Rebel Song (11 page)

Henri had visibly aged in the last ten years. She had watched him fade from a young, confident leader, eager to wrap an iron fist around his world, to a middle-aged man who looked desperately tired for his years. He didn’t seem to think twice about anything he threw into his mouth anymore or how many cigars he sucked down in an afternoon. She imagined his life had not been the cakewalk the world assumed it was. He’d forfeited his youth to ascend to political power at barely fourteen. He’d sacrificed his chance at truly falling in love and spent his life with a cold, unhappy wife. He’d made a myriad of unpopular choices, fought three wars and squashed one rebellion. Some days, Elyra didn’t know if she admired him or loathed him.

She moved to her position on his right side, trying with all her will to look interested in the proceedings. She turned to her father and smiled, as if she had waited all morning just to sit by his side.

“So nice of you to roll from your bed and join us, daughter.” Henri said through tight teeth.

“I just couldn’t decide what to wear,” she smiled pleasantly, not turning to meet his eyes.

“It’s about time you take these proceedings seriously, my dear. There is much at stake. Being here to greet the Council upon arrival is part of your role. Or have you forgotten you are the sole heir to this great country?”

“How could I forget? I have been reminded every day since mother gave up on a son.” Without even turning her face toward him, she could feel his anger. The reminder of his sonless existence never ceased to test his temper.  

The room rustled with low voices and shuffled papers for a few more moments until Minister General Hugh Pantone, head of the High Council and second in political matters to the King, smacked the gavel down on the long table, commanding silence. The room was instantly at his attention.

“Good morning council and county representatives,” the Minister General began. “I welcome you the first proceedings of the new quarter. I hope you all enjoyed your holiday rest. This year marks an important time for Arelanda. Not just here in the capital, but for all of our counties and outlying districts. As you know, it’s an election year, which of course means all of you must work that much harder to win your county’s favor. The people have faced hard times these past few years—the drought, the decline of our tourism, the war in the East blocking trade. We all understand where the people are.”

Elyra couldn’t contain a conspicuous eye roll at the Minister’s rhetoric.
Sure you know where they’ve been
.
You know because you helped put them there.

“But,” the Minister General continued, “Do not for a moment believe that their misfortunes are a valid excuse to rise up in seditious rebellion. We, the King, will not tolerate such treachery.”

“And what do you suppose we tell them, Minister Pantone?” Brita Falcon, Minister of Public Works, spoke up. Her long, regal neck was stretched high and her hair—so fair it looked white in the sunlight beaming through the vast hall window—was pulled up into a sharply twisted knot on the top of her head. She sat perfectly still, staring at Hugh Pantone dead on.

“Ms. Falcon,” Hugh began with a saccharine grin.

“Minister Falcon,” Brita interrupted. Hugh pursed his lips but nodded in apology.

“Minister Falcon, I know it is in your girlish nature to be soft toward these people, but you must remember your place and theirs.”

“And who do you suppose will till the fields and plant the grapes when ‘those people’ are too sick, tired and hungry to work? Or incapable because they’ve lost a leg in your service, fighting for this freedom you’re always touting? Who will brave violent winter seas to bring in fresh shark to stretch out your pants?” Despite her jabs, her porcelain face remained effortlessly poised and emotionless.

Hugh’s mouth twisted and he stared at her as though he were inspecting her for lice.

“Those who want to make money badly enough. You are young and new to this council Brita…”

“Minister Falcon, sir,” she barked.

“All right, enough,” Henri interjected. “I’m tired of hearing your pointless banter. Minister Falcon, if you are so concerned about the welfare of the working class, then draft me a proposal to…oh, I don’t know…incentivize them. If you ask me, all they need is a little creativity.”

Brita nodded compliantly.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“And Minister Pantone,” He turned to face the General. “I trust you will continue your diligent efforts to protect the best interests of this realm. I have faith that your long tenure as Minister General has not faded the principles you once swore to uphold.”

Pantone offered a counterfeit smile and nodded.

“Of course, Your Grace. The welfare of the people is my top priority.”

Pantone sat smugly at the end of the long, oval table, his face looking more like a walnut every day. Elyra had known him as long as she could remember. In fact, she was sure he’d been at court longer than she’d been alive. At the tail end of his third term as Minster General, he’d been a powerful force in the political realm for decades, whispering in the king’s ear, gracefully working the political marionette strings with one hand and sipping brandy with the other. It was no secret that she trusted him about as much as she would a desperate man awaiting execution.

 Elyra turned her attention to Brita Falcon. Despite the constant harassment of her character, the stoic minister remained ever poised. When she had first been elected to the council earlier that term, she had been a laughing stock. The palace halls were filled with whispers and rumors about the twenty-one-year-old’s lack of both breeding and life experience.
Who had her father paid to get her the seat? Or who had she climbed into bed with?
As one of the youngest—and the only woman—to ever be elected to the council, Elyra admired her ferocity and poise in the face of so much adversity. Her election told Elyra that the world was shifting and all hope was not lost. Maybe modernity wasn’t such a foreign concept after all.

“What is next on the docket?” Henri peered down at the agenda typed out on stiff parchment. “A grant to refurbish historic structures.” He looked up at Willem Harrow, the Minister of Culture, with a cocked eyebrow. “Truly?”

Willem cleared his throat.

“Your Grace, many of our fine pieces of history are crumbling to the ground. Our city is old and great, but it cannot stay so by the grace of God alone. The Temple is…”

“Honestly, Willem,” Pantone interrupted. “Is it our job to provide a more comfortable place for a bunch of fools to get on their knees and worship some statue?”

