He woke up in an empty bed that morning.
He was used to it by now, his wife rarely slept next to him these days unless she had to. Not that he was hurt by it, he hadn't married Shenya for love or anything like that and they had both learned pretty quickly that they got along much better when they weren't in each other's way.
Virtholm sat in bed for a few moments longer, lazily watching the dust swirl in the air, the rays of the rising sun shining through the heavy velvet curtains. He rarely allowed himself to waste time on such trifles, his wife said that the only person who could wake up before him was the Queen, and Virtholm boasted to himself - and only to himself, because enemies and friends alike were quick to dig their claws into the slightest sign of weakness - that it was his ability to seize every opportunity before others that had allowed House Burg to rise to this point.
Getting up early was one of those attitudes that now made him one of the most important people at court.
Yet when he sat up, once his eyes were open, he found that he couldn't get up completely. The room began to spin slowly before his eyes and a pain in his temple seemed to want to split his skull in two.
Age was catching up with him, at last. Not that he was old, though that year he had reached his fiftieth name, but he was thinking of his boyhood days, when he barely opened his eyes and was already half-dressed, with ever-increasing nostalgia.
Like an old man, a poisonous voice whispered in his mind.
Not this, he thought, and he yanked the covers off, then placed his feet on the cold floor and, ignoring the room that began to spin a little faster, he stood up. For a moment he had the horrible sensation of falling and he spread his arms in a pathetic attempt to keep his balance.
After circling listlessly for a while longer the room finally came to a gentle halt and Virtholm took a deep breath, but instead of calming down it seemed to ignite his anger.
Suddenly everything around him seemed an insult to his eyes: the curtains that hadn't been closed properly the night before, the dust that was swirling in the air - a symbol of neglect - and even that damned empty and cold bed where he slept alone every night now. And why the fuck hadn't the servants come to wait on him yet?
His rational part, the one he usually listened to, whispered to him that he was getting hot for nothing. But that little voice was drowned out by the roar in his ears that deafened him and with great strides he headed towards the door, he was about to throw it open and shout something, he didn't even know what, when he heard a light knock on the door.
"Come in," he said venomously toward the door, crossing his arms over his chest and taking a few steps back.
The door opened softly and the boy slowly entered the room with light steps before closing the door behind him. The boy, Virtholm was more than certain he had never seen him before, turned his large blue eyes to the floor and handed him the tray with breakfast.
Virtholm felt all the anger evaporate from his body, ashamed of the way he had almost acted over such a joke. He smiled, which probably went unnoticed considering the other's eyes had not yet risen from the floor, and gestured toward his desk.
The boy placed the tray containing the cup of tea, two thick slices of bread and some plum jam on the writing desk and walked to a corner of the room, awaiting further orders, his arms crossed behind his back.
Virtholm sat down and took a sip of tea, still quite hot, but without losing sight of the servant. He had shoulder-length dark blond hair, blue eyes, and the tanned skin typical of someone who worked outside the court. That skin spoke of a farmer, not a nobleman's servant. He was very tall, and his broad, muscular shoulders were also more suited to working in a field.
His face was thin, extremely graceful. He was handsome, everything about him screamed beauty. That was probably what had brought him to court.
Virtholm was about to take a slice of bread, light and fragrant, fresh from the oven, when his eyes slid to the boy's lips, they were full and seemed a little chapped, they were set in a hard line, almost sulky. Virtholm frowned at that detail.
"What's your name?" she asked him.
The boy visibly jumped at the unexpected question and gaped at him for a few seconds. It was the first time he had looked at him directly, and beyond the surprise Virtholm saw something else, but he wasn't sure what it was.
"Ven," was the answer, with an uncertain tone.
"How old are you?"
«Twenty-three»
Virtholm ran a finger across his lower lip, studying the young man before him, fascinated. He couldn't quite put his finger on what it was that attracted him, except for the obvious, but there was something.
He decided to eat something and spread some jam on the bread before taking a bite; the food melted on his tongue, with a sweet explosion of plums. It was delicious.
Meanwhile, out of the corner of his eye, he continued to follow Ven's movements. The boy seemed to go from absolute immobility to being unable to stay still, swinging from one foot to the other.
Virtholm wondered how he had ended up here, bringing him breakfast. He had neither the appearance nor the manner of a trained servant; he would have to ask Willem, the man in charge of his household, where he had gone to find the boy.
With one last bite he finished his breakfast and rubbed his hands lightly to get rid of the last bread crumbs, then he rose to go and rinse himself in the basin of clean water placed on the wrought iron tripod. He reached out for the towel to dry himself with but had to wait a few seconds before realizing that he would never receive it.
He turned to the corner of the room where he had last seen him, and Ven was still there, arms crossed behind his back, staring at him. Virtholm raised an eyebrow, the heavy sarcasm on the tip of his tongue ready to be unleashed on Ven.
The door burst open, opened with such force that it banged against the wall, and his wife stormed into the room. Ignoring everyone and everything, she strode over to the window, her long blond hair flying behind her back, and rested her elbows on the sill, staring stubbornly out.
