The Last Empress: A Jordinia Prequel Novella, page 1
JORDINIA SERIES
The Last Empress
The Duchess Quest
The Duchess Inheritance
The Duchess’s Descendants
The Emperor’s Daughters (Coming Soon)
WORLD OF JORDINIA NOVELS
The Red Pearl
The Wrong Prince
AMERICAN PIRATE ROMANCES
Capturing the Captain
Commanding His Heart (Coming Soon)
MORE BOOKS
Secrets of Artemis
Heiress Heist
Fool Moon (Novella)
The Golden Dove (Novella)
Deepwood: A Haunting (Novelette)
Elphame Realms E-Zine: Issue #1
MORE BOOKS COMING SOON!
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual events or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The Last Empress. Copyright © 2017 by C.K. Brooke, www.CKBrooke.com.
Excerpt from The Duchess Quest, Jordinia: Book I by C.K. Brooke. Copyright © 2014 by C.K. Brooke.
Cover design by Amanda Matthews of www.amdesignstudios.net. Interior Book Design by Break Through Author, http://www.breakthroughauthor.com.
All rights reserved including the right to manufacture in any format, sell, or distribute copies of this book or portions of this book.
For Mrs. Stanton & Mrs. McCabe
Moon 3, Day 16, Year 730 of the Ducelle Empire (D.E.)
Gatspierre Manor, Witham
Jordinia
Today is my birthday, and the most unforgettable day of my life. I can barely contain my joy! The whole manor is celebrating late into the night as I write. It has happened. Just as we always prayed it would.
I have been selected to marry the Grand Duke, Dane Ducelle, heir to Jordinia’s empire.
I am to become empress!
My father, Earl of Witham, is overcome. Our uncles, aunts and cousins came as soon as the news was announced in the village square. I’ve lost count of the wine bottles and toasts, the glasses smashed on the dining room tiles, the pairs of lips pressed to my cheek. My brother Hessian kept his arm around me in pride. And even my mother managed not to look too disapproving.
Of the many birthday gifts I received, Uncle Barnard gave me this handsome book, bound in red leather. Mother would admonish me wasting fine parchment on my personal musings, but I can think of no other use for it. So many thoughts froth within me, and I’ve got to express them somehow.
That’s why I write in Old Jordinian. I wouldn’t want anyone who finds this to readily cipher it. There are few who can still speak, let alone read, the arcane language.
Of course, I am a humble exception. From the hour I was born, on this day eighteen years ago, my breeding awarded me the royal family’s preferred candidacy for their only son. And ever since, I’ve been cultivated for the throne, with lessons in everything from dance and etiquette to literacy and penmanship.
Her Imperial Majesty (God rest her; I pause here to circle my brow) passed away when I was small, and the good people of Jordinia haven’t seen an empress in more than a decade. With the widowed emperor now ailing—arthritic maladies, I hear—it pains him greatly to move and work. Forgive my disrespect, but it’s been whispered that, some days, he cannot even hold a quill to sign his name. So, it has become common knowledge that his son shall soon ascend, to mercifully relieve his poor father.
According to the letter we received, the Grand Duke wishes to accept the crown alongside a consort—in effect, to become emperor with an empress. I’m therefore summoned to court, to the Royal Palace in our great capital of Pierma, to meet my betrothed.
Shall I say I’m giddy, thankful or still in shock? In truth, I am all of these things, in spite of Mother’s warnings. For, just before retiring, she came to my bedchamber. Like a fool, I’d thought she was there to congratulate me. Alas, it was only to offer her wisdom (or rather, her pessimism).
“Néandra,” she said to me, her plump figure a shadow in my doorframe. “I know this must be exciting for you. You are privileged to live every lady’s dream.”
A smile swelled between my lips.
“But,” her expression remained even, “you know this is a serious vocation. The most serious and difficult in all the world. And lately… Well, I’ve wondered whether a girl of your disposition is up for such a role.”
