Scholar of the Crown Read online

  Scholar of the Crown

  The Heirs of Willow North, Book Three

  Melissa McShane

  Copyright © 2021 by Melissa McShane

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any way whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Jay R. Villalobos www.coversbyjuan.com

  North sign and shield designed by Erin Dinnell Bjorn

  Dedicated to Elizabeth “Tish” Simone,

  who taught me how deep a love of reading can run

  Contents

  The Scholia and the Tremontanan Calendar

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Melissa McShane

  The Scholia and the Tremontanan Calendar

  The Scholia in the year 807 Year of the Binding (Y.B.), when this story takes place, is a sprawling campus located two days’ travel south of Tremontane’s capital, Aurilien. It comprises fourteen main buildings in addition to its many stables and other outbuildings. The main buildings are as follows:

  Godfrey Hall: Administration

  Merriwether Hall: History and Philosophy schools

  Richfield Hall: Math and Natural Philosophy (science) schools

  Covington Hall: Literature and Linguistics schools, as well as the Scholia infirmary

  Saunders Hall: Architectonics and Devisery schools

  Lyton Hall: Law and Library Sciences schools

  Four dormitories: Patience, Honor (women); Fortitude, Temperance (men)

  Two instructor residences: Justice and Mercy

  A refectory

  The bethel

  * * *

  The Tremontanan calendar is made up of four seasons, each ninety days long, with four extra holidays corresponding to the solstices and equinoxes (Wintersmeet, Springtide, Midsummer, and Harvest). Each season is fifteen six-day weeks long.

  Originally, the six days were named for six of the minor lost gods, but in later times (beginning around 775 Y.B.) the days came to be referred to simply as Firstday, Secondday, etc. The exceptions are the third day of the week, called Haransday in honor of the traditional day when Haran received her revelation about ungoverned heaven, and the sixth day, known as Endweek.

  1

  Veronica stood in the hall outside the east wing drawing room and listened to the Queen of Tremontane argue with her Consort. Eavesdropping wasn’t something she’d planned on, but she had come back from an early morning ride to find the argument going strong, and interrupting other people’s conflicts had never been something she was good at.

  She didn’t bother trying not to listen, pretending to stare at the walls reflecting on whether the wallpaper needed replacing. She already knew the subject of the argument and how it would end. Elspeth and Duncan had said everything that needed saying a dozen times in the last week. But love expressed itself in so many ways, and the sound of two people trying to sacrifice for each other could be loud and acrimonious. And Veronica knew intimately the pain they both suffered, though it had been…sweet heaven, almost thirty years since she had been in their position? Her memories no longer stung, but she remembered.

  “This isn’t over. We have options,” Elspeth was saying.

  “Only one option. It’s the obvious one,” Duncan replied. His voice was strained, as if he was suppressing a shout.

  “I am not divorcing you,” Elspeth said, her voice equally strained. “I haven’t given up, and neither should you.”

  “Two years without conceiving is beyond what my faith will bear.” Duncan’s voice was louder now. “Dr. Ambrose was clear. You just want to believe in a miracle.”

  Elspeth’s words cut across his. “Is that a slur on my faith?”

  “Damn it—” The shout escaped Duncan finally. “You know it isn’t,” he said, more quietly if not more calmly. “This isn’t about religion, it’s about practicality. I can’t have children.”

  “What Dr. Ambrose said, if you’ll recall,” Elspeth said, biting off each word precisely, “is that your fertility is low, and it’s going to take time.”

  “Time the Council—the country—isn’t likely to give us. Elspeth. I feel like less of a man already. Let me do this.”

  “This has nothing to do with your manhood unless you decide it does!” Elspeth’s voice, never shrill, rose sharply. “Duncan, two years isn’t so long.”

  Duncan let out a short, bitter laugh. “Tell that to everyone who whispers where they think we can’t hear. Tell it to the people who think it’s hilarious to joke about whether we know what it takes to get a child.”

  “Those people are idiots, and not worth listening to. You told me never to let rumor rule my life.”

  “I’m having trouble remembering that.”

  There was a pause. Then Elspeth said, “Adoption—”

  “Elspeth!”

  “There’s nothing wrong with adopting. Heaven looks kindly on those who embrace children who need a family.”

  “The implications of adopting the heir to the Crown are beyond fraught. You ought to know that.”

  “Worse than a foreign-born woman dedicated to a religious life taking the Crown? Tremontane will endure, Duncan. I think we should consider it. And I haven’t given up hope that I’ll bear your child.”

  Duncan sighed. “I could leave, you know.”

  “You wouldn’t do that.” Elspeth’s voice shook.

  “No, heaven help me. It would break my heart to leave you.”

