Main Page

Reviews

Characters

Items

Magic

Walkthroughs

Fanfics

Miscellaneous

Crimson Memories

Chapter Two: Roses

by Lassarina Aoibhell

Five years earlier

"Your Majesty, are you paying any attention to me?"

Drawn out of his contemplation of the shimmering sand outside his window, Edgar blinked. "Hmm? Oh...uh. Import taxes, right? Well, we can't abolish them..." He stopped when he saw the chamberlain shaking his head. Well, damn. "Uh...the state of the crops?" he offered hopefully.

The chamberlain, Henry, set his sheaf of parchment down in precise alignment with the edge of the table. Edgar braced himself.

"King Edgar, you are now twenty-four years of age," Henry began.

Oh, bloody hell. Not this again.

"It is past time," Henry went on doggedly, despite his sovereign's cold gaze, "that you assured the succession."

"I'm young yet, Henry. And besides, the succession is assured. I do have a twin brother. Convenient that everyone forgets that when some rich noblewoman shows up with an entourage and a dowry," Edgar remarked.

"My lord, your habit of disporting yourself with anything in skirts is embarrassing to the kingdom," Henry said with dignity.

Golden eyebrows rose. "Anything in skirts? Credit me with a bit more taste than that, if you would, Henry." He rose, his green cloak swirling around him. "I don't wish to marry at the present time. Sabin is perfectly capable of assuming the throne should something happen to me. If that's all the business for today, I'll be going."

Bootheels thudded on stone as he stormed down the steps from his office to the bailey. Why was everyone on his case to get married? Women were far too interesting as a species to give them all up and settle to just one. Stuffed shirts...what did they know, anyway?

He flew around the last corner and into the bailey--and right into something firm that went tumbling backwards. He had a brief glimpse of very long, very attractive bare legs before a green skirt fluttered down to cover them.

"Can't you watch where you're--Your Majesty!" The equally attractive owner of that pair of legs scrambled to her feet only to drop into a curtsy.

"We don't stand on formality much here," Edgar began, bowing slightly. "It is I who owe you an apology. I wasn't paying attention to where I was going."

"Indeed you weren't!" she answered tartly, then flushed crimson. "My apologies, Your Majesty. I spoke without thinking."

"Then I command you to continue to do so, Lady...?"

"Siona Bhelin, Your Majesty. But I'm not a lady." She blushed and curtsied again.

"No?" Edgar studied her gown of finely woven green cotton and the marquise-cut emerald pendant at her throat. "Not a peasant, either, I think."

"No, Your Majesty."

"Lady Siona, I do have a name. It is Edgar." He flashed his best smile at her.

"Your--Edgar," she corrected, "I am not a noblewoman."

He leaned back against the stone wall of the east tower. "Doesn't matter to me. This isn't a formal court, my lady. You are more than welcome to speak your mind as it pleases you, and you are welcome--no, I command you--to address me by my given name."

She looked very small and young standing there in the brutal sunlight. "As you wish....Edgar." She had trouble with the unadorned name.

"And what brings you to Figaro, Lady Siona?" he asked, studying her again. Bright green eyes sparkled in a very pale, triangular face. She wasn't from Figaro Desert, then. The harsh suns tanned desert inhabitants to a rich ruddy brown at an early age. She was taller than he'd first thought, but still several inches shorter than he. Her green dress looked as though it had been made to someone else's measure and hastily altered to fit her, although given the way it fit across her torso, he couldn't help but approve. Her body was blessed with generous curves. He forced his gaze back up to the soft golden brown curls that fell around her face, and the high cheekbones that accented her beautiful eyes.

"...traveling with a friend," she was saying. Damn. He'd missed the beginning of what she'd said. "And she's here, so I'm here." A soft pink blush stained her cheeks.

"Your friend's name?" Edgar asked casually.

"Lady Delini Shiran," Siona answered.

