Eldrin stopped mid-phrase, his head jerking to the side. “Mom!” Proceeding with a bit more dignity than his younger brother, he joined in hugging her tight.
“My fine boys.” She kissed each of their cheeks. “I’m home now for the duration, I think. Eldrin, your playing is beautiful. Please finish the piece.” Turning, with an arm around each son, she moved into the room.
“No, my turn!” Caelen exclaimed. “Mine is Chopin. The recital is next week—if we aren’t under attack. I suppose you know about the Iron Army’s invasion.”
Azaleen shot him a withering look. “Yes, I know all about that. And I want to hear your selection too, Caelen. I’m sure it’s just as lovely.”
Eldrin peeled away, his joyful expression going sour. “I don’t see the point of practicing for a dumb recital when a megalomaniac is assaulting our country. I should be in military training, not attending classes as if everything was normal.”
Steering her sons to an antique-style cluster of cushioned chairs, she pointed. “Sit.” They both obeyed, Caelen with a curious expression while Eldrin’s remained dubious.
Azaleen considered her sons as she would young adults, for it was clear they’d be growing up fast in the months to come. “Would you really give Luther Irons the satisfaction of disrupting our daily activities, chasing us away from our lives into a dark cave of fear?”
“No, but—” Eldrin began. Azaleen held up a hand.
“What do you think we’re fighting to preserve? Your music, this artwork,” she said, motioning to an original landscape produced by a local painter. “We didn’t build this kingdom just to exist. Without the arts, without beauty, poetry, music, there is no civilization. Our enemies crave power, guns, and steel, but we know those aren’t the things that enrich life. Yes, our armies march to the front lines to protect lives, but also a way of life, to preserve the jewels of the past—like Beethoven and Chopin, the eminent artists and authors who left their mark on mankind.”
They regarded her with contemplation on their youthful faces.
“I say the recital should go forward. Let us show the Iron Realm that we don’t bow or cower, forfeit our routine because of their incursion.”
“Huh,” Eldrin uttered.
“Now, the time might come when we will be forced to flee, but not today. Live your lives, my sweet boys. Play the piano, participate in your sports games, go to your classes, and make the most of every moment. Not an hour is added to our lives by worry. Eldrin, I’ll start including you in more strategic planning because you’re old enough and you’ve earned it, but no joining the fighting—not yet. You are heir to the kingdom, remember? Every life in Verdancia is precious, but some carry more weight than others. You must both be brave and strong. We inherited a sacred duty, and that comes before everything. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Caelen answered. “We understand.”
Azaleen shifted her gaze to Eldrin, who nodded.
“Now.” Caelen sprang from his seat and bounded to the piano. “Listen to my Chopin.”
Smiling, Azaleen relaxed into her cushions while Eldrin looked as though lost in thought. Caelen’s piece, while not as technically demanding, came to life just as beautifully as his brother’s.
The next day
Azaleen sat in the war room of the Capitol Building, the expansive carved map of Ashland dominating the space. She was surrounded by her cabinet, with Chief of Staff Sabine Fontaine stationed behind her. She’d added a leather wingback chair for Eldrin between hers and Secretary Navarro’s. He looked every bit the young prince in a starched white shirt, long slacks, and his blond hair neatly trimmed.
Despite the late hour, sunlight poured through the open window, a gentle breeze ruffling the edges of the tied-back verdant drapes. She’d spent all morning poring through the history texts that weighed down the bookshelves and studying her table map. Ship and troop markers had been moved to reflect what intelligence they’d received. The tension in the chamber was palpable.
“The young Iron Navy officer I interrogated gave up what I believe to be truthful intelligence,” Azaleen said. “Irons divided his fleet, sending part eastward to Fort Jasper and New Charleston, and the rest to attack Fort Hammond and gain control of the Mother River’s mouth. While we’ve yet to receive confirmation by pigeon, I expect it any day. Lieutenant Navarro’s last missive indicated the smaller towns are being bypassed in favor of military targets.”
“What of the AlgonCree Navy?” asked General Reuben Stark. He sat tall and straight, his broad shoulders squared under his uniform. Bushy brows pressed over keen, deep-set eyes, while a gray moustache dominated his troubled face.
Azaleen nodded to Camille. “They have left a warship and two escort vessels at Fort Stilwell, and the rest are cruising the coastline,” the diplomat conveyed. “We suspect they will encounter the rest of the Republic’s Navy at some point.”
“We can’t afford to lose Fort Hammond,” said Silas Beaudean. His inappropriate farmer’s hat and muddy boots proclaimed his position as agriculture secretary. Though he was younger than Stark by almost ten years, his weathered appearance would never lead one to guess. “We depend on clear navigation of the river to get the cotton shipments through.”
“And without profits from cotton, corn, and ethanol, our economy will collapse,” Treasury Secretary Vera Sutherland concluded. Her severe gray suit and stark bun announced her no-nonsense approach to finance. She adjusted her glasses, a worried frown tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“We can only hope the AlgonCree Navy can chase them off,” Azaleen said. “My primary concern at the moment is the whereabouts of the land invasion force. General, do you have any news?”
“General Calder has set out with a significant force from Stonevale to engage in guerrilla tactics aimed at disrupting and slowing their march. However, the last we heard, they haven’t encountered hostile forces yet. I sent word to General Longstreet to hold Marchland at all costs. As we speak, he and Lady Cade are preparing the city for an extended siege.”
Azaleen wondered about a prosperous town that lay on the road to Marchland. “Should we call for an evacuation of Tupelo?”
“I sent a pigeon informing Mayor Thompson of the danger,” Stark said. “As I recall, the area abounds with storm cellars and underground vaults. They may elect to hide rather than abandon the town.”
“I might have some good news,” volunteered Desmond Shaw, the procurement secretary who’d immigrated from Appalachia years ago. The tall, Black man might be overly self-assured, but he had consistently proven himself since gaining the position at the beginning of the summer.