Scions' Flight (Fallowtide Sequence 7)
Scions' Flight (Fallowtide Sequence 7)
A SEASON OF FLOWERS, A SEASON OF BLOOD
When the sacrifices of a princess and an alien turn the first attack into a victory for Lisinthir and his allies, their enemies resort to a new threat to disarm them. But they're not the only ones mobilizing in response to a transformative sacrifice: everywhere, the discontent of their culture's discards is reaching the boiling point. As the princess and her family prepare for the birth of their heirs, all fate is building toward a final confrontation.
The Empress promised them ten years of peace. Will they see the promise of the fallowtide fulfilled? And what will be the outcome of this final chapter in the saga of the Chatcaavan War?
Genre (setting): space opera (Pelted)
Tags: politics, space elves; multicultural; empire building; politics; babies
Rating: R for references to adult relations, violence
Excerpt from Chapter 1
“I don’t know how today has been any worse than a usual day here,” Velederien said, guiding his horse past the treeline. “Scandal is hardly new, you know.”
“There’s ‘scandal’ and then there’s ‘a royal has been beaten like a peasant in our own throne room,’” Orin objected, throwing shadows all over the words. “You can’t tell me that’s not another level beyond what we should expect or tolerate.”
“I don’t see that we were, or will ever be, asked whether we wished to tolerate a whipping in Ontine,” Darineth said drolly. “Indeed, I would have been shocked to be consulted, given that the players in this production are, as usual, women.”
“And men the victims,” Velederien said. “So, as I said… nothing unusual.”
“And the princess was no victim?” Orin demanded. “Do you want to attempt her act and see if you feel differently?”
“God and Lady, no,” Darineth said. “But those who grasp at great power take great risks.”
“My point,” Orin said, “is that ‘great risk’ shouldn’t involve corporal punishment for minor crimes.”
“The minor crime of using a shapeshifter spy?” Darineth asked archly.
“Women of our set spy on one another all the time! How is it materially different from bribing a lady’s maid or a house servant? Not at all, I would argue.”
Tolden listened, resigned. He hadn’t wanted to go on this expedition, but with Lord Lauvet returned from the hospital, and now personally overseeing the Queen Ransomed and her children, the need for the vigilance of five very agitated Eldritch lordlings had been reduced… if, in fact, the need had existed in the first place, given the Chatcaava prowling the chalet. Velederien, always seeking an excuse to ride, had chivvied them into it, saying that their health would be improved by exercise, and Tolden hadn’t had a reason at hand to object.
He wanted, mostly, to be alone with his thoughts. More and more, he preferred it to talking out his ideas with his friends… and this topic, in particular, he wanted no part of. Which was naturally why they asked him about it.
“You’re quiet, Tolden,” Darineth said.
“So is Fergol,” Tolden said, summoning a teasing smile. “And you haven’t picked on him.”
“I’m not quiet, I am picking my moment,” Fergol said.
“Oh?” Orin said. “And has that moment arrived?”
“I think we’re talking to keep from looking too closely at what discomfits us, which is that we were forced to witness an obscenity perpetrated on the backs—literally—of women and castrates,” Fergol said. “Which is why you should be watching our fearless leader closely, because his silence indicates he is not engaged in this spate of palliating denial. Given that, his next actions will probably be extreme.”
“God and Lady,” Tolden said, torn between laughing and dismay. “Really? Can you be any more dramatical?”
“And what would he do, anyway?” Darineth said. “Ride into the throne room and demand justice?”
“What justice, though,” Velederien said. “I keep telling you, it’s the same sort of scandal every Eldritch is used to.”
“Only bloodier?” Orin said, askance.
“There have been duels aplenty at Ontine prior to this,” Velederien said with a shrug. “And there will be again. Blood is spilled every year—”
“Oh, now that’s coming it too strong,” Orin said. “You make it sound as if men line up around the palace for their chance to stab their opponents, when it has been rare precisely because it is so dangerous to spill blood!”
“The threat was always there,” Velederien insisted, stubbornly. “That is what gives gossip any power!”
“That,” Fergol said, “is sooth. No one will say it aloud, but Vel is correct. Our swords are the gold backing those loans.”
“The people who died fighting Asaniefa’s coup were all men,” Darineth said. “No one was surprised by it, either. Perhaps we should introduce the Pelted methods to our world, and start insisting that women fight their own wars.”
“So long as children are rare and pregnancy dangerous, we won’t win that battle,” Fergol said. “But the aliens are making inroads on that situation, so… who knows?”
“I don’t know that I want to live in a world remade to alien standards,” Orin said.
“Certainly our women won’t, most of them,” Darineth said. “Can you imagine the day we ask them to take up the sword if they’re so intent on making trouble?”
“We shall all be poor that day, and thrown out of our houses,” Velederien muttered. “I cannot like it.”
“You don’t like this conversation,” Fergol said to Tolden.
“I don’t like anything about recent events,” Tolden said. “I neither feel it excusable because of precedent, nor laudable for serving as comeuppance against our women. I’m astonished that we’re discussing it in such terms at all.”
“And what terms would you discuss it on?” Darineth asked.
Tolden said, curtly, “None,” and spurred his horse past them into the sunlit field.
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