Delini Shiran...Delini Shiran. Ah, yes, of course. The most recent young, presumably fertile noblewoman who fancied herself a place on the throne beside him. "Of course," he said politely.

She turned a brighter shade of pink. "If I may...Edgar...Lady Delini requested my presence?" she stammered.

"Of course, my lady." Edgar bowed and watched appreciatively as she ran up the stairs, then headed straight for the conservatory.

"Brian, I want three dozen red roses," he said as he ducked into the moist, warm glass-enclosed room redolent of earth, greenery, and flowers.

"But, Your Majesty, there aren't many flowering--" the Chief (and only) Gardener protested, appearing like magic from the stand of sunflowers to his left.

"Brian, I can see the rosebushes from here," Edgar countered reasonably, pointing at the splashes of red and white halfway across the conservatory.

"Your Majesty, the cook had asked for those for the High Table tonight," Briam mumbled, squirming under Edgar's steady gaze.

"I'm not entirely sure about this, you understand, but I think I might outrank the cook," Edgar mused.

"Yes, Your Majesty, but...well...you might not say that if you'd ever seen him wielding that knife of his," Brian muttered, looking defeated.

Edgar laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, Brian, they're going to a good cause."

Brian cackled and went off to cut the requested roses and strip the thorns from the stems.

Laden with an armful of fragrant crimson blooms, breathing in the sweet heady scent, Edgar left the conservatory and headed for the east tower, where all noble guests and their entourages were quartered. A handful of GP, a wink, and a smile encouraged a maid to tell him which room was Siona's. He spread the roses across the bed and left a brief, simple note on top. I would be honoured if you would join me at the High Table for dinner tonight. He had signed his full name, Edgar Roni Figaro, with his customary flourish, but omitted the title he had held for six years now. He didn't want her to think of him as a king, but as someone she could talk to without being formal, someone to be comfortable with.

He left by the ground-floor exit and crossed the golden sands to his own rooms in the west tower to change for dinner, pausing to stretch and savour the blistering desert heat. Emperor Gestahl and his batshit henchman Kefka could rant and rave about the desert-bound castle all they liked. Edgar prided himself on his ability to keep his people and his lands thriving even in so barren an area as the Figaro Desert.

He took the steps to the west tower two at a time and sauntered into his chamber in great good humour. Matron, who had been his governess when he was a child and now served as a general Keeper of the King's Chambers, greeted him with a frown. "That lawless hoodlum is here to see you, King Edgar," she announced with a disapproving sniff. "I had the seneschal settle him in the library for lack of a better place."

Edgar grinned. He knew of only one "lawless hoodlum" who would even be allowed into the castle without manacles and guards. "Thank you, Matron. If you'll excuse me, I'd like to change for dinner."

She nodded stiffly and departed. Left alone, he hurried to exchange his casual trousers and loose linen shirt for more formal dinner garb. Normally, he wouldn't bother, but he was supposed to be giving a welcome dinner for Lady Delini and her entourage, so he dressed the part.

Far more interesting to him was the news that his contact was here to see him. He changed quickly and headed for the library. The vast room was quiet as always, brown-robed scholars shuffling through the rows of bookcases in search of arcane knowlege. The slight young man lounging in a window seat looked distinctly out of place in his travel-stained pants and sleeveless multi-pocketed vest. He had windswept blond hair haphazardly contained by a dark blue bandanna, and had propped his scarred but sturdy boots on the windowsill. A jeweled dagger flashed and danced between slim fingers, earning him the wide-eyed attention of two servant children released from their lessons and duties. The man glanced up and, for just a moment when his gaze met Edgar's, his eyes held a fierce intelligence and ruthless determination. Then a shutter came down, leaving only the impression of a traveler who was world-weary and abstracted, but still alert.

In a smooth movement, he swung his long legs down and came to his feet with the easy grace of a hunting cat. "Your Majesty." He offered a perfunctory bow.

