Wysper - First Court

"Nervous?" Titan rumbles in Greco-Roma, the language of the Britanni royal court.

I look up at him. We are deep inside the Keep, the main building of Ebora castle, standing in the antechamber to the throne room. Waiting for the royal herald to announce me. The castle had began as an Etruscan camp, then later a fortress, its walls wooden beams set into reinforced earth. But when the first Queen Boudica united all of Britannia, except for the Picts, she had waited until the Etruscan civil war drained most of their legion strength before leading her revolt. After her warriors had pushed all the Etruscans off the island, she rebuilt the defenses, turning the fortresses into castles of stone.

Now, I take a deep breath as I smooth my dress. "Does it show?"

The Ogri chuckles and Lady Morgana gives him a dark look. "A queen is only permitted to show her nervousness up until the moment the herald calls her name. Once he does, she must appear strong as an oak in a tempest."

Which is exactly what my first court is likely to descend into. Bess, a matronly noblewoman with blond hair, who was my mother's lady-helper and closest friend, pats my arm. "If it is any consolation, when your mother knew there would be a major confrontation during court, she often threw up beforehand."

My eyes go wide. "Mother threw up?" Bess nods, and I shake my head. "But she always looked so stern."

Bess smiles. "I always kept a towel with me, which I would use afterwords to wipe her mouth and banish any traces from her dress... which looks lovely on you, by the way."

I am wearing the forest green dress mother always wore when she held court here. Bess and Morgana are wearing green as well, while Greywolf, Titan, and Khulan wear armor covered by black cloth, with the stylized horse and chariot symbol embroidered in silver thread upon each front. Castor remains with Ghostdog until this court is over.

Greywolf, standing at my left shoulder, leans over and breathes in my ear, "I've got your back, Wysp."

My hand finds his, and he gives it a firm squeeze as the sound of wood striking stone comes from the open doorway. "Hear ye my words and attend. All yield way to her majesty, Queen Boudica, last of her name."

From the throne room, the low hum of conversation I had stopped paying attention to, goes silent. I take another deep breath and walk into the room. The green slippers on my feet are silent, but the boots of the three in armor echo on the flagstones as they follow a half-step behind. The throne room has Greco-style, stone pillars marching up towards the wooden throne on its raised dais, with wooden galleries on each side and around the rear. Morning sunlight streams in from the upper windows on both sides.

The throne room is packed with people, with the Clan chiefs, each with their two guards, near the front, and other nobles, important merchants, court officials and so on, behind them. In the galleries are the Yeomen, the backbone of our society, who by law have as much right to attend court as any clan chief. Every head turns toward us as we enter. As we pass, the people bow to me as they once bowed to my mother, their eyes straying to my own three guards, each holding their weapon out in front of them as is traditional. Even though the three of them are not the least bit traditional at all. We continue until we reach the clan chiefs, who bow along with their guardsmen as I stop several feet in front of the dais. My guards reverse their weapons and rest them point down on the floor, as I hold the silence and breathe deep to calm my nerves.

Then I prostrate myself before the empty throne. This was the chair my mother once sat in, dispensing justice to all who sought it, along with those who did not, and everyone in this room feels her loss. No one as much as I. From the crowd behind the clan chiefs I hear the soft fall of footsteps on stone, a druid in robes joining Morgana a moment later.

He begins the dirge for Queen Boudica the Fair. The tune is ancient, older than the Etruscans, older than the Greco tribes, perhaps older than Babylonia herself, a lament sung by the people who lived here before our ancestors landed on their shores, bringing iron, and fire, and death.

Yet the words are young, the nameless druid calling up memories of my mother, remembering her wisdom, remembering her bravery, both upon the field of battle and in the capitol, when a traitor opened a little gate to the Gauls, which helped them overrun the city. Remembering how she stood up to them at the end and died on her feet in battle. Behind me, men begin weeping.

There is no shame in a warrior who cries; indeed, how can a warrior follow a leader who cares nothing for the lives of those who fight for them? In the sagas, great heroes were the ones who wept over a fallen comrade, while the evil lords were the ones who never shed a tear.

