Private The Silver Banner and the Green

[Corisande Virentis]

TODAY
Frostmere rose like a black monolith from the edge of the cliff overlooking the northern sea, a sprawling hamlet at its base within the huge walls. Even from the bow of the icebreaker ship struggling through the icebound path to the harbor, Corisande Verena Maud Virentis noted with a fury colder than the air that bit her cheeks pink that the green and white banner of her father's house had been moved aside, so that rather than being alone in the center of each of the four towering walls of Frostmere, it shared top billing with a banner of silver and black. It, more than the shuddering, tumbling movement of the ship through the water, made her want to vomit.

"The temerity," Corisande murmured under her breath, the words freezing with her breath in the air ahead of her. "The profanity."

"Your Grace?" came a voice from behind her, the ever-present cavalier who was seemed to draw on inhuman reserves of strength to stand at her side at all times. It was endearing. Most of the time.

"Just thinking out loud, Ser Peregrin. You ought to be inside." Dark eyes traced across the scar on his brow. The price he paid for his loyalty to her. He had more where eyes couldn't see. Corisande remembered holding his flesh together waiting for a surgeon to come, his life weeping in crimson rivulets over her pale hands. They were both so sure he would die, they'd almost... said more than would have been advisable. "You'll catch your death out here."

"After you, Your Grace."

Yes, she thought sardonically. I thought you might say so. "I'll be along presently," she said. "I just wanted to see if what they said was true. That they'd defaced Frostmere. My father's favorite fortress." Corisande shook her head with barely-concealed disgust. "I've seen enough."

THREE WEEKS AGO​

A dangerous silence had settled over the dining room table at which Corisande sat with several members of her retinue. Heads gently swiveled toward the woman in green seated at the center of one side of the table. The woman in green rested her elbows on the table and peered down the table toward her right, where an older, mustachioed gentleman sat, currently flushing pink but with a steady look on his face. "I'm sorry, my Lord Coron, I'm quite sure I didn't hear you clearly." There was no doubt among any of those present that she had, in fact, heard him just fine. "What did you say?"

Lord Coron was a wealthy landowner who had been among the first to declare for her after the Usurper settled himself on her throne. His loyalty was beyond reproach -- or so everyone present thought -- which made his declaration all the more shocking. And meaningful. "Your Grace, I said -- we must find a way to bring this war and all its bloodshed to a close. The people will not stand for this much longer. At first there was principle at play, but now? Every village has lost a dozen sons or more. Everyone knows someone who has been killed. They're lucky if they were friends, not family. Not children."

Corisande's eyes were flinty as she watched Coron. She made no further movement, spoke no words. Lord Coron took it as an invitation to keep going.

"Without the people, we will lose the farms, the mills, the mines. Without the people, we will lose the army. You have seen the figures yourself. There isn't much blood left in this stone." Coron took a steadying breath. "We have the opportunity to sue for peace now, before having peace foisted upon us on the terms of others. Or worse, provoking a rebellion or revolution among the people. We have not the resources to quell a rebellion and fight the claim against the Ward. We will surely be destroyed."

The Ward. A dismissive nickname used among Corisande's inner circle. Corisande's brow quirked. "You are not the first to raise these... strategic points," Corisande said quietly, rising to her feet. The rest of the table rose with her. "I have heard little else in the last weeks, since Larindale, where we lost hundreds. And yet, before that, we took hundreds from him at Coralport. Still more at the Ditch and before that we were devastated at Broken Ridge." A slow sigh. "I am not blind to the fact that this war is costly, in both men and in gold." She pressed the points of her fingers together at her waist, her eyes shining with something more than sadness or irritation. It was as though she was watching a dream slide away. After a few moments like this, she closed her eyes and turned her head. "It is a lot to ask, I suppose, that anyone other than I die for the principle that honor and law and decency still matter in this country." This was waspish; the green queen was tired and it cost her composure. "Bannermen who wish to put down their banners on the most important issue of our lives. With friends like these..."

Corisande moved around her chair, pushed it back in. "Very well, my Lord Coron. You will head up the ceasefire delegation. You will ride tonight."

