Short: The Lady of the Ninth House
I don’t really know why I wrote this. Have fun.
As promised in my notes, here is a short story hastily written in two sessions two years removed. I’ll let you play the game of figuring out where I originally stopped writing, though I imagine it won’t be difficult.
In the year of Shanhallafax's reign, 10 years past the burning of the prophet Yll'gillalan, a woman named Haritta was pledged to marry a merchant—the third son of the ninth great house: Allabahamma. The merchant man, Sarjaar, was of an honorable lot, and though their wedding was political in origin—as most among the great houses were—she did not mind.
In fact, in time she grew to love him. The way he treated his servants with respect and his clients with honesty; the way his face went rose red as he laughed heartily at a goodhearted joke; the calm warmth with which he supported her as she grieved the premature death of her youngest brother.
Though their coming together was an act beyond her will, she would with all her will work to keep it so.
As the first frost of the year took the fields, a letter arrived at the house of the merchant. An announcement to the visit by the King’s head Wiseman, Rendakaar. Sarjaar was ecstatic for the honor and his house was chattering with the excitement of preparations until the accorded time arrived with the first full moon of the season.
The snow caught an astral glow leaking in through a break in the low clouds as the falling crystals swirled round the stagecoach hastening towards the estate. Clean black and a with wrought iron frame, the cart spoke to wealth with its make and humility with its furnish, yet it was an imposing sight all the same: great strength in service of one greater.
The man who emerged as it stopped at the entry was a perfect match.
“Good evening, Sir Rendakaar!” Sarjaar beamed as the servants did their work with prompt precision, “It has been some time since the Ninth House as played host to a member so high in our lord’s court. Come! Quite a feast we’ve prepared to honor the occasion!”
“A feast I have long looked forward to, having greatly enjoyed my time at your father's wedding those many years ago. A shame so much time has been let to escape since.”
Though his face was pleasant and there was a true fondness in his words, Haritta could little sit at ease in the presence of their esteemed guest. Conversation amidst their meal could not quite be called lively, as their guest was one for measured, deliberate speech. Still, it was plenty friendly and the man of the house took great joy in the reforging of old bonds.
As the hearth fire dimmed, Rendakaar’s countenance deepened until his face was more shadow than flesh. A grave matter it seemed was the at the core of his visit, and all but he and the son of the Ninth Family were excused.
In any other time, Haritta would have taken to retire for the night and leave the men to their dealings. Yet that ill omen had not left her once since the Wiseman's arrival and so she lingered in a foyer, her chest growing ever tighter as night grew deeper.
A dull crash quickened her out of a daze. The door opened slowly and only Rendakaar emerged.
Haritta wept, for blood stained the Wiseman’s hand.
“This night, Harrita daughter of Battakar has died alongside her husband. I take great shame in delievering this fate upon you, yet the good of the Kingdom demands. From now and forever more you are Shamir, daughter of Shanhallafax.”
Her voice would not be heard again for several moons. Dragged away to the palace before dawn arose, it was explained to her for why her husband's blood was spilt and silence could be her only answer.
Shanhallafax had pledged his daughter to a foreign king as terms of a treaty. The war this treaty had called off had been one to exhaust the land, and the people were overjoyed to learn of its conclusion. However, before all promises could be fulfilled, tragedy struck: the princess, ever of a weak constitution, had passed from grave illness.
King Shanhallafax remembered Haritta. Remembered her to be fair and well mannered, more so than many of the land’s nobility. And so, to save the treaty he sent Rendakaar to command Sarjaar to relinquish his bride.
The man’s fate was evidence to the fervor of his rejection. To Haritta, that was the greatest sign of his love he could leave her with.
Until a warm sun returned to the land, her education in court etiquette was rounded out with what was expected of her new position and as a bride of that foreign land. With the first bloom of the garden's flowers, her voice returned as she mingled among the court for her wedding—the joy that her words once carried remained sealed away.
The man who would now take her was named Terránt: a man well inferior to the virtues as her beloved. Yet in the cruelty of fate she could find no weakness in him great enough to hate.
And so she devoted herself to him. Made herself to be the idyllic wife she was promised to be. All truth of her feelings was locked away so that she may survive.
Thirty years passed. She had reared King Terránt a dashing son and two beautiful daughters. Then Terránt’s health began to fail, hurrying preparations for their eldest’s approaching ascension to the throne. The day would come the same as the first bloom of the year—as it was for all traditions of the land which ushered in the new.
The marble halls of the palace echoed with the giggles of busy maids, its gardens hummed with joyful melodies. For all the clamor and demands, Haritta cherished every moment of the preparations. Her liege’s infirmity had only brought a greater peace to the region, a sad summary of his insufficiency. Yet, the years of duties paid by the young prince in court, and army, and abroad had proven the son would compensate for all the father lacked.
Thus the neighbor nations looked forward eagerly to his rule. Long had they consigned themselves to temperamental treaties and fickle trade. Fearing ever the numbers of their fighting-aged men and seeking always the gentle travels of their stone-paved roads.