I let grief take me as well. Growing up, my mother was a distant figure to me, never letting herself become attached to the daughter who was the sacrifice, and yet all my memories of her are good ones. I let the grief take me, and the people see it, giving them leave to let the grief take them as well. Together, we ride the storm as the dirge reaches its crescendo... then fades into silence.

Bess kneels beside me, her own face tear stained as I rise to my knees. She hands me the cloth, and with my back to the people, I wipe my grief away as I cast my face into the stern mask my mother used to show to the world. Bess nods in approval before taking the cloth back. She rises, bowing to me as I get to my feet and step up on the dais. Then I turn around and sit down upon the throne.

Greywolf and Khulan step up onto the dais together and turn around on either side of the throne, grounding their weapons point down once more as my uncle, Lord Morgan of the Iceni, walks up in front of me and bows. "Queen Boudica, who was once known as Wysper, all of us welcome you back home. I only wish the circumstances were better."

"As do I, most gracious uncle."

Lord Morgan is a tall man going to grey, his smile showing strong teeth as Adviser says in a voice only I can hear, "He is pleased that you shared your common ancestry in front of the court."

I give her the barest nod which my uncle misses. "However, because you are here, our Confederation has unanimously agreed to remain together under your rule." His smile vanishes as his face grows serious. "But there are issues which must be dealt with straightaway. As the druids have proclaimed you the last queen, since you will never have heirs, we must discuss-"

"The traitor in our midst," I say, interrupting him as I briefly hold up my hand. "I agree the question of succession must be, and will be, addressed. But right now, the traitor who has sold us out to the Gauls is in this court and must be brought to justice."

An uproar begins among the people as Lord Cormac storms forward toward the throne. "I knew it," he snarls in a rough voice. "That foreign sorceress," the man stabbing his blunt finger at Lady Morgana, "has been stirring up trouble since the moment she got here." He glares at me. "You need to throw this tainted creature out on her arse, or better yet, cut off her head and stick it on a spike."

My heart's beating against my chest like a caged bird desperately trying to escape. "Lord Cormac," I say in a voice cold as a Pictish winter, "have the other clan chiefs made you high king, so you can give orders to your queen?"

His eyes go wide as his mouth opens like a fish for a moment before he closes it. "Ah... no, of course not, your majesty. I only-"

"Good. Because there is a traitor in this room, and I need your help in flushing him out."

Lord Cormac briefly stares at me in confusion before a sly expression steals over his face. "Your majesty, I am always at your service." He rests his hand on the pommel of the belt knife only the clan chiefs are allowed to carry in court. "How may I assist you?"

Bess pulls a long piece of red cloth from the pouch at her belt as I say, "I need you to blindfold me so I cannot see anything except darkness." I look past him at the crowd. "Let me explain why. All of you can see the diamond shaped piece of ghost-glass embedded into my forehead. This is not decorative, nor is it witchcraft or eastern sorcery, as I understand some people are saying behind my back. This is a gift of the ancient world, crafted during the time of the war against the Daemo Princes, which was given to me by Lord Osiris of Aegyptus."

"As the acorn remembers what the oak knew," the nameless druid says as I pause for breath, "so do we remember those times long past. My queen, perhaps I speak out of turn, yet the truth we have preserved in our living memory should be shared with all."

I respectfully incline my head. "I will always listen to the wisdom of those who dwell among the oaks," I say as Adviser speaks in my ear. I add, "I only ask you to consider this: I know how to use this gift, yet comprehending how it works is beyond me."

"And my queen believes this might have been the same for those who witnessed the time of the Prince's war?" I incline my head again and he bows. "The young queen has wisdom beyond her years... and yet, she should understand that those who dwelt among the oaks in those days, understood far more than any still walking under the sun." He turns towards Titan. "With a few possible exceptions."