FIVE YEARS AGO​

The chapel was lit by hundreds of candles, most along the front altar, but with dozens in each alcove and window. The death of the King had brought mourners from every walk of life, and while not all of them would have the privilege of attending the funeral services, all had been permitted to file through the chapel where he would be buried to pay their respects. Most left candles, until there were too many to find a spot. Docents had come in periodically to clear candles to make room for more candles. Never had there been such an outpouring of public grief, certainly nothing like it since the Accident.

That was how it was spoken of. The Accident. The starship disaster that had killed the King's son and a significant chunk of the aristocracy's youth in one fell swoop.

Now the chapel had been cleared and secured so that Corisande Virentis could enter and privately pay her respects and confer with the Regent, Darev Orsai . It was the first time she had set foot on her homeworld in nearly a decade, after being traded to the Tesserene like a bundle of currency for a bribe. She hadn't been able to return for her brother's funeral, nor her mother's, due to pregnancy. It had amounted to nothing, which seemed to be rather an apt metaphor for her whole tenure as Grand Electress. Ordinarily she would have worn green, but today she was in widow's weeds -- black from top to toe, save for a simple gold coronet that served as an anchoring point for the black veil that covered her face. Reinhart entered with his wife, his Grand Electress, but hung back at the entrance to give her some privacy. His eyes traveled with her, though, before landing on Orsai, standing at the front of the chapel.

His eyes saw a problem. The solution hung from his belt. But not today.

"Dare," said Corisande as she approached him, using the old childhood nickname. She did not curtsy, nor did she trouble herself at why he didn't bow to her despite knowing that she was now Queen. "Thank you for organizing things so expeditiously. I am pleased someone could get things started. My having to travel would have put everything too late. Perhaps you can brief me after the service. I'll need to get up to speed quickly."

TWO WEEKS AGO​

"Your Grace," a winded man called as he entered the hall where Corisande was reviewing the strategic map with her advisers.

"What is the meaning of this?" demanded Therris Danthyr, hand on sword as he moved to stop between the Green Queen and the noise, only to find that Ser Peregrin was already there, a brick wall between her and danger.

"Apologies, my Lord. Your Grace. You asked to be informed when Lord Coron returned. We've sighted him approaching Rockvale from the south."

Corisande put a hand on a forearm of each Lord Danthyr and Ser Peregrin, bidding them silently to step aside. "Thank you. When Lord Coron arrives, send him here at once."

The messenger nodded and bowed, then withdrew. Minutes later, Coron entered, helmet under one arm, looking a little dirty but no worse for wear.

"What news from the Ward?" asked Corisande without preamble.

"We've agreed a ceasefire, Your Grace. To begin in three days' time -- to ensure orders reach all our forces," announced Colon, handing over a datapad to Corisande with the salient details. "Lord Orsai suggested three locations for a meeting, all in neutral territory." He must have noted a flash of irritation from Corisande at that term; nowhere was neutral. There were only places loyal to their rightful queen and those in rebellion against her. "That is, in territory not currently contested. Wintergard, Ice-Crown Bastion, and Frostmere Fort. They've provided a frequency at which to lodge a choice."

Corisande wasn't sure wure whether to be relieved or infuriated, but the collective sigh from the advisers in the room gave her some idea of the consensus. She turned to Danthyr. "My Lord Marshall, can these be made safe for me?"

"Certainly, Your Grace. I will send a detachment ahead of time to begin the process."

Corisande nodded once. "Any opposed?" she asked, without turning around, and already knowing that none would. The nobles that populated her council were wealthy men whose livelihoods were more damaged with each passing day of war. She didn't expect them to oppose the thing that would turn the spigots of gold back on to their pails. "Very well. Frostmere was my father's favorite. Perhaps we can use the memory of His Late Grace to shame the Ward into behaving like a gentleman."

TODAY
The climb from the harbor was arduous even without the thick layer of white furs and green cloaks that draped the Queen. She was a young woman, still, and capable of drawing on the Force for strength, so she arrived in good shape. Ser Peregrin, too, was a natural athlete and he did not miss a step with his queen. They passed through the gatehouse into the courtyard, where a cry went up from exactly half the tents when the Greens saw their queen. Most had never seen her in person before. She raised a hand in a gentle wave to the men as she passed, eliciting yet more cheers. The Silvers, on the other side of the courtyard, were stony silent Corisande crossed the yard to the entrance to Frostmere.

