Chapter 9 - The Song of the Seven Stars
The bells of Aethelgard rang out across the valley on the first day of May—not the deep, iron strokes of war or mourning, but a clear, chiming peal that carried down the river-gorge and over the greening pastures until the shepherds on the high crags stopped to look up toward the castle towers.
In the lower bailey, the market stalls were piled high with spring onions, fresh cheese, and loaves of white rye bread baked in the royal ovens—bread that was distributed to every beggar, orphan, and wandering tinker who came through the gates. No one was turned away. The guards at the portcullis had been ordered to lay aside their halberds and hand out wooden cups of spiced mead to the children who ran shouting between the tables.
In the royal gardens behind the chapel, where the wild plum trees were bursting into white cloud-masses of blossom, Clara walked alone.
She had left the heavy iron crown upon the table in the Hall of the Sun for an hour—letting the star-iron rest against the red granite while she walked without the weight of the seven spires upon her brow. Her hair was loose, blowing slightly in the sweet, damp mountain wind that smelled of melting snow and wet earth.
“You’re hard to find today, Majesty,” a voice said behind her.
She turned.
Eric of Westmere was standing by the stone fountain where the water splashed over the mossy back of a stone dolphin. He had taken off his steel breastplate; he wore only a simple buff-leather tunic and high riding boots that were splattered with mud from the lower road.
“I was hiding from Master Almon,” Clara said, a faint smile touching the corners of her mouth. “He wants me to sign three hundred parchments regarding the wool-tariffs of the western hills before the evening bell.”
Eric laughed—a clean, open sound that seemed to chase the last shadows of the winter out from under the plum trees. “My father always said a king who likes parchment is a king who stays too long in the dark. That’s why he spent half his life on horseback.”
“My grandfather told me something similar,” Clara said, looking down at the clear water in the stone basin. “He said a throne is just a chair until you sit in it long enough to realize it’s anchored to the mountain.”
“And you?” Eric stepped closer, stopping two paces away. His hawk-bright eyes were fixed on her face with a direct, unblinking intensity that made her pulse quicken slightly. “Do you feel anchored yet?”
Clara raised her right hand, turning her palm upward so the faint, silver-white star caught the spring sunlight.
“No,” she said softly. “I feel like I’m just beginning to climb.”
May you like
From the high tower above them, the clock began to strike the hour of noon—twelve clear, resonant notes that rolled out over the stone roofs of Aethelgard and echoed across the vast, green sweep of the northern mountains.
And far below the foundations of the castle, in the deep, silent dark where the seven stars of the iron door held back the ancient night, there was only peace.