  Silence again. Veronica realized she could have left the east wing instead of eavesdropping, and wondered what hidden motive had kept her rooted to the spot, listening to her niece’s pain. Then Duncan said, “I should change my clothes. High court is in an hour.”

  “I don’t know if I can bear listening to cases when my personal life is in turmoil.” Elspeth’s voice was quieter now, as if she were moving away.

  “We don’t have personal lives, Elspeth.” Duncan’s footsteps sounded on the parquet floor, gradually fading.

  Veronica waited half a minute before walking forward into the drawing room. She came up short as Elspeth looked up from where she had been staring into the enormous fire in its hearth of polished river stones. Elspeth’s eyes were red, her cheeks flushed, and between that and her red hair she looked scorched. “I heard the door open,” she said. “I’m sorry you heard that.”

  “I apologize for violating your privacy,” Veronica said, and instantly regretted her excessive formality. She never felt capable of offering comfort in a way grieving people would appreciate. The best she could ever do was listen awkwardly and maybe offer a pat on the shoulder. Hugs made her uncomforta
ble.

  Elspeth waved a hand dismissively. “You already know what’s happened. We haven’t been discreet. I just…for Duncan’s sake…you probably heard how sensitive he is about it.”

  “Men and women handle infertility differently,” Veronica said.

  “Yes, and I can’t convince him it doesn’t matter. To me, I mean. Not when he knows how much it matters to Tremontane that we’ve had trouble conceiving. He blames himself.” She laughed, one short, brittle hah. “I suppose he’s right in a literal sense, but it’s not as if he chose this…problem.”

  Veronica nodded. “I understand. I told your Uncle Landon he should divorce me when it turned out I couldn’t have more than one child. The North family had such a fragile grip on the Crown, and I thought he, as King, needed a dozen heirs.”

  Elspeth sat in the nearest overstuffed chair, her eyes on Veronica. “I’d forgotten that. And he refused, because he loved you.”

  “He did.” She hadn’t realized he actually loved her until that night. The memory made her heart constrict. “Duncan just needs time. I take it there was no healing Dr. Ambrose could perform?”

  “She said it was beyond the scope of magical healing. I love him, Aunt Veronica. I’d rather see the Crown pass from the Norths entirely than give him up.” Elspeth rubbed tears from her eyes. “But I know it won’t come to that. I have to believe we’ll find a solution.”

  Veronica nodded, not meeting Elspeth’s eyes. Her niece’s religious faith had never made sense to her, given that heaven had never paid the least bit of attention to any of Veronica’s pleas. It had taken Landon in such a horrible fashion, and then her son Francis had died of influenza despite the groove Veronica’s knees had worn in her floor, praying.

  “There’s always adoption,” she said. “There must be hundreds of children with no parents in Aurilien alone, not to mention the rest of the country.”

  Elspeth let out a deep sigh. “But how many of them have no family bond at all? Duncan is right that adopting an heir is complicated.” She rose. “It’s a busy day, so I’ll see you at supper, yes?”

  How busy a day, Elspeth had obviously forgotten. Well, it wasn’t as if the fifty-second day of Summer meant anything to anyone but Veronica now. “You’ll find a solution,” she said, and for a moment she actually believed it.

  She went straight to her bedroom suite and stripped off her riding clothes as steaming water poured into the enormous claw-footed tub. She had had these rooms since Landon’s death, because she couldn’t bear sleeping in their big bed alone. The bathroom’s pale yellow walls were a nice contrast to the cornflower blue tiles, and although she hadn’t chosen the décor, she felt it suited her.

  She sank into the hot water and let her mind drift. Memories rose unbidden from where Time had stowed them. Five years ago today… Landon had still been alive, and they’d celebrated her birthday with a picnic in the royal family’s private garden, just the two of them. He’d given her a silver ring set with polished amber and teased her about having plebeian tastes in stones. “Not even a stone,” he’d said, “hardened tree blood!” But she loved the warmth of amber and the way it felt when she touched it, and Landon knew that. She’d put away her wedding band a year after his death, but she’d never stopped wearing her birthday ring.

  She scrubbed herself clean, rinsed off, and stepped onto the mat to rub away the remaining water. Movement caught her eye, and she realized it was her reflection in the full-length mirror that had also not been of her choosing. Unlike the walls, she didn’t care for it, didn’t like having it in the bathroom instead of the dressing room, but it was set into the wall and removing it was a non-trivial task.

  Now she walked across the wet tiles to examine herself. Too thin, she thought, and chided herself mentally. That was a criticism that only made sense in comparison to others, and comparing was a fool’s game. Instead, she looked more closely at her face, at the fine lines clustered at the corners of her hazel eyes and the faint, almost imperceptible pale brown splotches on her cheekbones, and wondered when she’d started getting old. Surely she wasn’t more than twenty-two, at least in her heart? But today was her fiftieth birthday, and if that wasn’t a landmark, she didn’t know what was.

