"A little joy enjoys the queen thereof;
For I am she, and altogether joyless."
--Richard III; III.i
Thayet of Conté tried very hard to concentrate on the proceedings before her. It was much more difficult to attend when one was not sitting in the hard Queen-throne, but instead on a soft and cushioned chair -- the prerogative of the decrepit old Dowager. It was not simply the hardness of that seat, empty, now, until Shinkokami was crowned queen, which enforced its occupant's attention, but the vantage. There, one was on display; there, one was a Prince, a Lawgiver, Mithros's Deputy; there, one could not wander off into one's own grief. She wondered how Roald was bearing it. Well, she supposed; he was a Conté, and it was his birthright.
"Before Mithros, is this the truth that you have spoken?"
Without truly heeding, she saw Alan of Pirate's Swoop swallow and look straight at Turomot of Wellam. "Before Mithros, I swear that it is."
Thayet did not remember, suddenly, what testimony the boy had given. She knew that she ought to know, and she did know -- she was not doting away into senility; she knew what had happened and what was happening -- but she did not care. Jonathan was dead.
Why was she so weak, still? Why was she so given over to weeping? It should not be thus; she should be stronger. Roald needed her guidance; Lianne and Vania her comfort. When George had died, Alanna had fought off a hurrok attack three days later. She had given some sympathy then, or what she had thought was sympathy. Now, she wondered. She remembered thinking to herself that she could have the same shoulder to cry one, the same friend to support her, when the day came that she, too, lost her husband. And, of course, she could not. That interview had been among the most terrible of the condolences she had received.
The Lioness had requested a private audience. And having it, she had knelt --Alanna, kneeling! -- and had begged forgiveness. She had been paralyzed and weeping. "Get up, get up," she had said, and Alanna would not. "Can you forgive me, Majesty, having such a son?" It had been too terrible. What could she have said to it? She hated that son, then. But, of course, she could not say that. One did not say such a thing. "There is nothing to forgive," she had said. "I loved my king," Alanna had said. "He was the best of lords; the most just." Thayet had thanked her, had taken her hands in her own.
There was always this divide, this isolation. Queens did not have confidantes in their husbands' vassals. Her husband… oh, Jonathan, oh, my lord…
But she was not even a queen, now. A queen had duties, responsibilities; queens were not left alone to sink into their shadowy sorrows. If someone would only make her do something: was there an ambassador to be received? A petitioner to be heard? But no, no one would be so cruel as to worry the old dowager so sunk into grief. They could make do without her, for a time. She was left to pray and to be consoled. Truly, she did not know if she had the energy to do anything more. Jonathan was gone.
She had to pull herself together. She had to.
"Is there any man or woman, before Mithros and King Roald and this court, who would speak further?" Turomot of Wellam's voice did not waver, in spite of his age.
Thayet breathed deeply, willing herself to concentrate. It was not simply about herself and her loss. Here was a man stood to be condemned to die in justice. What did Alanna watch but the infinitely slow death of her child? What did Alanna do but agree that the death of her king should be followed by the death of her son? Thayet would have put her head in her hands and cried at the stupidity of it all, and the sadness. But no, that was no son, that was not Thom of Pirate's Swoop who stood so wan and dark-eyed in the criminal's dock. It was a monster, an unnatural thing! She did not care if the spirit had been dispossessed. The man remained, and the man had wrought the magic; the man had held the dagger. Was it her hot Sarainù blood that was roused out of its stupor only by the thought of vengeance? She wondered if any of the multitude who doubtlessly were not watching the old queen would have guessed, had they been looking at her, the rage that was within.
"If it please His Majesty, I would address him, before he makes judgment." That voice did quaver, a little. Thayet did not know Lindhall Reed well; she had never had a great interest in his bones and sinews, and the non-magical sciences were little concern of the Crown, in any case. With her son's, "Please you to speak freely, Master Reed," the old man got to his feet and bowed.
"Sire, I am a simple biologist. I can add nothing to the evidence presented, nor do I claim to be well versed in law. Certainly, I do not seek to introduce rhetoric to a trial that has been free from the sophistry of advocates." He paused, and stared at the ground. "It is difficult for me to know what to say. Am I a loyal subject of the Crown? I hope that I am. I hope that there is not a one in this room who is not, and who does not grieve King Jonathan and wish that he, as he rests with Mithros, will be given here as well the justice that is his due."
Thayet watched Roald as the master spoke. Reed was eloquent enough, for all his profession of simplicity. He spoke about the duty of the academic, and the dangers of too much knowledge. The entire University had learned a terrible lesson from this, and no one more surely than Thom of Pirates' Swoop. But what was it really that Thom had done? It was a mistake that had happened to have disastrous consequences.
"It is true, and no one will contest it," Lindhall Reed was saying, "that it would be just if Thom of Pirate's Swoop were condemned. But I beg Your Majesty to consider and be merciful. King Jonathan did not wish to begin his reign with executions; he spared those who were complicit in his overthrow, and the death of his own parent. If I may be permitted to advise Your Majesty, it is often a greater thing to show clemency than severity."
Raoul of Goldenlake and Malories' Peak had folded his arms. He sighed. Thayet looked at him; another time, she might have smiled. Lord Raoul did not ever have patience for long speeches, or for mawkish sentiment. But what if Roald were swayed. He was young, filled with ideas of his own nobility… No, that she could not bear!
"The king is sensible," said Lord Raoul softly. "Sure Your Majesty need not fear for his discernment in this case."
His comfort did not help. That precious, brief equilibrium had fled. Jonathan, Jonathan, they are going to free him; they are going to let him go… The days stretched in front of her. Days when she would meet her husband's murderer in the garden, where she would have to smile and extend her hand to be taken in the hand of the a traitor. It was not possible. They might as well kill her as do that.
She did not notice that she was clenching the arm of her chair until she felt a hand on her sleeve, and belatedly saw Princess Shinkokami kneeling at her side. Why had she left her seat? What was happening? Thayet realized that even Roald was looking at her. "Are you well, madam?" Her daughter-in-law asked.
"I--" It was too much, though some part of was incredulous that she could be so weak, so womanish, as to let her grief overtake her at this moment. "You have killed him!"
The duke of Wellam was the one who broke the silence. "Will Your Majesty pass judgment, now?" He said after the quiet had gone on too long.
Thayet looked up towards her son. As he stood, she had to lean upon Shinkokami to rise with the rest of the room. It was dizzying to be on her feet as so long sitting. She swayed, and Lord Raoul offered another arm to clutch at. She prayed, to Mithros, to her childhood gods, to the Horse Lords of the K'miri, that Roald would do what was needful.
"Thom of Pirates' Swoop," Roald said, "I do not seek vengeance for myself and know that I forgive any wrong that I might claim from you. But I will not stop justice from taking her due, and the law cannot allow a traitor, even a partially-unwitting one, to live. Therefore do I condemn you to death."
Minor revisions: 7-6-06
