Chapter Text
General Erevar stood at the window of the former king’s private receiving room, shoulders straight and hands clasped behind her back. Having brought her army from Peshnal to Devran, growing it with eager recruits all the while, it would have been satisfying to have conquered the capital city – but besieging a city would cost you dearly in supplies and even dearer in morale, and would guarantee you a bloody fight in narrow streets against civilians fighting for their homes, as well as an unconscionable loss of life and an unprofitable loss of property. She had sensibly elected to defeat the Devranese army in the field, taking all survivors prisoner and allowing her to enter the city as a triumphant conqueror. The residents watched her solemn parade with sullen resentment, but it seemed clear that they would accept her as their new king in time.
Her – their king. That had been what the Peshnali Emperor had promised, if she brought Devran to heel, as a reward for years of service and for removing the thorn in the side of the Empire. Of course, it was understood that she would be responsible for sending tribute back to the Emperor in exchange for remaining independent, but that was a small price to pay.
There was no small satisfaction to be had in overlooking land that was now her own property. The neat buildings to the north of the palace, clustered together like soldiers waiting for orders – hers. The estates she could see beyond the city – hers. The slums barely visible just outside the city walls (perhaps she could have them cleared, and new housing built elsewhere for the inhabitants? If the city were under siege, someone could burn them to bring down the wall) – hers. To think that a farmgirl from the eastern plains of Dumlore could come all this way and rise to such a position!
Footsteps on the carpet that spanned the length of the room from the door to the throne brought Erevar’s attention back inside the palace, and she turned to view the approaching guards, with their captive between them. “Captive” was not the correct word; the general made a mental note to find a better one. Perhaps “hostage”, or even “guest”.
The general’s honored guest was the Princess Liralia, the orphaned niece of the previous king and his only heir. (There were a few more distant male cousins who might make trouble, if they thought they could press their claims successfully, as well as two bastard sons who were less likely to believe they could be king, but were still locked safely away just in case.) Erevar hadn’t seen her before, having sent men ahead to – delicately, gently – secure her with her ladies, preventing her from escaping to some far-off estate where she could marshal her forces, wasting more lives before losing again; she had imagined a taller woman, someone with a more regal bearing and a harsher face. A queen, an enemy.
Liralia was instead rather petite and delicate, and did not look all of her twenty-seven years (old, for an unwed noblewoman). Baida Erevar was a tall, broad-shouldered woman, and she was used to viewing others as small in comparison, but this princess didn’t even come up to her shoulder. She had dressed herself with care: she wore a loose gown of dark blue silk, embroidered with gold at the neck, wrists, and hem; her dark hair was done up in some complicated way with a gold net, and covered with a sheer linen veil and a narrow diadem. Erevar could read nothing at all in her serene face, with her little mouth pursed slightly and her black-fringed eyes cast down. Even her long, lance-pointed ears were held at the most decidedly neutral angle that could be imagined.
The general didn’t realize that she was staring until one of the guard barked an order for the princess to bow, at which Liralia tensed. Erevar held up a hand. “That isn’t necessary.” Not only that, it was counter-productive.
The battle plan – well, the post-battle plan – had been for Erevar to wed the princess Liralia in order to maintain something of a link to the previous family of monarchs. The emperor had told her that it must be done, though he’d also reminded her of the king’s right of taking concubines to make up for a disappointing wife. He hadn’t said anything else about disappointing wives and what might be done to make up for them: no-one at court, even himself, publicly alluded to the widely believed rumors that his first wife (a noblewoman he’d married before he was named heir to the throne) had been poisoned on his orders. The prospect of a royal bride had been the least attractive aspect of the entire business to Erevar, who’d never cared for the thought of marriage even to a woman, but she’d been willing to put up with the trouble. Now, however …
For the first time in her life, Baida Erevar fervently wished to get married.
The trouble was that, unless she was much mistaken, there was no-one Princess Liralia would less like to marry than the general of the army that had invaded her country, killed her uncle, and displaced her as ruler. In her own mind, Erevar was sure, the princess had considered herself the true queen of Devran from the moment she learned that her uncle had fallen in battle.
A new campaign was in order. She must determine a strategy, then her tactics. The first thing to do would be a show of force – metaphorical force. She should be impressive, grand, magnanimous, comfortable with her new position. Then, perhaps, a war of attrition, wearing down the princess’s defenses with kindness and gallantry, ending with an all-out push to overwhelm her as surely as Erevar had overwhelmed her country.
Erevar smiled, her head held high, and clasped her hands behind her back again, which she knew made her shoulders appear broader and stronger. Her hair and clothing were not at their best, but perhaps that would make her appear dashing. “Your highness, I am more than pleased to meet you in person. Though it is unfortunate that we should be introduced under such circumstances.”
Liralia’s face did not change a whit: Erevar had no sense of whether she were affected or not. “I agree, General, that we might have met differently and more fortunately.”
“Did your uncle speak to you of the terms that I had sent to him for his surrender, before his final battle?” They had been thorough and complete, outlining King Hervandi’s abdication and naming Erevar his successor, then his retirement to the monastery of Mount Moroglu – an extremely remote abbey which accepted novices not just from the elflands, but goblins and even orcs – as well as the disposition of many of the lands and titles of his most powerful supporters to various of her own officers, as well as one or two smaller lords who had turned to her side once it became clear that she was winning. And, most importantly, from Erevar’s current position, it promised the hand of Hervandi’s heir presumptive to his conqueror in order to properly seal the transition of power.
“Yes,” she said simply. It was not clear whether she approved or not, although Erevar suspected that she didn’t, else she would have perhaps smiled.
“Although your uncle did not, of course, surrender – which,” the general added, “I would have greatly preferred – my plan is to still enact the same terms.” She waited a moment for a response, which didn’t come. “I intend to be crowned, then to marry you and have you crowned queen.”
Liralia nodded slowly at this, then finally said, “Anointed.”
“I beg your – What was that?”
“Queens here are not crowned, unless they are to reign alone. They are only anointed with the sacred oils. If unanointed, they are only the king’s wife, and not a queen at all.”
“Ah.” This explained why Hervandi’s wife, who had died in childbirth after two miscarriages, had never been referred to in the diplomatic letters and texts as a queen, Erevar supposed. “Well. I intend to have you anointed queen after my coronation and our marriage.”
There was another moment of silence in which the entire world seemed to pause, and then Liralia gathered herself and swept a deep curtsey. “Thank you,” she said, and, after another pause, “your majesty.”