Babies or Beheading

The river ran backwards on the day the Queen vanished. Halfa Elizadelaine Tommward, Queen of Branham, Archduchess of the Blessed Mangroves and Protector of the King’s Raccoons, spent a significant amount of that morning ankle-deep in shit. Her feet had sunk into muck up to the ankles. This odorous glue helped her maintain her place in line as the swift current of knee-high sewage battered her legs.

The fact that it wasn’t “just” sewage provided no comfort. The Eelhome River served as Branham's principal port and main North-South highway, as well as the repository of waste for every household, stable, alchemist shop, and tannery in the capital city. Hal refused to consider what Leigeton University of Arcana and Occultism dumped into the waters. She also forcibly repressed her memory of the trash compactor scene in Star Wars: A New Hope.

The stranger to her left accepted a crying toddler from the man to his left, turned, and handed the child to Hal. She didn’t pause to let her heart break over the little boy’s tear-streaked face. She simply turned right and handed him to Captain Panwill, head of the Royal Consort Guard. Then she reached to her left for the next orphan.

“How’s Queen-ing working out for you?” a familiar disembodied voice asked.

Hal didn’t respond aloud. Her position in court was nowhere near secure enough for her to casually chat with invisible people. Only the independently wealthy or the magically powerful could get away with that level of eccentricity. Well, she assumed this was the case. She’d only been in the realm of Polinna for eleven months, and Queen of Branham for the last five of them. She focused on evacuating Riverview Orphanage from the flood zone.

A light presence landed on her left shoulder. It felt like a bird, smelled like stale beer, and looked like nothing at all. “‘Oh Taliesin, I’m so glad you’re here,’” the sheeling said in a perfect imitation of Hal’s voice. “‘I was wrong to turn down your generous offer of patronage.’” His voice returned to its usual tenor register. “It’s not too late, my noble little dewdrop. Champions imported from other realms have a full year to choose their Class.”

The next orphan was a stone fey child of maybe four years old, too heavy for most of the volunteers in line to lift. The flood came halfway up the poor little girl’s chest. Her hand was surprisingly soft and gentle in Hal’s. She didn’t need assistance to make her way out of danger; just reassurance.

“Go on, Sweetheart,” Hal encouraged her. “There’s warm baths and lots of honey cakes in Justice Hall.”

“Is this really fulfilling to you?” Taliesin asked. “Has King Arsenatt Leonine Quagg III been receptive to your progressive proposals?”

The six-year-old human boy in Hal’s arms sneezed on her face.

“Oh, that’s right,” the invisible sheeling jeered. “He said”—slipping seamlessly into a perfect impression of the King’s baritone—“‘There already is a minimum wage! It’s called room and board.’” Back in Taliesin's voice: “And what was his response to your religious tolerance bill?”

Hal saw that the adults at the front of the line started trudging their way in the direction of Justice Hall. Two of them carried a large burden between them. Another struggled to support a preteen elf who walked with a crutch.

“Captain Panwill,” Hal said in tones she hoped were regal and commanding. “Ask that elf if they want you to carry them. If they accept your offer, attend to their needs before mine.”

The salt-and-pepper guardsmen furrowed his brow. “Your Highness, I cannot attend to a commoner’s needs before yours. The only people I can prioritize over you are the King and any offspring he may recognize.”

Hal rolled her eyes. “Fine. Go offer help within the confines of your oath.” The captain obeyed.

Hal pulled her right foot up out of the muck. Her satin slipper stayed behind. She’d wanted to dress more practically for the day’s disaster, but King Ass-hat had insisted that the Three Moon Tide was “nothing but an ancient story” and that his Queen must always display his status. With Hal’s second step, her left slipper remained in the sewage. She made her way up the slippery sludge-covered cobblestones barefoot.

“How many petticoats do you have on, anyway?” Taliesin asked from his perch on her shoulder. “Two, three? And this day dress is a fine brocade. I bet it was heavy even before the lower third soaked up all that urine.”

Hal walked on, silently hoping she didn’t scratch her foot on an unseen jagged rock. The healing potions and spells of Polinna were more versatile than antibiotics back home ever had been. Still, she couldn’t forget twenty years of life with hygiene and tetanus shots.

“Look, I know you’ve been reading your way through the royal library,” Taliesin said. “Did you come across anything that explained the Warlock-Patron bond? Mundane realms tend to get weird stories about demons and soul-ownership. On Polinna, it’s more like a partnership.”