"Locke." He nodded a greeting. "My office, please." Edgar led the way up to his office, Locke sauntering casually behind him. A few of the maids eyed them, then fell to whispering and giggling in their wake.

Edgar's office had wide windows to draw in any hint of a cooling breeze. Several large sheets of parchment--mostly maps and charts of exchange rates and trade routes--were pinned up on the walls. Massive piles of parchments adorned every flat surface. Some were correspondence, others trade agreements or all the other legal minutiae necessary to run a kingdom. The biggest stack held diagrams, equations, and calculations for a variety of machinery.

Without waiting for an invitation, Locke settled himself on the nearest windowsill. "I hear you're stripping the conservatory of roses for some blushing damoiselle," he remarked cheerfully.

Edgar wasn't particularly surprised that Locke had agents in his household. What he worried about were Imperial spies. "I know you're not here for a social visit, despite my astounding good looks, captivating charm and exceptional wit. Let's cut to the chase, shall we?"

Locke grinned, but the moment of amusement quickly faded. "Kefka's been nosing around in Mobliz, Maranda, and Doma. Maranda has no choice but to bend to the Imperial yoke because Tzen and Albrook lined up to lick Gestahl's arse years ago, and they've finally run out of ways to keep Vector out. Narshe remains staunchly independent, the wine-addled fools in Zozo don't care, and Jidoor clings to the trade that keeps them rolling in gold and tries to keep Gestahl's influence out of their parliament. Nikeah is allied to Gestahl about as securely as you are." Locke affected total innocence. "Interestingly enough, the best quality goods from the most reliable just happen to find their way onto trade ships bound for Doma or South Figaro, the second-rate stuff goes to the independent cities, and the Empire gets the dregs. Of course, with Gestahl's stranglehold on northern trade goods, the merchants turn a better price up north, don't they? And then there's you. How go the improvements to the castle?"

"Well enough." Edgar leaned against his desk and folded his arms. "Listen, Locke, I don't care how many Returner agents have infiltrated my kitchens or otherwise entered my employ, but I need to know if there are any Imperials."

"Second assistant Chocobo keeper, third pastry cook, and the housekeeper's assistant," Locke replied promptly. "I'd have told you sooner, but I've been waiting to confirm our suspicions. The three of them met up in the South Figaro pub last night, conveniently close to a table of traders wearing southern garb, interestingly enough. They were flashing far more Imperial-minted gold than they ought to have, unless you no longer use your own currency to pay servants these days."

"You have proof?" Edgar frowned.

Locke dropped three small leather purses, strings obviously cut, on the desk. They clinked audibly. "Damned if they didn't get so drunk they managed to misplace their wallets," he said with another look of feigned innocence.

Edgar lifted the nearest purse and turned it upside-down. A few dozen gold pieces, each with an Imperial mint-stamp, tumbled onto his desk. "Fascinating," he murmured. "We have a changing-house, of course, but mostly we just use Figaro currency."

"How intriguing." Locke grinned. "I've got to go--oh, yeah, nearly forgot. There's a girl in Lady Delini's entourage--Shanna or something--"

"Siona?" Edgar interrupted.

"Yeah, that's it. She the one you're sending roses to?" Locke winked and barrelled on without waiting for an answer. "Her family's got considerable influence in the mountains between here and Kohlingen. See if you can get her to join us. It'd be very helpful to have the mountain folk's support in case Kohlingen decides to roll over and play dead on Gestahl's whim." Locke's expression twisted to match his sardonic tone. "I've got to go. I hear something's up down south."

"Good luck," Edgar said. The two men shook hands, and then the thief--no, treasure hunter--slipped out of the room. There was no trace of him by the time Edgar stepped into the hallway and closed the door.

Locke's news was troubling, but political implications could wait. With a sunny smile, he strolled down to dinner.

~*~

Author's Notes: Well, that's Chapter Two. Chapter Three is coming, so stay tuned!

Chapter List