The Great Hall was bastardized in much the same way as the exterior, with the green and white of Virentis shared billing with the silver and black of this upstart. It was shameful. Treason, really, to raise any standard as high as the queen's, but that was a problem for another time. When she removed her coat, the green queen lived up to her moniker: her long dress was green, with gold netting at her chest, and her ears and neck housed sparkling emeralds with gold settings and embellishments.

"Your Grace," a voice at her elbow whispered. She turned to see Canon Marcen bowing. They both turned toward the window as a loud cheer rose from the courtyard. Darev Orsai must have arrived. "A moment. I wanted you to know that I have been praying that your part in the Great Pattern will be made clear to you, and that you will see -- in your infinite wisdom -- where to place knots of Binding, Temperance and Grace for the best of your people and your world. If I may implore you, not as your confessor, not as a prince of your church, but as a citizen with loved ones across this nation of ours... Your Grace, I beg you to find a way to say yes to him. I suspect his council will be advising him in the same way."

Corisande frowned, and inwardly rage billowed within her. Cravens, the lot of them. And yet, they had a point. Winning the war outright would be best, but if that was no longer possible...

"Thank you for your prayers, Canon," Corisande said. She glanced to the side as the doors swept open and an unfamiliar fanfare sounded. "We're about to see what is possible."

The Green Queen waited, watching, silent from the top of the stairs that led to the high table, which had been set about with papers, books, pencils and pens, and anything else might be required for a ceasefire. She waited until the precise moment that she could descend the stairs and meet him at the very base just as he arrived. Corisande moved with ethereal grace, almost as if her legs were repulsors instead, her dress train cascading down the stone stairs with her movements.

"Regent Orsai," said Corisande, hoping she didn't sound as brittle as she felt, her hands clasped in front of her for warmth as anything else. "Welcome back to Frostmere."

 

[Suriya Talvek]

TODAY
Frostmere swelled from the size of a chess rook on a tabletop gameboard as a quintuplet of airships approached from the southwest. The beating of the wings that kept the central airship aloft, moving forward, perpetuated a frigid breeze. It was good for the airships -- the heat generated by the rapid movements would build much slower in the freezing air -- but uncomfortable for Suriya Talvek, who sat in the co-pilot's chair, to the right of Darev Orsai at the main yoke. Her hands were off her own controls -- not just because it was not her turn to fly, but also because she was shivering so violently that if she did, she'd be yanking the ship out of its flight pattern.

She glanced at him, saw that he was looking her way, and her dark eyes narrowed a little. Was it her imagination, or was there a smirk on his face. "Don't," she said, her voice carrying over the audio link between them. "Don't say it. Don't even think it."

The "it" was the fact that she had been offered her choice of furs. As the Silver banners advanced north, defeating, conquering, or driving loyalist Greens from their homes, there had been furs aplenty for the taking. Not just furs. Jewels. Luxuries. Fine wines. Lord Orsai had offered Suriya her pick, but she didn't love the idea of wrapping herself in the furs of a dead woman, a displaced woman, or a conquered woman. It was not, objectively speaking, a violation of any of the Strictures.

It simply made her feel sick to think of it.

"Almost there," she said, gesturing at the map, but neither needed it. Frostmere Fort was almost filling the viewport by then.

SEVEN MONTHS AGO​

Highcairn Hold was built to withstand armies. Not as much to guard against a single determined climber. Suriya began on the cliff side, not the road side. The cliff side -- the side everyone agreed only goats and madmen would use -- was sparsely guarded. The rock spine drops away in a broken tumble there, and the outer curtain wall of the fortress sat almost flush with the natural cliff.

But Suriya found footholds. There were always footholds. Ancient cracks in even more ancient rocks from lightning strikes over centuries. Roots from the coarse heather and scrub that clung stubbornly to the slope. An occasional protrusion of a drain spout where water -- Suriya pretended it was only water -- carved a groove. By twilight, with the wind in her favor and the watchfires bright on the other walls, Suriya worked her way up from a notch in the ravine that Highcairn overlooked, climbing and scrambling, leaping and vaulting, until she reached a half-forgotten maintenance ledge, which offered a narrow lip of stone below one of the curtain wall's buttresses. It had once been used by masons, but from the looks of it it had not seen a human foot in over a decade.