She had read about it, of course.

One day, she stayed up too late cramming for a Macroeconomics midterm. The next morning, she woke up in a chalk summoning circle on a stone floor, surrounded by preteen elf girls. Everything around her froze, and a menu screen appeared before her eyes. It read:

Character Sheet for Treasures of Polinna, Season 4
Race: Human
Gender: Woman
Age: 20
Background: Noble
Starting Pack: Scholar
Level: 0 (1 level available if claimed within 364 days)
Name: Valphi Nixibis Redwood
Languages: Modern Humanese, Archaic Feyish, Modern Elfese, Modern Halflingese

Every option below the title line had drop-down menus. She pressed “randomize” on the name a few times, then decided to close it out for now and figure out what was going on. She mentally selected the X in the corner of her vision. Her gut clenched with anxiety when she saw the word “auto-save” flash before the entire interface vanished.

The scene before her sprung to life. The adolescents explained that they had just been playing with someone’s aunt’s grimoire during a slumber party. It never occurred to them that they could actually summon an outsider from another realm. Nothing in the spellbook could send her home. Even the sorcerer aunt and the scholars at Leigeton University failed to reverse her accidental summoning.

She was stuck in Polinna with the name Halfa Elizadelaine Tommward and almost every default setting that had populated her character sheet.

After a few months as the university’s guest, Hal had found herself courted in two different directions. Taliesin the sheeling wanted her to take her first level in Warlock. He offered her some magical spells and skills. In return, she had to work towards the level, abilities, and ingredients necessary for some magical ritual he wouldn’t yet describe in detail. King Arsenatt wanted her to serve as his fourth wife. The first three had cemented political alliances for him, but failed to provide him with an heir before tragic early ends. The king offered Hal riches and political power. In return, she had to forego all arcane or occult magic.

A place in court meant a comfortable bed. It meant she didn’t have to risk her life against monsters and traps. It could even afford her the chance to improve the lives of the people of Branham, whose society resembled what Hal knew of medieval Europe. She married the King.

...Still, she had read about the Warlock-Patron bond. She researched all the Classes available on Polinna. After accidentally rushing through all other choices she could have made, she wanted to be as informed as possible for this one. She wanted to maximize the good she could do for others and minimize the risk to herself.

Captain Panwill carried the child with the broken leg on his back. Behind him, two volunteers struggled to support a centaur filly. One man held the girl’s equine back end. The other somehow managed to support her forelegs with one arm and pat her human back with the other while she sobbed on his shoulder.

No one was looking Hal’s way. Even in her royal finery, she was just another volunteer covered in feces.

“I have read up on the Warlock-Patron bond,” she said quietly. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t see the appeal.”

Taliesin’s avian feet tightened on her shoulder.

“Don’t get too excited,” she murmured. “I made a commitment to Arsenatt and Branham. I’m going to have an important talk with my husband about expectations and partnership.”

Taliesin cracked up—a long, loud belly-laugh of true amusement. Hal almost lost her own annoyance with a smile. She pursed her lips instead.

When the laughter started to peter out, she said, “No matter what, I want to do something beneficial for Branham.”

“Of course you do, Petal,” Taliesin said. “I wouldn’t waste time and magic on a champion whose values don’t align with mine. You know, as much as possible. I’d never wade through the Eelhome.”

Captain Panwill caught up to Hal, so she stopped responding aloud. “Please, Ma’am,” Panwill panted. “Once young Master Ashleaf here is secure in the sanctuary, I must request we return to the palace.”
Hal’s bare feet and aching muscles agreed.

Back at the palace, her lady’s maid scrubbed her twice from head to toe in a lavender-scented bath and cinched her into a demure purple gown. Then King Arsenatt’s orders thwarted her every move.

At the door to the kitchen, a panicked scullery maid called for the head butler, who planted himself firmly in the doorway. “My sincerest apologies for any inconvenience, Your Highness, but the King has locked down all provender. If you should require refreshment, I will of course be delighted to oblige.”

The door to the palace library was locked, and the Royal Scholar was nowhere to be found.

Sir Rogermin of the Monarch’s Guard blocked one door to the royal council chamber, and his squire Dunkitt blocked the other. Dunkitt bowed six times during his apology. “Please forgive me, Your Highness, I’m so sorry. It’s the King. My apologies. His Royal Majesty and the High Cabinet are not to be disturbed during the day’s unprecedented disaster.”

