Page 20 of Kingdom of Feathers

She pulled out her slate, but it was clear that no one was paying her attention. In growing frustration, she actually waved her hand above her head, like a child asking permission to speak. Still no one even glanced at her. When rapping the polished table sharply with her knuckles failed to cut through the general hubbub, she clapped. Nothing. Her mother was watching her father with anxious eyes, and the king was listening seriously to the general, who was continuing to argue his case over the top of the heated voices of the council.

Irritation swelled within Wren. Her father was determined to make her give an opinion about the report of the blacksmiths, on which topic she could offer nothing of value. But when she had something she desperately wanted to say, he forgot her existence entirely.

Lifting her slate, Wren set her fingertips against it. Dragging them slowly and with all the pressure she could muster, she scraped her nails along the whole length of the slate. The horrible screeching cut through all the noise, and even the stalwart general winced slightly. Some of the lords actually covered their ears as they turned to look indignantly toward the princess.

“Wren!” chastised the king, who looked like it had cost him all his kingly control not to cringe at the sound.

Wren ignored the admonishment, snatching up the slate to write one clear word, the two letters sprawled in such large script that they took up the entire surface.

NO

“No what?” King Lloyd demanded, when she held the slate aloft.

One of the lords cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, I believe the princess intends by her message to give an opinion on the proposed invasion.”

Wren nodded emphatically. To her great annoyance, she saw many of those present exchange amused glances.

“Well,” said King Lloyd, clearly a little taken aback. “You are of course welcome to express an opinion, Wren. However, in military matters, it is the advice of my general which—”

The king stopped speaking as Wren pushed her way out from her chair, moving with agitated strides to her father’s side. She rubbed the slate clean with her sleeve and scribbled hurriedly on it again, this message intended for the king alone.

For years you’ve been pressing me to become involved in matters of state. Are you going to dismiss me when I do, because you don’t like what I’m saying?

The whole room had paused while she wrote, and she could feel her father’s impatience, as well as the habitual embarrassment that always leaked out when he was forced to communicate with her in this way in public. Wren disregarded both the council members and her father, determined to say her piece for once. When she finally finished, the king let out a frustrated breath.

“Of course I’m not going to dismiss your opinions, Wren,” he said quietly. “I’m pleased to know youhavethem.”

Wren was aware of the avid interest of the watching council members, but she ignored them once again, focusing all her attention on her father. She usually avoided writing multi-sentence messages. It was too tedious. But this occasion warranted it.

Is this who we are? A kingdom who invades its neighbors when they’re burying their monarch?

“Wren,” sighed the king, barely patient enough to wait for her to finish scratching out the words. “We’re speaking of Entolia.”

Scowling, Wren bent back over her slate. She wrote furiously, but it still seemed to take an age for the words to get from her mind onto the surface.

I haven’t forgotten what they’ve done. I haven’t forgiven them, and I’m not asking you to, either. But the prince is barely older than I am. He was a child at the time. Will you exploit his grief over losing his father?

She looked up and met her father’s eye before adding a final question.

Have you forgotten your own state six years ago—my state?

King Lloyd had stilled as she wrote, for once showing no impatience, even though it was such a long message, it filled the entire slate. When he’d read it all, his gaze passed from the words to his daughter’s face, and a familiar shadow of pain flitted across his features before he could suppress it.

“I will never forget it,” he said quietly.

“Perhaps the princess forgets,” the general interjected gruffly, “that it was the Entolians who inflicted the losses to which I assume she refers.”

Wren started at the unexpectedly close voice. Clearly the general hadn’t read the whole message. She sent him a hard look. She wasn’t likely to forget any detail of that day’s events. It was only thanks to her recollection that they’d had any inkling of the Entolians’ involvement in the attack on her brothers.

“This is no time for sentiment and compassion,” barked Lord Kinley. “This may be our only opportunity to—”

“I, for one, am not in the habit of seeing a death as an opportunity,” interrupted Queen Liana, speaking for the first time. Her voice was cool, and she stood, placing herself alongside her daughter. “Nor do I generally hear compassion spoken of as a failing.”

The nobleman fell silent, although he looked slightly resentful.

King Lloyd didn’t answer for a long, thoughtful moment, but when he spoke, his voice was decisive. “This is not a time for rash action, military or otherwise. We will send our condolences to the royal family, and consider how best to open negotiations with the new king.”

Wren let out a long breath. She wasn’t sure what astonished her more—that she’d spoken up in a council meeting, or that her father had actually listened to her. Over the general! She snuck a look at the military commander and saw that he looked less than pleased.

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