Suriya didn't stop.

The scramble continued, up the rough faces of the buttress itself, moving quickly before the rock could crumble or shred her gloves and boots. Minutes later, long legs swung over the ledge onto the outer wall-walk. The watch was lazy on this side; most of the men were gathered under a canopy near a burning brazier, throwing carved bones they could pretend were dice. It was a simple matter to drop over the wall onto the roof.

It was trivial to cross the barracks roof, ducking between chimneys. She scrambles up what she can find: corbelled stone jutting from under old hoardings, blocked-off archways from where temporary galleries had once been thrown up during ancient sieges, and a narrow service gallery roof that butted directly against where the chapel sat.

Suriya hated this.

But there was no other way. Suriya had tracked the Green Queen -- Princess Corisande, as the Silvers knew her, or else as the Electress in as disgusted a tone as they could muster -- for days. The only time -- the only time -- she was alone was after she met with her Canon, Marcen, in the small chapel within the royal apartments at Highcairn Hold. The Canon took her confession, then left her to pray. No one knew what went on inside, not even Ser Peregrin. She wondered idly as she she slipped through a nearly-imposisble window whether Corisande Virentis and Ser Peregrin were lovers. She had seen enough glances between them, enough of the their eyes lingered on the other when they thought no one else was looking, to suspect that they probably wanted to be. And yet, she had never seen more, and Suriya had been watching for weeks.

It took time to plan an assassination, after all.

Inside at last, Suriya secured her hood and drew a knife.

FIVE YEARS AGO​

"You don't have to count it in front of me, you know," Suliya said waspishly as her boss flicked through the stacks of paper money she had just delivered him in a sack. "I'd never steal from you."

"The famed Marindi honor?" asked the boss, his lip curling in a sneer. "Heard that from your kind before."

Darkness colored her cheeks, and she folded her arms. I didn't put a blaster to your head and make you buy a Marindi indenture, she thought ruefully. Sounds like you've been getting what you pay for. "Nothing to do with being Marindi," she said coolly. "Stealing gets another year of indenture. Not interested."

"You've got -- how long left?" He set aside the stack of cash, apparently satisfied. "Two years?"

"Two years, nine moons, three cycles, four days and -- " She paused as the clocktower in the distant night chimed eleven. "one hour."

"Right. Well it's all here. Take the rest of the night off."

SEVEN MONTHS AGO​

Suriya staggered into the abandoned granary she had repurposed as a safehouse, slammed the door behind her. One hand pressed to a blood gash in her side, but it wasn't life-threatening. Not yet. Hurt like hell, but deadly? Not yet. She threw the bolt and limped over to the communications console, powered it up.

Priority signal to Darev Orsai . She waited until they connected, then leaned over the console so he could see her. "My Lord," said Suriya on a wince. "My Lord, I'm sorry to report -- I failed. Her bodyman was there -- unexpectedly -- and I couldn't -- I couldn't -- "

Couldn't kill Corisande. Couldn't kill Corisande and escape.

She slumped against the console as dizziness overtook her. "I'll need to see a doctor before the night is over. Her loyal swain got me good." Suriya held up a hand, now crimson with her own blood, a deranged, sheepish smile on her lips. She was starting to feel woozy.

TODAY
The cheer that greeted the arrival of Lord Orsai from the Silver half of Frostmere's inner courtyard was just as raucous as the one that had shaken the glass for the Green Queen minutes before. Suriya stayed back, adjusting her woolen coat, giving Orsai a moment to bask in the adoration of his men before his retinue began to usher him in.

Suriya was almost anxious. She was walking blind into Frostmere Fort, to sit at a table with a woman whose flesh she had marred, a woman she'd almost killed. No doubt the bodyguard would be there, sporting the souvenir that Suriya had left him in the struggle. Maybe they won't recognize you, she told herself as she followed Lord Orsai through the makeshift camp and toward the towering central fortress. After all, she had been wearing different clothes, her hair covered, face all but covered. Maybe.

And if they do... well, that whole table will have tried to kill one or the other of them at some point, she reasoned. It was not a comforting thought.