“The Three Moon Tide isn’t unprecedented,” Hal informed the pimple-faced boy. “I read about the phenomenon and warned the King weeks ago. Every twelve centuries, the three moons align and their combined gravitational forces flood the whole continent.”

Squire Dunkitt blinked nervously.

“Famous astronomer Brackish the Forthright posited that the phenomenon actually happens every six centuries, alternating between Polinna’s North and South hemispheres.” She smiled. “You see, I could be very helpful to the High Cabinet.”

Dunkitt bowed again. He stammered at the floor: “I am so sorry, Queen Halfa! My sacred vows…”

She left before he strained himself.

The stable master regretfully explained that the royal mounts were not to leave his direct supervision, per the King’s orders.

The palace chaplain was occupied with the High Cabinet, but his deacon happily offered to pray with her. “It is clear that we mortals of Branham have offended Lord Squall, God of the Sea. Let us kneel at His altar, Your Highness, and pray for His mercy.”

Even the gardens and greenhouse were closed to Hal, “For fear that ruffians will attempt to loot the King’s wholesome greens during this time of crisis, thereby posing a threat.” In her opinion, it was King Ass-hat’s flimsiest excuse yet.

She was free to do needlepoint with the other women of the court. She was welcome to take lessons from the royal dance instructor, the royal music master, the royal painter, or her etiquette coach. She was allowed to waste her time in her own chamber, alone and bored. She had all sorts of options, and she loathed every single one.

She opted to stretch her sore muscles with a yoga routine and then nap.

King Arsenatt and Queen Halfa ate supper with perfect, tranquil manners that evening. They listened patiently as elderly courtiers complained about rheumatism and gout. They left the dining hall arm-in-arm, with every appearance of blissful newlyweds.

The King’s valet and the Queen’s lady’s maid removed the royal outer garments before leaving the King’s chamber. His undergarments were an undyed silk version of boxers and a tee shirt; rs, an ankle-length slip of the same material. Their smiles vanished the moment the door closed behind their servants.

“You are not to risk danger in times of crisis!” Ass-hat started.

“I wouldn’t have had to help evacuate the orphanage if you’d allowed me to get those kids to safety sooner,” she shot back.

“There was no possible way to take your warnings seriously!” he snapped. “Astronomical history and gravitational forces! It sounded like the ramblings of a madwoman.”

“Interestingly, the books documenting the Three Moon Tide were written by men.”

“Since when do women read such obscure histories?” Ass-hat asked. “Every literate woman I’ve ever met reads raunchy romance novels. Except for clerics. Well, maybe clerics, too.”

Hal didn’t think he was correct there, but knew she could never convince him. Instead, she said, “You knew I’d be different. I was educated back on Earth.”

“You’ve had almost a year to shed those otherworldly notions,” Ass-hat replied. “It doesn’t matter what a ‘Political Sciences Major’ did back there. Here, you are the Queen of Branham. Your job is to produce a royal heir. You need to keep your body safe, in case there’s a little prince growing in there.”

Hal glared at him. “We went into this marriage for the wrong reasons,” she said. “You wanted to change me into a compliant walking womb. I wanted to change you into a progressive leader. I’ll never stop wanting to learn, grow, and help others. Will you ever stop wanting to break my spirit?”

The King glowered. “Haven’t your history books warned you? The monarch of Branham is Branham. To go against my wishes is to betray the kingdom.”

“You’d charge me for treason if I refused to shut up and pop out princes?” Hal asked. She hadn’t mentioned her IUD yet and she certainly wasn’t going to bring it up now.

“Make your choice, Queen Halfa Elizadelaine Tommward,” Ass-hat hissed menacingly: “Babies or beheading.”

Hal held her right hand out before her. “I accept your offer, Taliesin.”

In one second, the King’s face slid from a threatening scowl, through a triumphant raise of the eyebrows, to an open-mouthed expression of shock.

Taliesin the sheeling popped into sight, standing on the King’s bed. He was about three feet tall, with an appearance that Hal clocked as a mishmash of “St Patrick’s Day leprechaun caricature” and “grim reaper of ravens.” He shook Hal’s hand with a scaled palm and feathered, talon-tipped fingers.

“All right, Honey-Hal,” Taliesin winked. “Let’s get you out of here.”