Virtholm was so surprised by this scene that, in his amazement mixed with consternation, he turned to Ven and tried to meet his gaze, as if to ask him if he too had witnessed it and if Virtholm had not completely gone mad.
Ven, probably forgetting his place and encouraged by his Lord's behavior, shrugged in equal astonishment. When their eyes met, they both looked like they were about to laugh hysterically. Something in Ven's eyes made Virtholm's stomach clench, pleasantly. Maybe the glint of amusement that lit up his eyes, maybe the way he didn't look down when he realized his Lord was watching him. For a moment, Virtholm was lost in the moment of that effortless camaraderie, lost in those bright blue eyes and allowed the corners of his mouth to curl into a smile.
That smile died on his lips when he heard, and if there hadn't been a deafening silence in those moments he probably wouldn't have caught it, a slight groan. Like someone trying not to make a sound, to stifle the moan that was clawing out of her throat.
As if someone was trying to cry silently.
Virtholm turned toward the sound, so specific yet so foreign. He had rarely heard Shenya cry.
As if in a daze he realized that he was about to mock his wife, who was clearly completely shocked to the point of making a scene, with a servant. His wife who was crying.
With a servant.
"Go away," he said coldly, waving toward the door.
Ven seemed taken aback by the Lord's sudden change in tone and mood, and his face frowned as he remained still. For a second Virtholm wondered if he should throw him out, the connection he had felt with him earlier drowned in the shame of what he had almost done. But then Ven strode toward the door, almost stomping his feet, and walked out, closing it behind him.
He should have done something, if the young man continued to act like this... Inadequate, he thought to himself, turning to Shenya.
The woman continued to stare stubbornly out the window, her back to the room, as if she were the only one inside. When Virtholm took a few steps toward her, flanking her rather than following her, she ignored him even though she had certainly heard his footsteps, which he had purposely shuffled so as not to surprise her. He noticed that Shenya had a hand over her lips, the grip tight enough to make her knuckles pale, and understood why beyond that single sob he had not heard any moans from her.
He ran his hands through his hair, unsure of what to do. Shenya rarely expressed that kind of emotion in front of him. Usually, on the rare occasions when it happened, it was in the throes of alcohol, after a particularly boring dinner, when she lost her iron grip on her feelings. And they were trifles, little regrets that she forgot the next morning once she was sober.
The only time he had seen her so genuinely upset was on their first night together, after their wedding.
She had cried then, lying on their new bed in her ornate wedding dress, tears slowly sliding down her face silently, not making a sound, a fear in her eyes so great that he would never see her again. Even though they barely knew each other and only by name, it had been heartbreaking for him to see her there, trying to make herself smaller than she already was, while she tried to hold back the tears in vain.
I'm not a monster, he wanted to tell her then, I won't hurt you. But the words stuck in his throat, imagining the horror stories that servants and friends had put in her head about that night. Virtholm, lying on top of her, had no idea where to put his hands, so as not to scare her further.
So as not to frighten himself, who had not touched a woman for years, since he had to as a boy.
Finally he had placed a hand on her shoulder, almost detached and cold, then he had sat on her side of the bed and closed his eyes; he had listened to Shenya's breathing gradually calm down and he had felt her eyes staring at him with newborn curiosity before tiredness lulled her to sleep.
After all, no one was supposed to know that the marriage had not been consummated; the ancient custom of showing blood-stained sheets had been lost for centuries. And then she was not a virgin.
Now, in the present, he placed his hand on her shoulder, as he had done years ago. He did it slowly, giving her the chance to pull away from his touch if she wanted, but she didn't pull away. In fact, she almost seemed to lean toward his hand, as if seeking a comfort she had never before wanted from him.
He wanted to ask her what the problem was, if anything had happened to her during the journey, and for a moment he felt a pang of anger towards the Queen, who had sent her on an adventure without the slightest reason.
But he remained silent, giving her time to calm down. Giving her the choice to share her burden with him, if she wanted.
But time passed and Shenya did not open her mouth, did not make any sign of turning toward him, of justifying herself. Time seemed to dilate out of all proportion and Virtholm began to feel a pinch of uneasiness.
At the time, he had understood Shenya's fears. Now he had no idea what was going on in her mind.
"Talk to me," he finally asked in a low voice, his grip on my shoulder tightening slightly in a vague gesture of encouragement.
Shenya seemed to mutter something, but the words were muffled by the hand still pressed to her mouth. Virtholm gently took her wrist and firmly moved her hand away, insisting when Shenya resisted.
The woman's lips were red and swollen, but they were from biting herself rather than from her usual makeup. She ran her tongue over her lower lip, several times, and Virtholm realized that her throat must be dry from crying so hard. And he had no idea how long she had been like that.
He started to walk towards his desk, he was sure there was water and a cup there, but Shenya grabbed the hand still holding onto her shoulder and squeezed, not letting him move away.
"Don't make me say it," she said tearfully, sniffling.
"Did something happen on the journey?" Virtholm then asked, trying to readjust his hand.
