Chapter: Planting Seeds of Rebellion: 4 of ?
Author: Sam
Series: A Deeper Magic
Last Chapter: Zero recalls meeting Az as children. He is presently injured and on the move. Marresura introduced.
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Kneeling on a small, faded red mat, she patted the dark brown earth in place around the green shoot. Her hair, as dark as the rich loam she worked, had been pulled into a loose pile with curls falling down over her tanned neck. Dressed in a plain brown skirt and blue blouse with shaper, she looked like any other working-class woman of the Eastern O.Z. Her blue eyes looked far away, as if she dreamed rather than worked at something as mundane as a garden.
A black-haired man in plain brown trousers and jacket strode unevenly up the central garden path. His frown pulled at a scar on the left side of his face, twisting it into a grotesque parody of a smile. The limp of his left leg didn't seem to slow him down. He stopped three steps behind the woman. "Princess Leona," he said.
Leona lifted her face and her ocean-blue eyes focused on the man. She lifted her left hand, holding the dirty trowel, and rubbed at her sweat reddened face with the back of her wrist. Wisps of hair, fallen from her upsweep, clung to her damp skin, adding to the appearance of hot exhaustion. She frowned, her eyes narrowing. "Gyles?"
The man, Gyles, bowed at the waist, straightening with apparent great effort. His scarred face twisted in a grimace, that almost half-smile still tugging on the left side of his face. "Ma'am, there are some men here to speak with you."
She opened her mouth but shut it again when he continued.
"One said it was politics, Ma'am. I have them in the gray room." He held out his gloved right hand.
"Oh, Stars, the grey room, Gyles?" Leona planted her hand in the dirt and pushed off the ground, standing unassisted. Trowel still firmly clutched in her left hand, she wiped both down her skirt, streaking dirt over the cotton. "Why ever would you use the grey room? It's the most depressing place." She didn't look at the man. Instead, she bent at the waist, her backside jutting out as she scooped up the shears in her right hand She seemed unaware of the undignified position of having her derriere waving around in front of the man. "Could you send someone for the rest?"
Voice neutral, the man shifted his eyes to the side. "The grey room is the largest room with seating, Ma'am." Gyles turned, letting his hand fall to his side. He waited a heartbeat or two before starting for the back entrance of the three story, twenty-two room mansion.
Glancing at the man's back then looking down at her dirty outfit, Leona began to follow Gyles' limping gait. She tried to wipe the dirt from her skirt but once more stained the fabric with dirt from the trowel. "Are we trying to impress these men with useless opulence, Gyles? Why would we need fifteen chairs for a political discussion with locals?" She looked up, stopping. "They are locals, Gyles, aren't they? It's not about Cousin Azkadellia's mad coup, is it? Stars! I hope she hasn't been killed. I've nearly found the Emerald, and I know that I can use it to free her."
With a sigh, pale green eyes rolling skyward, Gyles stopped then cleared his expression. He turned to the princess. "The Emerald is found. The witch is gone. Princess Azkadellia is free. She has been for half a cycle now, Ma'am." He turned and began to limp off. "They are indeed foreigners, Ma'am."
Blue eyes widening, Leona hurried to catch up to Gyles. "You know I never listen to rumors. Until the Gales write to tell me of the changes, I won't believe them. Especially," she grabbed the man's right shoulder, pulling so he turned around. "I especially won't believe that one about poor cousin Dorothy. They should leave the child to rest in peace. It was horrible losing her at five. Let's not dig that back up."
He winced. "Ma'am… that pun was distasteful."
"Pun? What pun?" she asked, her eyebrow raising in confusion. "And where are the foreigners from? The O.Z. or the Realms beyond?"
"I believe, Ma'am, that they are from the Outer Zone. I couldn't see all of them, however." He apparently had determined to ignore Leona's poor choice of words in deference to her obvious confusion. "They are in the grey room because there are twelve of them, Ma'am."
"Twelve? At once? Oh, my . . ." Leona's voice faded to a whisper and she walked past Gyles, skirt swishing over her bare feet at her rapid pace.
Behind her, Gyles winced. "Ma'am! You are . . ."
She ignored him as a woman in plain brown opened the garden door. "Thank you, Bethy," she said and walked inside. In a moment she had reached the door to the grey room and nodded to a young red-haired man in simple brown.
He opened the mahogany door, stepped in front of the princess, and called in loud tones "the royal princess, Leona Gale." He stepped out of the way to the sounds of scraping chairs, shuffling feet, and murmuring voices.
Leona nodded once more to the redhead and walked into the room.
Inside twelve men of varying dress and appearance stood, some bowing at the waist, some at the neck. They could have been anyone from peasants to nobility; however, one man appeared unique. Dressed in black leather with a long black trench coat and knee-high black boots, his hair had been shaved so close to the scalp that the color of his light fuzz appeared either brown or dark blond. His green eyes darted about the room, vivid with the glow of intelligence.
"Gentlemen." Leona walked further into the room, her feet making no noise on the polished grey-veined marble. She strode to the chair closest the door. Switching the trowel to the hand with the shears, she grabbed her skirt and tugged the long material aside, molding it briefly to her shapely hip. She sank onto the chair without glancing at it then switched the trowel back to her left hand and rested both hands on her thighs, her face red and sweat-damp, tendrils of hair plastered here and there. Bare toes peeked out from under her skirts.
With a tight hand gesture, fingers and palm flat, the man in black seemed to signal his compatriots. For two minutes the room echoed with scraping sounds as the group turned their chairs to face the princess rather than the large hardwood desk. As one man moved to sit the man in black glared at him and shook his head sharply, once. The other man flushed and stood so quickly he overbalanced, sending his chair tumbling in a crash of metal, wood, and marble. No one laughed as the clumsy man bent to straighten it.
Leona turned her eyes to the authoritative man in black. "Whom is it that wishes to address the princess?" She could sound like a pompous bitch at times, and evidentially this proved one of them.
"Randu, former second in command of her majesty's protective division, Your Highness."
She looked over the standing group, waiting for her command to sit or leave or fall on their swords. It was heady, so much power; however, she gave none of those commands. Rather, she said "and what is it Randu wishes to say?"
Randu bowed his head briefly then said "it concerns the O.Z., Your Highness, and the fear the people have that they are unprotected. They fear a threat from the Western Realm beyond the sands."
"I see." She frowned then nodded once. "Tell me about the people and this threat."
The former Long Coat smiled softly, his eyes hardening. He moved closer to the princess and knelt next to her as if a confidant . . . a faithful advisor. "Your Highness, they need a strong queen to lead and protect them. They need the assurance of true royal blood and the safety of the light." He slid a hand onto the carved armrest of her chair and leaned in close, as if departing an important state secret. "Your Highness, they need you."
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Continued in Chapter Five: The Confusion of Loss