Haritta took midday rest in the lounge a week afore the day. With a mint tea from her homeland she smiled and admired the budding trees and returning birds. A rhythmic clack of wood on stone foretold the end of her easy days. Terránt it seemed had regained himself and to his bed he would not stay. Still she thought it glad for him to participate in the festivity.
Such gentle thoughts were short-lived as the present king rounded up his men to speak. The coronation was canceled and on his head the crown would stay. Many years more he insisted would his health hold; shame on them all for doubting, a shame he assured they’d feel.
As the old king braced upon his cane and hacked away with every line, no one believed his claim yet loyal guards insisted his right.
And so Haritta watched months of work get undone by flustered maids, carefully instructing them on to hide the remnants away. Though it was a nuisance suffered, she knew the time would come again soon. Of greater worry to her were the squabbles among the men. The old king’s mediocre patience had devolved one step more, and peace he would no longer suffer in the face of any small slight.
Demands he had given to pressure the Southern nations for more land, and to all his disloyal nobles greater military tributes he levied. Few saw wisdom in his ways, but for pity of his condition they put up a partial effort to obey. Yet, such leniency could not last long and with each insult and curse thrown from their liege’s mouth their hearts grew bitter and resolved.
By summer Haritta could feel the razor’s edge in the air. Whether the grim hand worked by disease or steel, Terránt would be gone by leave’s falling.
She could never love the man as a husband—or perhaps one day she had stopped trying—but she knew for his part that he gave her all of that small reserve of care he had to give. And he always remembered her birthday, or at least the month it was in.
Had he been anyone but a king, he might have been called a “good man,” but his crown demanded greatness and that it could not find.
And so it was pity that moved Haritta, on a day she heard a plot: “Travel to your homeland, good lady. High time you’ve taken a well-earned rest.”
Aboard a lavish carriage she climbed the next morning, attendants at her side. Painted white and carved with flowing lines, she sat upon its crimson bench. Yet, to that old country she had no intent to return.
In the old king’s bedchamber, in the dark of an early autumn night, a creeping stranger scurried in and to his beside alight. He would work without blade, for the king’s health must take blame, but he was stopped before it all by the voice of an old maid: “Derengar, my loyal diplomat, I know that you mean well. Still, you ought not underestimate the burden you’ve thought to bear.”
“It has to be, my lady, his foolishness we can no longer bear. Would that it be nature take its course, a happier end we all might have. Yet, just one month could be what takes us into ruin’s path.”
“Go home this day, young Derengar, and trust in me this week. Though I have no mind for tricks and schemes, I still do have his heart. I will do what I ought have done to try and save his soul.”
The younger man relented and quietly slipped away, leaving Haritta alone in moonlight, searching for the words to say. In all their years together she had never made a real demand upon him. Was it fear or complacency that had held her tongue?
That night she laid beside him and let him fill her mind.
The old king awoke with a grumble, entwined within her arms. Such a reaction she expected and so persisted through his pushing. Defeated he gave in with a gruff frustrated but too prideful to admit why. He pretended to enjoy the moment, staring at window panes aglow with golden sun and glistening with morning dew.
When last she let him arise she followed him to his first meal. Suspiciously aloof he saw her, but his scowling did not deter. She said much little at all until their meal was done: “When last did you speak to your daughters?” at last she questioned.
A lift of his brow showed he thought it a petty matter, his silence said he was wrong.
“What blessed parents we are, our son is wise and strong. Just last week I found our maids vexed with a stubborn merchant. His noble friend had started a fuss, and the problem quickly grew beyond. Our dashing lad heard my woes and put off a hunting trip to solve them.”
The old king grew stern and hard, letting out not one thought.
“Twould be nice, I think, for you and him to make that trip yourselves. When last, it’s been an age.”
At this his anger sparked, “I am king. I have no time for such frivolity.”
“Even were it true,” she charged, “that your time was in such small spare, what burden binds you now to that throne and presses on that gold? Of duty you did what was asked, and many worse the world has known.”
At this his hand was raised and came across her cheek, cold ring catching at soft skin. With gasp she reeled within her seat as stillness took the room.
Not meeting his gaze, she wiped the tear that had loosed. Then with somber smile, she turned again, still with more to say: “I wish to meet the man before the crown. I wish to see you enjoy your twilight days. I won’t pretend to know that man, but from your family I’ve hears whispers. I think that I could love that man, simple you may think he be.”
He thought to raise his hand again, but weakness caused him tremble. Through that gap his soul broke through and beheld the woman before him: weathered and disappointed, a line of crimson traced one cheek. Yet, hopeful light lied in her eyes with longing dreams for quiet days.
For days the old king hid away, all plans put to hold. Uncertain as his people were, there crept into their hearts relief.
As the month came to a close, at last he gave the word. The crown he would pass down before his hands grew cold.
And so Terránt and his wife Haritta lived out their days in peace, and in the books he would be remembered on as quite the reasonable king.
Greater glory still he earned for the achievements of his son. Haritta also gave great thanks for her second victory won.