Out of politeness, I retained my smile. “My disposition?” I sought clarity.
She looked tired in the candlelight with uncomely pockets beneath her eyes. “Your naivety, Néandra. Your…” she searched for a word, and decided on, “childishness.”
I hoped she didn’t see me flinch.
“Understand,” she pressed, “that in spite of appearances, life isn’t always a fairy tale.”
My chamber felt cold. There’s often a crisp insensitivity to Mother’s statements, which she seems to believe are helpful and practical. She may not realize it, but her greatest talent is to sober others’ joy, like draining the colors out of the rainbow until it’s but a lifeless gray arch, not worth anyone’s notice.
And yet, all I’ve been raised to do is incline my head. A daughter must always respect her parents. “Thank you, Mother. It is as you say.”
Moon 5, Day 3, 730 D.E.
The Royal Palace, Pierma
Jordinia
I’m here!
How to describe my spectacular surroundings? The palace makes my father’s manor look like a cottage. Indeed, when I first arrived, I felt more like a farmer’s daughter than an earl’s.
My carriage rolled up the stone drive the day before yesterday. The weather was bright and breezy, the air heady with moist soil and the scent of fresh flowers. The Royal Palace sits atop a hill at the center of the capital, its massive lawns spanning acres, overlooking the bustling city beneath it. Groundskeepers cultivate countless gardens and courtyards, with a goat or two grazing to keep the grasses in check. I thought we had a sizable staff at Gatspierre Manor…it seems the palace staff could populate a small village!
Originally built two-and-a-half centuries ago, the Royal Palace is three hundred meters and four stories of white stucco. In the sunlight, it glitters like pearls. Peaks of granite leafing adorn the outer windows, and I’m told there are two thousand windows and seventeen hundred doors. Of course, I know because I’ve read about it all my life. But reading is quite different from being here in the flesh.
Already, I am treated like royalty. Footmen handled my separate carriage of luggage, and the kindest maidservants bowed and introduced me to my ladies-in-wait. Delilah and Bethany are easily my favorites, both my age, and full of giggles. The older maids scold them, but it only makes me like them more.
After breakfast yesterday, I was given the grand tour. Most impressive was the magnificent mirrored hall. What a sight, to see hundreds of myself treading over the white-and-gold ceramic floor. I don’t much like my reflection; it always seems to portray a stouter, curvier maiden than I fancy myself (although my cousin Rana insists my shape is in vogue). But whoever designed the hall must’ve had a fabulous imagination, for one can walk into it alone, yet appear perfectly surrounded by a welcoming crowd.
The guards seemed not to be paying attention, so I did a twirl. Hundreds of creamy off-white dresses splayed out in unison. I bowed, and all my little dancers bowed too. I tittered, and so did they. For a moment, I pretended they were my citizens. I waved a most dignified wave, and they waved back, mouse brown hair falling over their shoulders, a roomful of green eyes winking across at me, like tiny trees in a twilit forest.
The engagement ball shall take place tonight, where I’ll be formally introduced to His Majesty, Emperor Dane III, and His Royal Highness, Dane IV—my betrothed. I’m so nervous, I’ve bitten off my fingernails and Miss Gretchen shall have to work double-time to groom my hands before the party.
Speaking of which, I suppose it’s time to tuck this diary away and further my acquaintance with my quarters. Each day I discover something new, like a hidden shelf in the wardrobe, or the bell on a string beside the marble washtub, in case I’m bathing alone and must summon help.
I pray tonight goes smoothly, and that the Grand Duke likes me. Oh, Eternal God, be it in Your will, grant me his approval.
Moon 5, Day 4, 730 D.E.
I was much too tired to record the details of the ball last night. But I’ve indulged in a full night’s sleep and have a peaceful moment now to write. It was the first engagement I’d ever attended, and my first ball at the Royal Palace, of course. My ladies helped me dress. We chose a frock-style gown, pleated and dyed a pale, pastel teal—a hint of the wedding to come, when the bride wears green for fertility and luck.
