Queen Zanna paced through her court once more, her third audience this Moon. Her white robe trailed behind her across the smoothed and varnished wooden floors of her throne room. The long gown was adorned with golden stars on her shoulders and a broad gilded metal belt cinched it tight around her slim waist. A tall glass brace around her neck was speckled with silver and gemstones, though around it hung Queb Tylan’s ruby necklace.
Of her purple hair and jewelry, the old men and women of the court showed favour. Such an extravagant display of self and style was their way. The younger generation, of Zanna’s own age, dressed in professional uniform with natural dark hair in neat, orderly braids. The Queen did not style herself so in order to gain one group’s approval or rebel against the other—she dressed in a way she liked.
She rested on her throne regally, and leaned her golden spear on the armrest. Rel, her advisor and childhood friend, hovered behind her in case she requested wine or sustenance. When Zanna was ready, she clapped her hands.
The first matter brought before her was a complaint from Lord Morota. A company of mercenaries, Thaull’s Battalion, was staying in the Rye District and interrupting harvests there with drinking and brawling. Rel suggested a relocation of the group to an inn in the Stone District, where the quarry workers could likely out-brawl them, and Zanna agreed to it. Even if casualties were still sustained, work would not cease. The same could not be said of the farmers in the rye fields.
Next, Zanna’s throne was approached by a cluster of men and women, some garbed in bloodied clothes. Their spokesperson stepped quietly across the soft wooden throne. His onyx skin was just like hers, though his clothes were dark and tattered. “My Queen the Just,” he said, with a parched voice. “I come to you from the river town of Kykai.”
“Your name?” Zanna asked.
“Gart, your highness. I served as assistant to Magistrate Zoren-sho.”
Zanna nodded. She had met him once before, she remembered. He had seemed a good man. “And what news do you bring me from my town of Kykai?”
“Bandits, your highness. They have slain all the guards and seized control!” Gart said, his face distressed. “We are the only ones who made it free. We know not if our brothers, sisters, fathers or mothers live.”
Zanna looked at Rel, as the court sighed and muttered. “Why have bandits taken my town?” the Queen asked sharply.
“I know not. They have given no reason, your highness,” Gart muttered.
“Sergeant Kieb-sho,” Zanna called. The Crimson Highwayman bowed and stepped forward away from his group. He straightened and smoothed his dark red uniform. The Queen continued: “What do you know of this breach of my peace?”
“Nothing, your highness,” Kieb said. “Why should I?”
“Step back,” Rel said, after a glance from the Queen. Best not to push the Crimson men, he had once told Zanna. There was no Empire on Radregar, no matter what the decayed civilization on Var Nordos isle claimed, but the Crimson Highway was close enough. The state of Maga would not benefit from a war with the Highwaymen. Kieb tipped his head to Rel and withdrew.
“How many men did you count?” Zanna asked Gart. Among her many responsibilities as Queen, Zanna was warrior and general too.
“More than forty, your highness,” Gart said, with a bow.
Zanna blinked and tightened her fingers around the armrest of her wooden throne. A large group, to be sure. “How did you escape?”
“We hid in the forest,” the villager said. Sweat dripped down his cheeks and into his dark beard. “Several died to Primals and a few to wild animals as we journeyed east. When it was safe, we took to the river and came here as quickly as we could.”
“You did well,” Zanna said, reassuringly. The nervous townsman looked sickly, to make matters worse, but her servants would take good care of these poor folk if she ordered it. She rose off the throne, reclaiming her golden rod. Her court rose with her to heed her proclamation. “I will go to Kykai and rectify the peace. Rel will hold audience in my absence.”
“Your highness,” Tylan said, striding out two paces from the seats and crowd of the court. He bowed low, his scalp lower than his spine.
“Speak.”
He lifted himself to stand proudly before her and smiled. “I ask to accompany you and to fight by your side if it comes to that,” the foreign prince murmured.
Whiteleaf, the polished ambassador from Tylan’s home city of Tal’lashar, stepped forward in his wide blue robe. He had a shaved head and a wrinkled face around his small black moustache. “Pardon my voice, your highness. Tylan… you rule people from afar who have nothing to gain from your offer and much to lose. This is not a wise course for a Queb of Tal’lashar.”
“Still, sir, it is my course.” Tylan’s voice rang clearly through the long hall. He did not shout, but the court was silent enough that his accented words echoed off the clay mosaic on the ceiling. He turned back to the throne and smiled at Zanna. “Allow my blade and arm to serve you, highness.”
“Very well,” Zanna said. “Two other lords may accompany us. We will leave tomorrow.”
Her golden spear tapped the wood with each step as she flowed down from the dais and strode out of the audience hall. She would prepare her armour this very day and see that her riverboats were ready for travel. She would speak with these bandits, treat with them even; if an arrangement could not be reached, they would be force to leave or they would be forced to lose their lives. Her councillors and politicians would advise the destruction of these brigands without a word of mercy to them, but Zanna sought understanding and justice.
The warm air of the throne room filled her pores with small beads of sweat. When the servants opened the heavy doors, patterned with words of praise and drawings of ancient trees, a burst of cool air from the stone floor beyond greeted Zanna’s serene face.