Elyra fumed inwardly. Pantone’s open distain for the Faith was well known, but did he really have to step on the beliefs of half the room?

“Hugh,” Henri snapped at Pantone. “You will remember that the Ballantyne family stands as the official Head of the Almighty Faith. You are free to hate it on your own time but you will not speak out like that again.” Her father wasn’t the most pious man, but her mother came from a conservative family who didn’t believe freedom of belief should be so widely tolerated. Queen Calliope had difficulty adjusting to the spread of atheism in Arelanda, which had welcomed freedom of faith for more than 400 years.

“My apologies, Your Grace,” Pantone said humbly. “But I do believe we have greater needs at this time.”

Henri snarled at him but then nodded.

“I agree. Mr. Harrow, I appreciate the great need to protect our city’s culture and history, but we cannot allocate such funds at this time. I will revisit your request next quarter. In the meantime, this is why we have budgets. Surely you haven’t already run through your annual budget at hardly mid-year?”

Willem looked defeated but shook his head.

“No, Your Grace. We will make do with what we have.”

“Good,” Henri turned back to his agenda. “Now, let’s see. A new wine tax? Didn’t we raise wine taxes last quarter? Harold?” He turned to the Minister of Agriculture.

The small balding Harold Sayer cleared his throat.

“We did two quarters prior, Your Grace,” Harold answered meekly. “We raised the export tax by three points. The current proposition would raise the local distribution taxes by two points, Sir.”

“I see. Have you the necessary signatures for the vote?”

“The proposition does not actually come from the Ministry of Agriculture, Your Grace.” Harold glanced nervously around the room.

“And? Where does this document I hold in my hand come from then?” His patience was already souring, the veins in his hands pulsing. Henri had about as much tolerance for High Council meetings as Elyra did.

“I began this initiative, Your Grace,” Hugh spoke up. “After Minister Fridd did the analysis on the production and distribution report, we concluded that the tax being charged locally is disproportionate to the profit yield.”

Henri chewed on his cuticle, seemingly un-amused by the defense.

“All right,” Henri said with a sigh. “You are the Minister General here, not I. I trust you know what you’re doing.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Minister Pantone nodded satisfactorily.

Elyra felt a pang in her gut as her loathing for Minister Pantone grew.

The council began to stir with tension.

“What’s next?” Henri said.

Pantone shuffled through his file.

“Veteran’s Affairs funding,” Pantone said dryly, carelessly handing the file to the King. Henri rolled his eyes.

“Is there anyone here that isn’t requesting money?” Henri scanned the paperwork and sighed. “You’ve been busy, Minster Falcon.” He eyed her suspiciously.

Brita held her composure but anyone sitting next to her would have seen the slight worry in her otherwise cold eyes.

“It’s a co-sponsored request, Your Grace,” She said. “In conjunction with the Minister Brigg and the Defense Department. It’s one of the top requests for funding we receive from the Governors, as I’m sure those present today can attest. As the injured and discharged trickle in from the East, their options are extremely diminished. Many are now disabled, or their lands have been foreclosed on since their deployment—”

Henri held up a hand to stop her.

“Being a soldier is their job, Minister. Am I supposed to clothe and feed everyone in the country who’s injured on the job?” Henri asked.

Brita squirmed with agitation.

“With all due respect, Your Grace—”

“Why is it that every time I hear those words, I’m about to hear something I do not respect?”

“Then at the risk of disrespecting you, Your Grace, these aren’t carpenters and fishermen,” Brita went on. “Their job keeps this country safe and its walls intact. I think a little compassion is warranted. It doesn’t reflect well on this council if those who lose limbs in the name of the King are tossed out like dried-out heifers.” She glared at Hugh, whose eyes rolled in disgust.

“All right, all right,” Henri continued. “As usual, you’ve made your bleeding heart point. Your request for funding will go to the vote at the end of the meeting.” Brita and Robart Brigg nodded appreciatively.

“Anything else?” Henri asked.

When Minister Pantone finally slammed his gavel in conclusion of the meeting, Elyra was practically asleep at the table. She perked up and tried to smile politely to each Minister and county representative as they exited the Council Hall. Markus Fallon, who was working under Minister Fridd as the Intern Minister of Economics, lingered by his seat as if contemplating something. She sensed his deliberation and scurried to gather her things before he could come up with something mindless to say to her. She was not quick enough. He caught her just outside the hall door with a gentle touch on her forearm that made her shudder.

“Elyra.” She fought back a scowl. It didn’t matter if she’d known him since she was six—Markus grated on her nerves. “I was hoping to speak with you.”

“Intern Minister,” she replied with a hint of polite mocking. “How can I be of service?” He smiled back, ignoring the jab.

“The Council meetings have improved with your presence,” he offered so formally that Elyra had to fight the urge to giggle and swoon melodramatically.

“Thank you. I hope to improve on many things here now that I am able.” She began to walk down the hallway. He followed eagerly.

“It’s impressive that you would take such a role in your position.” Elyra stopped mid-step and turned around. His pale green eyes had a disingenuous twinkle she didn’t trust.

“Oh? And what position is that?” She fought back her irritation.

“Well, many princesses prefer to spend their time on less taxing matters. Improving communities, charity events, spreading world peace.”

Elyra’s lip turned up in a snarl at his implication of her very weak sex.
Oh yes, world peace. That small task,
she thought
.

“Is that so? Which princesses have you spoken with lately?” She raised her eyebrows and smiled tightly. Markus attempted humility.

“I suppose you set the bar.”

“Oh well, you know me. Always reaching for the stars. What is it that you want Markus?”

“Well, I was hoping…do you still volunteer at the library?”