She held him tight enough to sink her nails into his flesh and he was pretty sure that once she let go he would be left with marks.
"No," she murmured, looking down.
If nothing had happened to her on the road, where she had only been a traveler, surely nothing could have happened to her at court, where as First Lady she was respected and even a little feared by everyone.
He thought about what else could possibly upset her like this, inside the court, at that hour of the morning. It was then that he understood.
"Did you argue with the Queen" was not a question.
Shenya took a sharp breath and turned again to look at the beautiful flowering bushes that could be seen from that window, which overlooked the courtyard.
She was silent for a long moment, then said in a hoarse voice, "Don't make me say it."
The sheet of paper was richly decorated with the filigree of the coat of arms of the Royal House of Whitmune: the two crossed silver moons.
The paper, once a pristine cream color, was now written in the best handwriting Mariam could muster. She debated whether she should call in an expert, to make the words as clear as possible, then chose to write her own: she had a sudden terror that the other Rulers would be offended if such a request came from anyone else's hand.
They probably would have been offended anyway, Mariam sighed and blew lightly on the ink to dry it even though it was probably useless since it was already dry.
But everything had to be perfect, she couldn't afford any mistakes.
She thought about who to send that first letter to. Of course, the letters would all be sent together, to avoid a Sovereign thinking she was playing favorites, but she had developed that superstition. That the first letter she wrote should be sent to the right King, to make sure everything went well.
But who could choose?
Her first idea was Queen Ellenor of Lapis: a woman, like her, who might be able to understand her point of view better. But the idea immediately seemed silly to her, she knew nothing about that woman, except that she was older than her and that she had a fist as hard as the rock she ruled.
But this was also true for the other two remaining ones. King Calis and King Arik were unknown to her, perhaps even more so than Ellenore who at least was her neighbor and she had seen in person, even if sporadically.
She scolded himself for that serious oversight, she should have made sure she knew better the people she was asking for something so... Particular. So to speak.
Perhaps she should have left instead of sending Shenya, she would certainly have been welcomed into the Palaces in the way her Lady had not been.
She shook her head, as if she could physically chase away the thought. He wouldn't think about Shenya now.
She tried another approach, moving the letter and revealing the map of the continent hidden beneath.
Who would have benefited from that pact?
She felt she should exclude Terraria, which was rich in forests that they also sold to the other kingdoms, and was also the largest kingdom of the four kingdoms, stretching from the Sunny Sea to the Indaris River. It was as large as Orios and Lapis combined.
King Arik would be the hardest to convince, he had more to lose than the others, she thought, and saved that thought for later.
Lapis, mountainous and full of mines. At first glance it seemed the most suitable and she thought about his initial idea of sending the letter to Ellenore. But the more she ran his fingers over that portion of the map the more she changed her mind. It was true that Lapis was a land of stones, as her father the King had called it before he died, and that it depended almost entirely on Terraria for wood and on Orios for crops, but its stones were not simple stones: they were gold, silver, precious stones and iron. Almost as essential as food, as heating. Mariam was more than sure that the gold of her crown was made with Lapis' gold.
And, from the few times she had seen her, Ellenore seemed made of stone herself.
For a moment she felt despair, running her fingers over the last remaining kingdom.
And this is how my Revolution dies, she thought, and her eyes began to burn with tears.
A sharp snap sounded in the air and her cheek began to burn and turn red.
Her head cleared from the pain of the self-inflicted slap, she tucked a lock of dark hair behind her ear and refocused. She had to think, and there was no time to feel sorry for herself, she had to act quickly if her plan was to have a chance of succeeding.
Only Solis remained, the small strip of sand that stretched along the southern banks of the Indaris River. It was the smallest of the kingdoms and almost completely unknown to Mariam, except for what she had read about it. Oh, she had seen the infamous Solis mercenaries, tall, dark-skinned men and women with long braided hair who wore mostly armor. And that was all the mercenaries could do: except for a few farms on the banks of the river and a few weavers, Solis was largely desolate, there was little to live on and the people had to eat somehow. So, she had read, the people trained themselves intensely under the scorching sun until they were perfect, flawless soldiers. And she had seen it with her own eyes, when some noble had brought one or two of those mercenaries to court.
This could be a start, Mariam mused. She could offer their King to move his people to more hospitable lands, and he could give her the army she needed. Even if they had soldiers, in Orios they were more farmers than warriors, after all.
He picked up the letter again and read it quickly. Would it be good for this unknown King, whose appearance he did not even know?
She could certainly imagine him: tall, broad-shouldered, with long braided hair and smooth dark skin.
Was he also a warrior, like the others of his people?
He was beautiful, Shenya had said. But those were just rumors, she hadn't seen him with her own eyes.
Not that it mattered, she didn't want to court him.
He reread the letter, the invitation to appear before the Illuminated Council, the castle where, since the Great Ruin, Kings and Queens had gathered in one place to talk.
She did not know when the Council had last met, it had probably been at least a century. Her father had never attended.
She wondered if they would accept.
She hoped so.