  Her hair was a lighter blonde than it used to be, something others usually put down to either sun or artifice. Veronica never told anyone it was a profusion of white hairs. She’d made a fuss out of finding the first one, years ago, and Landon had said—what was it? That vanity would be her downfall, and white hair was dignified. Then he’d kissed her, and she’d never plucked another white hair again.

  She cast another look at her body, feeling she was doing penance for some unnamed sin, and went to the dressing room to find something to wear. She had two maids, but although she’d called on Mary as usual that morning to bring her breakfast, she didn’t want to summon Iris to help her dress now. Iris might divine the importance of the day and comment on it, and Veronica felt a sudden desire to make it through the day without celebrating.

  Though… Her hands slowed in buttoning her high-waisted, narrow-skirted gown, made of a soft cotton printed with pansies in a faded lavender not at all like the vibrant, real flower. It wasn’t as if she had plans. She helped in the paupers’ hospital every morning and didn’t see any reason to skip that just because it was her birthday. She was to have lunch with friends, or at least acquaintances, and in the afternoon there was the dog breeders’ show she’d agreed to judge, as if she knew anything about dogs beyond the obvious. And supper with Elspeth and Duncan, of course. But those were appointments. It surprised her to discover that with the exception of supper, she had no desire to fulfil any of them.

  Veronica sat slowly on the edge of her bed, her hands falling to her side with the neck of her gown still open. They were all good and meaningful pursuits, but were they what she wanted to do? Did she even know what she wanted? Confusion, and fear, rose up within her, followed closely by anger. She was the former Consort—she refused to think of herself as a Dowager—with resources and connections anyone might envy, and here she was sitting in her bedchamber feeling sorry for herself because…she wasn’t even sure where this feeling had come from.

  Frustrated, she rose and paced the length of the room, buttoning her gown with shaking hands. She didn’t know what she wanted. She did know she was tired of this rut she had fallen into since Landon’s death, drifting from one worthy cause to another, smiling and nodding and being polite because being assertive made her feel uncomfortable.

  She and Landon had complemented each other. Left to his own devices, Landon had been brash, outspoken, loud, and verging on boorish. Veronica had been a steadying influence on him, an anchor that reminded him he didn’t need to behave badly to conceal how anxious he always was in company. And Veronica might be silent, withdrawn, and unable to carry a conversation with strangers, but Landon’s warm presence had comforted her and given her the courage to speak. They’d needed each other, and now Landon was gone and Veronica had retreated. Not all the way, she had good manners and knew how to interact with others, but she had very few friends and no one she was truly close to but Elspeth.

  She hadn’t always been this way. Before meeting Landon and being swept away by him, back when she was Lady Veronica Chastain, she’d had a path and a goal. She’d been a Scholia student, intent on taking the robe of a Master, and she’d been confident in academic circles as she hadn’t been in society. Veronica restlessly moved some things on her dressing table without seeing them. Those years at the Scholia were so distant it was as if they’d happened to someone else.

  She realized she’d stacked several flat-topped pots of rarely-used cosmetics into a pyramid. Building things. She’d loved building things since she was a child, making extraordinary constructions of wooden blocks or books or her mother’s hatboxes. The act of creating, the moment when you set one block atop the other, the act that held contained within it the distant moment when the last block was laid, was like nothing in the wor
ld. She’d given it up because Landon, as Crown Prince and then as King, had had too many demands on his time that spilled over onto his Consort, and studying at the Scholia was incompatible with that. But she’d never lost the passion.

  She pulled a pot from the base of the pyramid, making the rest tumble into a pile. A strange new thought grew within her, one she didn’t dare look too closely at for fear it might turn out to be stupid. Instead, she let other thoughts circle around it. Why shouldn’t she make a change? Her usual occupations were worthy, yes, but anyone might help at the hospital or judge a dog show. And she had wealth settled on her by her parents, and the remains of Landon’s personal fortune, so she could afford to do almost anything she wanted.

  And if what she wanted was to return to the Scholia, who would tell her no?

  Her hands automatically tidied the dressing table as more thoughts sleeted through her brain. She had completed three years of a five-year course of study when she left. It was possible the Scholia Masters might make her start over, but some of her knowledge had to apply still. On the other hand, it had been…she counted mentally…twenty-eight years since then, and maybe that was too long to try to pick up where she’d left off.

  Fifty years old. She’d be the oldest student there. Discouragement set in, and her hands stilled in the act of replacing her hairbrush. The oldest student, and likely the most famous—she shuddered at the thought of being conspicuous among all those young faces. Suppose the Masters didn’t take her seriously? Or worse, suppose they treated her with servility because of her rank?