer. For once there were no councillors waiting. No armies. No throne. No crown. Only the woman she loved. And somewhere behind them, on the far shore, a kingdom began turning two women into legend. Centuries later, storytellers would disagree about almost everything. They would argue over the sword. The stone. The sorceress. The Round Table. The hand beneath the lake. Some would insist Aveline died at Blackmere. Others said she merely slept upon the western island and would return when Caerwyn needed her most. Elara would have laughed at that. Because she knew something the storytellers did not. Aveline had already given the kingdom everything it had any right to ask from her. Whatever waited beyond the mist belonged to them. And this time, the queen was not going back.