“We are here in part to thank those who fought for Southmarch, from the smallest to the tallest—I will speak of some of those contributions later—but perhaps even more importantly, we are here because I am determined that we should learn from what has happened.
“We may never know exactly what mysterious hand shaped the destiny of the people of this castle, the Qar, and the Xixians, and brought us all together in this place. What we can know is that only with the help of every single one of us were we spared a terrible doom. I cannot rule this kingdom in good faith without understanding Heaven’s clear message to us.
“Funderlings!” Her voice suddenly rose. “My family, which once called you brothers, has in more recent years treated you poorly. We enjoyed the fruits of your work but gave you little say in your own governance. So, too, with the Skimmers. And you Rooftoppers—well, we cannot entirely be blamed for that, because you hid so well under our very noses that all but a few of us had forgotten you even existed.” A shrill chorus of laughter arose from the delegation in the wagon bed, a little like the chirping of crickets.
Briony next turned toward Aesi’uah and the other hooded eremites. “And even the Qar deserved better of us.” This caused a resentful murmur among the ordinary citizens. “It seems likely that we deserved better of them as well,” Briony added, but without hurry or concern. “No one can answer that riddle yet. The hurts we have done to each other will not be unraveled in an afternoon.
“But now the time has come for us to rebuild Southmarch, from these beautiful streets and houses of Funderling Town, cracked by cannon’s fire, to the deserted wilderness that the mainland city has become. We will need everyone’s help. And thus, as we make right what has been harmed by war and treachery, we will need to work as one people. No longer will there be a royal council that has no Funderling members, or decisions about Southmarch that do not take into account all its residents. Do not mistake me!” And here Briony’s voice rose a little as the crowd began to murmur. “Decisions will have to be made and not all will be popular. That is why the one who sits on the throne, whether it is I or perhaps one of my brothers someday, must have the weight of law behind them, just as before. But never again will that law be exercised without all Marchfolk being heard.”
The voices of the crowd, which had grown louder during this strange and unexpected speech, became so loud that for a moment Vansen thought he might have to pull Briony from the dais for her own safety—some of the Funderlings were actually shouting. After a moment though, he came to realize that most of the noise was being made by a group of younger Funderlings cheering for the princess regent. The older Funderlings, as well as many of the courtiers and Skimmers, mostly looked dumbfounded.
“I come here today,” she went on, “to proclaim a new synedrion which will advise the ruler of the March Kingdoms. This Council of Southmarch will be made of all the peoples of Southmarch, big folk and small, drylanders and Skimmers. Together we will keep safe this ancient seat that is home to all of us—dear to all of us…”
The long afternoon was finally ending. As Vansen waited, his beloved listened to Steffens Nynor, who was trying to speak to her confidentially in a guildhall full of Funderlings and others.
“But, Highness,” he said in an agitated whisper, “there is no precedent for this!”
“Royalty makes its own precedents,” laughed Dawet dan-Faar. “Briony begins her rule like a true queen. It is to be commended.”
Nynor scowled. “There is no precedent for you, either, Master Dan-Faar. It seems to me that the last time we saw you, you were ransoming our king.”
“It’s true,” Dawet said. “I am a busy man.”
Vansen stepped between the two of them, not that he thought Nynor would do anything dangerous, but he did not like to see the old man teased, either, and Dawet was a bit like a cat. “Please, Highness,” he said to the princess, “you should be getting back to the residence.”
She gave him a look. “Why is it everyone seems to think I must be looked after like a child?”
“Because like doting parents, we none of us have anything else so precious and dare not risk it.” Dawet was pleased with himself. Vansen found himself wondering when this smooth, dangerous fellow would move on to cause trouble in some other kingdom. For him, it could not be soon enough.
Vansen was startled to find Aesi’uah standing beside him. She had appeared as if from nowhere, and her coven stood with her, faces hidden in their hoods; everyone else on the guildhall platform seemed happy to give them a wide berth. “Princess Briony,” the eremite said, “I beg your pardon for interrupting. I bring a message from your brother.”
“Really?” Briony’s voice was cool. “Surely it is not so far to your camp that he couldn’t come himself.”
“Do you wish to hear the message?”
The princess flicked her hand. “I suppose.”
“He wishes you to know that we are leaving tomorrow. The survivors of the People will go back to Qul-na-Qar. But he said he would like to speak to you one last time, if you will come to bid him farewell.”
“Where?” Briony looked angry, but there was something else in her face that Vansen could not quite understand.
“Where the two of you said good-bye the last time he left.” She brought her hands together on her breast. “The Coast Road at sunset. If you cannot come so far he will understand ...”
“I will be there.” Briony turned from her as though the Qar woman had ceased to exist. “Come, Captain Vansen, round up your men. Nynor, you may tell the castle folk that we are going back now.” She smiled, but it was the merest tightening of her lips. “We have given them all something to talk about today, haven’t we?”
Nynor shook his head and sighed. “Oh, Highness, you certainly have. You are your father’s daughter, true enough.”
Rain had swept through in the morning but by the time Sister Utta was on her way back from the shrine, the skies had cleared to a blue just barely streaked with clouds. With the help of a few royal guards loaned to her by their handsome but reticent captain, she had set most of the worst damage to right, although the mosaics had been rattled to pieces by cannon fire and spread across the floor of the shrine. Separating and reassembling them would require months of careful work. Still, it was a grand feeling to be doing something useful, and especially to be doing something useful with Zoria’s place of worship. After the events of the last months, Utta felt closer to her patroness than ever.
In fact, she thought as she made her way to Merolanna’s apartments, why settle for just rebuilding the old shrine, which had always been small? Why not build a new one better able to serve the castle’s populace? A bigger shrine could bring in more tithes, which would allow her to help some of the folk made homeless or destitute by these long seasons of war.
Utta was so caught up with these new ideas that she did not immediately notice the boy sitting on the bench in Merolanna’s antechamber like a young scholar banished from the classroom to consider his sins.
“Oh!” She took a step back when she finally saw him. He was a young boy, perhaps nine or ten years old, with hair of so pale a yellow that in the dark room it seemed white. His clothes made her think for a moment that she was looking at one of the Funderlings; his face though, despite its solemnity, was that of a child. “Hello,” she said, recovering a little. “The blessings of the Three on you, and the good grace of Zoria.”