Divergence

Burden of Blood

Yarven shut herself inside the palace library, closing the ornate brass doors and touching her forehead to the cool metal. She breathed a sigh, which sounded discouragingly like a groan, and let her shoulders sag. Lords and ladies, merchants and mages—guests to Corandur from the four corners—and every one it seemed wanting a bite of her attention. She felt like bait in a pond of teeming koi. She didn't much care for koi just now. Colorful and graceful creatures gliding about their garden pools, but also grasping and gluttonous, climbing over each other when they sensed an available morsel. Not so different from nobles sometimes.

As sister to the late king, Yarven was taxed to her limit by coronation preparations. There was much good to look forward to in the next week, but all bought at a cost in ceremonial gamesmanship and false courtesies. She felt her mask of charm starting to slip, at least for tonight. As ever, the library was a blessed refuge. It took a moment to realize she was not alone.

"Shall I light a lamp, Yarven? Will you be staying?" Old Lye Merrick smiled with sympathy from across the room.

"Yes, please, Lye," Yarven's recovered from her startle, pleased to find it was the old gardener who shared her company.

A lamp bloomed to life, spreading yellow light in a warm glow about the polished wood and stone of the library's western reading room. Yarven left her shoes at the door and crossed over thick carpets, slumping into an offered chair.

"I was laying out some flowers for tomorrow's reception," Merrick chatted amiably. "I didn't think to find you here, not tonight anyway." In truth the library was one of Yarven's favorite haunts, as Merrick well knew. But coronation week was anything but a normal time.

"Catching a moments peace," Yarven explained. "A thousand and one tasks... but a weak part of me yearned for the sunset here in the Evening Wing of the library and I confess, the lure of a quiet moment quite overwhelmed my more dutiful aspects. You won't spread tales of my weakness, will you, Lye?"

"Never, my dear," chuckled Merrick. "I quite understand. I myself fancied a stroll in the high gardens this evening among the new flowerbeds, but they're quite as busy with staff as they ever are with bees. And speaking of bees, now I've a mind for a bit of honeyed tea while the sun does its slow work of setting. Join me?"

"Oh, Lye. You encourage me to sloth."

"Yes then?"

Yarven surrendered with a smile. She watched Merrick's slow shuffle to the door where he summoned Yarven's maid from her post just outside. A word from old Merrick sent the girl off to the kitchens for sweet tea. As Merrick made his way back to join her, Yarven idly took in the table's decorations. A brass lamp illuminated criss-crossing runners of fine cloth and a dark wooden bowl at their center. Delicate blossoms floated in the bowl's clear water, their pleasant scent familiar, but mismatched with the flowers' blue color.

"I smell cherry but.., did you dye these flowers, Lye?"

"Oh no, my dear. They're as natural a blue as your own pretty eyes." Merrick pointed to the flowers as he maneuvered himself around the table to stand opposite her. "Rare to get them this color. I knew you'd appreciate them. Wasted on most folk you know."

"Why thank you, Lye, how sweet. I confess, I didn't know we had blue cherries. These are from the greenhouse, are they not?"

"Oh, yes, yes they are. Had them years ago—goodness—since before your time. They're white naturally, of course, but mix and match and sometimes you coax out the blue. Was my old master who first told me about them. 'You can't see the blue, Limey, but it's there, lurking somewhere inside all the same, ready to spring when the time is right.' That's what he told me." Lamplight played animated shadows across Merrick's sun-lined face as he eased himself into a chair across from Yarven. "Some will say the moons have a say in their color, but I've never held with such notions myself. Flowers live for the sun, now don't they? Except for night flowers, of course, but you won't find any of that sort in my gardens."

"Is the color a good omen, do you think?"

"Well now, that I couldn't say. The smallfolk will tell you the blue means blood and heralds a death. But if it's blood they mean, then why are they blue and not red? Hmm? They will go on about a cousin or aunt who knew a lady—you see how it goes?—a lady who placed them in her bath and was found dead the next morning with lips a blue to match the flower. Hmm, now maybe that's the meaning of the blue, eh?"

"Perhaps so," Yarven patted the old man's hand.

"Stories." Lye waved his hand. "Something to divert a fellow in his old age, hmm?"

"A dark tale for a pretty flower. You aren't trying to kill me are you, Master Merrick?" teased Yarven.

Lye pulled his hand away, but then his face split into a wide grin. "Ho, ho! No, my dear! But I might talk you senseless if you allow me to prattle, be warned on that count."

The two shared another laugh.

"Just a story," repeated Merrick. "But they swim in a bowl alone, eh? Just to be safe."

Throughout their conversation, lamplight covered the stealthy retreat of the dimming sun. By the time tea arrived, Yarven realized she had missed the sunset entirely. Her time for shirking duties would have to end. As if in response to that thought, a distant rumble of bells sounded from the high towers, announcing the evening hour. Though this night marked the advent of spring festival, the somber tones seemed to speak of another event. Yarven's thoughts turned to her cousin, Donate. Even now he would be secluded in the King's Arbor, beginning a nightlong vigil in preparation for the ceremonies ahead. Just a few short days and he would be king. In the bell's silent wake, Yarven said a prayer for anyone destined to bear a nation's burdens.