They towered up my hair into an elegant style and fastened no jewels but simple pearls on my ears. Tessa said a necklace would detract from my complexion, which we wanted to showcase. My wrists were left bare for the nuptial bracelet His Royal Highness would, God willing, offer upon finding me suitable.
Making my official entrance downstairs, where crystal chandeliers lit the ballroom, I tried to remember my lessons, the voice of my etiquette instructor: “Just ignore everyone watching you,” Madame Kern used to advise me, “and float across the floor, light on your feet, like a little daffodil.”
Wearing a mild expression, I did not walk or trudge or leap. I glided. I mingled with the other ladies, keeping my voice soft and even, as trained since girlhood, with every “How do you do?” and “Charmed, I’m sure.”
When the announcer presented the emperor and his son, my reverence overflowed so that I did not curtsey or genuflect, but bowed prostrate at my sovereigns’ feet. The old emperor permitted me to rise. He took my hand and kissed it. He is a large man, strongly-built, but with crumpled-looking hands, and hunched shoulders in his ailment.
In the next moment, the violins swelled and harps cooed, but I could barely make out the cadence of the music. My mind was overcome as His Majesty stepped aside, introducing me to the young man behind him.
“…daughter of the Earl of Witham, Lady Néandra Konina Gatspierre,” the emperor finished presenting me. “My lady,” he inclined his graying head, “I introduce my son, Dane Eduardo Varnhardt Ducelle IV, Grand Duke of Jordinia.”
I dipped into a low curtsey, a swan folding her neck beneath her wing, my nose almost sweeping the sparkling floor. When I rose, I met two midnight eyes, squared shoulders, neatly trimmed black hair…and no trace of a smile.
My future husband nodded curtly. He said not a word to me until later in the evening, at the allotted time for him to present me with a double-banded, gold and ruby-studded nuptial bracelet before our audience.
My voice, timid though it was, resounded through the ballroom when I told him, “I accept,” and the guests broke into a thunderstorm of applause. (I was sorry to see so many fine crystal glasses smashed in cheer. The poor servants must’ve spent all evening sweeping up the shards.)
My fiancé and I did not dance. We did not touch. Apart from the proposal, we did not speak.
He hardly even looked at me.
Moon 6, Day 19, 730 D.E.
How busy we’ve been since the engagement ball, preparing for the royal wedding. Of course, my ladies wish for me not to fuss. But how can I relax? I have an opinion on the flower arrangements, preferring pink lilies to white ones. As well, we couldn’t seem to get the train of my gown right. We finally decided on a removable train, which they will take away when my time comes to dance with the groom.
It sounds childish, but I’m most looking forward to seeing my family again. I know I’ve been gone only a moon, but already, I miss them. Father and his infectious laughter, his and my brother Hessian’s lengthy discussions about finances and the horse trade, even Mother’s stern looks. They’ll all be attending, along with our relatives.
The date has been set to the first of the next moon, with the coronation to follow exactly one moon after. With all the kerfuffle about the palace, I haven’t even had a chance to visit downtown Pierma. All in due time, for I suppose I’ll be here the rest of my days. Aye, I shall be blessed with many more years to explore our capital.
I love the royal staff, have I mentioned? Whether preparing my meals, serving my wine, combing my hair or drawing my bath, they are the pinnacle of charity and class. I have only good words to share about them. Either they are saints and treat everyone so well, or my admiration of them just might be reciprocated. After all, it’s been many years since an empress last walked these corridors, and I wonder if the palace hasn’t been lonesome for a woman’s touch.
Whatever the cause, though I’ve not yet been wed or crowned, I already feel adored here.
Mother warned that life isn’t always a fairy tale. But now, as I write at the open window, my legs curled beneath my gown on the cushioned ledge beneath me, mine certainly feels like one.