Titan raises his eyebrows but remains silent as the druid turns towards the crowd. "Those who wield ghost-glass at their brows are granted powers beyond the ken of mortals. They can far-see, looking down at the earth as if an eagle flying high overhead, and their vision could pierce night or the darkest storm as if it were day." He turns towards me. "They also possess the power to call down fire from the heavens, but only once... for wielding such power comes at a terrible, terrible, cost."

Muttering ripples through the crowd again as I give him a defiant look. "I fully understand the price I will pay, should my people ever need me to do this. It will not be done lightly." The druid bows and moves away as I rise to my feet. "Lord Cormac, normally when I need to use my far-sight, I simply close my eyes. However, I want everyone here to realize this is not a mummer's act, so I would ask you to wrap this cloth, or any other, around my eyes so I can see only darkness. Just leave my ghost-glass crystal exposed."

Bess gives Lord Cormac the red cloth, and he holds it to his face. "I can't see anything through the fabric," he says, lowering the cloth and stepping up onto the dais. "By your leave?" I nod, and he wraps the cloth several times around my eyes. A breeze touches my cheek as if he is waving his hand in front of my eyes, and as it stops, he says, "The cloth is secure, your majesty."

I reach up and run my forefinger along the embedded crystal. "Thank you. I will now open my third eye."

Footsteps move away as I speak the command words taught to me by the Sphinx. The familiar, strange symbols appear, then fade as my vision becomes that of the ghost-glass moon, far away in the sky overhead.

The city of Ebora flares into view as if I were a ghost hovering over it. I breathe the command words to narrow my view, until my vision becomes the Keep and the yards to either side. "Good Yeomen," I call out, "since all of you are near the windows, gratitude if you will look out the windows on both sides and confirm everything I see."

My ears catch the sound of shuffling footsteps and creaking wood, which fade as a voice calls back, "My queen, we're all in place."

I motion with my hand to one side. "On my right, I see three guards standing together as if talking. One now puts his hand to his face."

"He's picking his nose," another voice calls out. Laughter ripples through the crowd as he adds, "Now he's scratching his arse."

"I see that just fine," I reply in a dry voice. Another ripple of laughter rolls out as the guard puts his hand to his face. "Oh yecch, now he is sniffing his fingers."

My people love earthy humor, and most of the crowd belly laughs as I lower my right arm and raise my left. "Let us leave those three to their own devices and look to my left. The blacksmith is hammering dents out of a breast plate, likely for the young man wearing a red tunic, who is watching. A white dog moves past them... wait, the dog has stopped, and is now scratching its head with its hind leg."

"Aye, that's what we all see," a man's voice calls out. "Yer majesty's got this far-sight, no doubt about it."

Other voices chime in their agreement as my heart begins beating faster. "It is said that true justice must be blind, so I will leave this cloth covering my eyes and describe what the far-sight has shown me. Ever since Lord Osiris had his servant embed the ghost-glass crystal and teach me to use it, I have had the far-sight keep watch over both Ebora, and our enemies, the Gauls."

Speculative murmuring ripples through the people, fading into silence as I continue in a firm voice. "The far-sight knows my desires and keeps watch, even when I am sleeping or engaged in other things." I take a deep breath to steady my nerves. "Sixteen nights ago, it noticed a small party of Gauls riding towards Ebora, and tracked them. This was no mere raiding party but an embassy, led by two Celestials it recognized as Balor One-eye, and Camulos the Strong."

"My queen," Uncle Morgan says before I can continue, "in Greco-Roma, the word 'Celestial' is often used to describe the gods. Are you telling us the war gods of the Gauls ride with their army?"

I need to tread carefully here, for my people still believe the gods are real. "Lord Morgan," I say as uneasy voices begin to whisper, "they were taller than ordinary mortals, but not giants, as the sagas tell, wearing Artifact armor and carrying weapons of ordinary steel." The whispers become fearful mutters, and I raise both hands for silence. "While I was a slave in the east," I say as the muttering dies, "I learned a terrible truth: the old gods are dying." The crowd gasps as I lower my hands. "I will speak more of this to the clan chiefs, but I know for certain their powers are not what they once were. Celestials can be defeated... for I saw an Ogri fight one to a standstill."

