The Queen’s Councillor – Patreon Post

This piece was written to K.C.O’Brian’s prompt on my “Write something short, Lyn” prompt call here. It is set in my Tír na Cali setting; read more about Cali here.

It is a beginning, not a complete story.  You can always commission more of any story if it piques your interest!

This is set in a previous generation of Tír na Cali. 

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Nobody knew where he had come from, and among the Queen’s courtiers, this was a strange and unheard-of occurrence. He was tall, like an American, fair and freckled, like a Californian, polite and brilliant, like a politician. He sat by the Queen’s side in meetings of state and he spoke, quietly, and only when he was asked to. He, it was said, counselled Her Majesty on all matters.

He wore no collar and no ring, he claimed no title, and he acknowledged no mother’s name. He was called only Peter, in a land where almost everyone waved long names like flags displaying their wealth and their lineage. He claimed no honors at all, except Queen’s Councilor, which was a position that had not, until that day, existed.

He had been here for months, but now, every whisper and every rumor was coming up again, louder, barely hidden.

“They say that the man speaks through the Queen, now, and that the Queen herself is no longer in charge of her own opinions. They say he chooses even what she wears.”

“It can’t be, can it? Telling the Queen what to do?”

“We’re going to see now, won’t we?”

Nobles and rich commoners, officials and their Consorts and Companions, all gathered to see the presentation to the Queen. A Duchess had a son of the proper age, and he had, when the Queen and he had chanced to encounter each other at Vernal Equinox, deported himself well. Now, the young man walked down the aisle of courtiers, his head held high, seemingly oblivious to the whispers.

He wore a jacket of luscious ruby red, black trousers cut tight to his legs, and a tie of silk with a peacock pattern emblazoned on it. It should have looked garish. It looked lovely.

His eyes locked with the Queen’s, even as he knelt before her, even as he murmured words of ritual submission, offering himself to his liege.

The room held its breath. He was handsome, well-spoken. He was, said his classmates, brilliant; his trainers at the Agency had nothing but good words for him. The Queen could seek no better Consort, not in all of California.

The Queen was watching the young man. Everyone else was watching Peter. Everyone else saw the moment the Queen’s Councillor shook his head.

“Not this one” was all he said.

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