Moon 7, Day 3, 730 D.E.
I write with a new name. Two days ago, the Grand Duke and I were wed. I am no longer a Gatspierre, but Her Royal Highness Néandra Konina Ducelle. (That’s the first time I’ve written it all out by hand. The runes look surreal together.)
The day started early, in a cool bath with carnation petals, and my maids silently dressed me after. I was thankful for their silence, as it felt like a stone was lodged in my throat. My arms trembled as I pushed them through the green sleeves of my gown.
Scores of carriages drove the royal wedding party and our distinguished guests into the city, to the cathedral. The citizens genuflected and tossed lilies after us as we passed, then clamored outside the grand cathedral’s stained glass windows for a glimpse at the ceremony indoors.
I stood across from the Grand Duke as the priest delivered the litany in Old Jordinian. To soothe my nerves, I ran the translations in my head. I didn’t look at the groom. He didn’t look at me.
Not until my nuptial bracelet was blessed, and my womb, then our two hearts as one, and we were permitted to kiss, did he finally acknowledge his bride.
I thought I would shrivel up right there. In his royal blue suit, strapped with medals of his rank, Dane Ducelle IV stood rigid for a full four seconds before our families and the whole country. I counted each of those seconds, praying for God’s mercy.
And then, he stepped in, took the back of my neck in a stiff, smooth-fingered hand, and kissed me on the mouth.
It was dry. It was quick. It was over before I had a chance to close my eyes.
And so, we are man and wife.
After the ceremony, we returned to the palace for the festivities. Though my new husband had few words to speak to me, he sang like a bard. We danced, and he joined the musicians in song, the quality of his robust voice deep and layered and rich, like chocolate truffle. I couldn’t believe my ears. Singing was never my strong suit. How disappointed shall he be when he discovers his bride cannot carry a tune!
There was merrymaking, so many embraces and gifts, congratulations and curtseys, and hundreds of faces. Even my mother had a tear in her eye. The celebration lasted all day and well into the afternoon.
By dusk, I was discreetly summoned out of the ballroom, and my maids escorted me to the groom’s chambers. And…well, perhaps there are some things I cannot copy into this diary, even if I am writing in Old Jordinian.
Moon 7, Day 22, 730 D.E.
I’m pleased to inform that I’ve been making friends. Not just with the staff, but with the noblewomen who’ve become my fast companions, ever since the post-wedding tea party I orchestrated. Now that I’m a woman wed, I can mingle with other wives, who are all keen to give me advice.
Don’t correct your husband’s writing, even if he asks you to.
Beware if he wakes up with no appetite.
If you wish to rearrange the furniture, wait until he’s away hunting or on duty, and do it while he’s gone.
I listen. Apart from the single encounter on my wedding night, I know nothing of men. In fact, I’ve not seen my husband since then. I have my own quarters, and he has his. Perhaps, in time, we will share.
I’d hoped my wedding night hadn’t been in vain, and that it had produced an heir. But my blood of the moon arrived yesterday. I feel forlorn. Though I dread the physical rigor of trying again, I know it is my duty.
Miss Gretchen, Tessa, Delilah and Bethany assure me there’s plenty of time. I oughtn’t to be discouraged. But if my husband does not invite me to share his bed again, how can I prove myself worthy?
Moon 8, Day 1, 730 D.E.
Midnight approaches. I write by candlelight as shadows flicker across the page. It’s one of those nights where I’m so enwrapped in the day’s events, I cannot sleep. I must remain awake to ponder and record them here so that I won’t forget.
The coronation happened today. On palace grounds, before the eyes of the civilians and all the nobles and guards, my husband and I were crowned Emperor and Empress of Jordinia. Dane III, my father-in-law, no longer reigning, lowered the ancient crown of heavy gold over his son’s head, and his late wife’s silver-white tiara over mine.