Another collective gasp roils the crowd as I briefly raise my hands once more. "As I said, this will be discussed with your clan chiefs. For now, I was more concerned over who the Gauls were riding out to meet."

"Cormac appears worried," Adviser says.

I give her the tiniest of nods. "Sixteen nights ago, the sky had only the sliver of a moon when fourteen men rode out from Ebora to meet them. They waited for the Gauls in a glade far off the main roads, and even though both sides wore armor, they kept their weapons sheathed and hung their helms on their saddles. The shields they wore at their backs had the design of a narrow horse head painted-"

Angry cries erupt from the crowd as Lord Cormac's voice shouts, "That wasn't me! If she saw my device on their shields, then someone stole them to cast the blame my way."

"Lord Cormac," I call out in a voice hard as stone, "the far-sight showed me your face when you looked up several times towards the sky." He begins to sputter and I cut him off. "Before you accuse your queen of lying, it also showed the face of the young warrior you had remain in the rear, due to the constant blowing of his nose into a cloth. His hair was red, and he had a birthmark on his face, just above one eye."

"It was Bleddyn," a young man's voice says from somewhere close. "He's one of Lord Cormac's squires, and he's got a terrible head cold."

"Insolent dog," Lord Cormac snarls. "I will have you whipped for speaking at court."

"Any man who touches my squire, loses that hand," a gruff voice replies.

"The clan chief speaking is Lord Roderic of the Cortani," Adviser whispers.

"I will not see anyone whipped for speaking up on such an important matter," I call out. "Good squire, do you know this Bleddyn?"

"Ah... aye, yes, yes I do, your majesty, and I remember that night. All of us squires were eating together, and he was complaining because he felt terrible, but had to attend Lord Cormac during a nighttime meeting. I asked him what the meeting was about, but he shut up as if he'd said too much."

Other young men's voices chime in with agreement as uncle Morgan's voice says, "Cormac, is this true?"

"Of course not," Lord Cormac snarls. "This is a lie that sorceress from Eire concocted to eliminate me and my son, so she can hand pick the next clan chief of the Brigante. Well let me tell you something: hang me and my son, and you'll have the Brigantes-"

"I am not accusing your son."

"-tear this confederation apart so fast-"

"Your son is blameless."

"-you won't... wait, what did you say?"

"My queen," Uncle Morgan's voice says, "are you certain your far-sight identified everyone?"

"Everyone in both parties looked up towards the sky at one point or another," I reply. "Lord Cormac's son is supposed to resemble his father, yet I saw no one in either party who did." I motion towards the cloth wrapped around my head. "If he is in this room, take this off me and I can tell you whether I saw him that night or not."

Footsteps approach, and a moment later, large hands remove the cloth from my head. The eagle-eye view of Ebora dissolves as my normal vision returns. I blink, rubbing at my eyes as my uncle beckons at someone in the crowd. A young man with his father's dark hair and strong build steps into the center aisle, his manner that of a wolf uncertain whether to approach or flee. Unbidden, a small square appears in my vision, like a window into the past, of a dark night when a young man looked up at the sky and the ghost-glass moon preserved his image. The same young man now standing several horse-lengths away. My uncle says, "My queen, can you tell me whether or not Lord Cormac's son was involved in his father's treason?"

The room holds its breath as I stare hard at the young man. "Lord Morgan," I say, turning my gaze upon my uncle, "I need to speak privately with Little Boots, as I understand he prefers to be called, to see if he is truly with us or not. But I can tell you," my eyes returning to the nervous young man, "that he was not with his father when Lord Cormac rode out to parlay with the Gauls."

Little Boots sags in relief as Lord Cormac snatches his dagger from his sheathe. "Traitorous witch," he snarls as both his squires draw their swords, "you're in league with my son. I'll kill you where you stand."

As Greywolf and Khulan raise their weapons, Lord Cormac throws the dagger at my chest.