The Gypsy Queen (12 page)

freedom lies before us

but the
unknown looks so fine

when you wake up
as a gypsy

turning water into wine

The fool finished with a flourish, and
Yana
stood up to cheer him, as the rest of the people in the great hall did with her. It was an old poem, a song that Lyubov had taught her. She even mouthed some of the words in amazement along with the young boy, stunned to hear this poem recited in the King’s courts!

 
Yana
gripped Bastion’s hand for just a moment, and then arose by herself, walking directly into the open area, to greet this ‘fool’. When she got to him, she realized for a moment that she was very much the center of attention. Instead of speaking, she almost broke into laughter. The fool’s hat was even more ridiculous up close. But this was no fool,
Yana
figured.

  She put her hand on one hip, just so. The fool mimicked her and put his hand on his hip as well.
Yana
put her other hand out in front of her. The fool did the same. I knew it, she thought. She looked over to the musicians, and the fool did as well, both urging them to play, with their outstretched hands.

  The beat began, and so did
Yana
. Bastion looked on, as did the entire crowd.
Yana
had always been beautiful, but never more so than tonight, he thought. It seemed that he could feel her every twist and turn, even from where he sat. It was like when he had smoke
d with her at the gypsy camp
... he could feel her energy distinctly. He touched his hand to his chest, to the scar he had received the night she fou
nd him as a child. It
pulse
d
lightly,
his heartbeat in a cadence even
faster than the drums that played as they danced.
Yana
w
as so lovely in the palace dress;
he never would have pictured
it
, as he had only seen her in fields and forests.

 
Yana
danced in unison with the fool, just as she suspected, and he danced well. It was a gypsy dance, and there could not be any doubt- this ‘fool’
,
the young storyteller... was most certainly a gypsy as well. She wanted to talk to him, but she set aside such thoughts to simply dance freely. As Bastion looked on, so did the King, Uncle Otta, and every soul present- to see Yana come down from the King’s table and dance this merry dance with the jester was a sight no one expected.

  Finally it ended, and
Yana
was flush with energy as she had forgotten everything except the thrill of the music. The hall erupted once again, delighted with the spontaneous performance.
Yana
was right next to the musicians, and the big harp loomed before her, when she turned to her left.

 
Yana
stepped up to it, and looked to the leader of the musicians.

  “May I?” she asked eagerly. He acquiesced, and she wrapped her arms around it and plucked a string. It rang rather loud, as the hall grew silent, now watching only her. She plucked a few more, trying to get a feel for the distance and gauge of the taut strings. She pulled her fingers across them all, illuminating the hall with sound
, then easing them off with the pedal
. Then, she began to play. She closed her eyes and let her fingers find their way, and played the song she played for Bastion at the campfire. Deep and loud, the vibration of the harp poured into
Yana
as she leaned her body into it in an embrace. She los
t herself
, playing the soulful notes she had practiced so many nights, at so many fires. Every person in the room was rapt, as she played.

  Stronger and stronger
she played, as her heart traveled
to a pla
ce it had never felt, and took
everyone along. She stroked the strings as though they were beloved, and perhaps they were.

  Bastion stood and walked towards her, compelled by the music. It dr
ew forth his emotion just as her fingers
conjured the notes. Yana gently released the final string from her fingers, and stayed a few moments more, just to let the vibration ring out,
into them all
.

  She stood up and opened her eyes, drifting slowly back to reality as she stepped away. The crowd was silent. The notes still hung in the rafters, like a persistent aroma of the sweetest sort.

  Bastion stood near the harp, on the open floor. She went to him and held his hand. He took hers, right at the scar on her wrist. She had played her harp for him by the gypsy fire, and she had played it for him tonight. This time, she would do the thing she desired to do the first time, but could not.

  She drew on Bastion’s courage, and her own heart, and took his face into her hands, and kissed him. She felt the same powerful vibration she had felt inside him the first time she touched him as a child. She was every bit a woman now, and kissed him as a lover, kissed him just like she played, like she danced... with every bit of herself.

  Bastion kissed her back, pulling the young gypsy girl into him for the sweetest kiss of his life.

The last remnants of her music echoed out as they kissed...

and gave way to a mighty roar of applause.

_____________________________

The Gypsy Queen- CHAPTER 7- “Pixie”

  Otta looked on, a worried expression on his face. The future of the throne was in doubt. Otta had always craved the chance to be King, but it was not to be, with Bastion as heir. There were things he would do differently, including dealing with the gypsies... but the people of the
kingdom
seemed happy enough for now, he thought.
Yana
had fully charmed the Great H
all, and Otta watched her and Bastion dance along with the jester and all the others that had joined.

  For the King’s purpose of uniting the gypsies, it was a fine step, but there could be many others who would not only not approve, but wholly reject
Yana
, especially if Bastion should choose her as queen. There could be uproar beyond what Bastion had ever considered, as Captain. Otta
was glad
that it would be many years before he ascended to the throne. He did not consider him ready to be a King. That
is, he thought, if Bastion
even lived that long.

  The party wound down, and the citizens trickled out, seeming drunk and happy as they went. Those sitting at the King’s table departed for the King’s chamber, a more intimate setting for those closest to the King. Benches were set out on the veranda outside his private quarters, and Bastion and
Yana
settled in together near the small fire that was encircled by the guests.

  Otta opened the wine, and made the introductions. “This is the Chamberlain,” he signaled, “and his wife. The magistrate,” he continued, “and this is Obadiah.”

  Obadiah was a giant man, with a friendly smile and lots of whiskers. He reached out in greeting.
Yana
went to take his hand, finding it not only rough, but so massive she thought he’d probably be able to wrap one hand around her entire head.

  “Oi,
Yana
!” he said.
Yana
curtsied, as she had learned to do in her travels to the different cities.

  “You bear the signs of hard work, sir,”
Yana
remarked. The huge man grinned.

  “I am the city’s builder,” he answered. “but only because they wouldn’t let me play the harp!” he joked.

  “I’d say you are much better suited to stack stones!” the King laughed.

  “Bosh,” said
Yana
, “I’m sure he’d be delightful in sewing fine silks for the ladies of the court!” They all laughed with the glow of good wine and good company.

  “Obadiah is in charge of the new towers being built,” Bastion said.
Yana
had noticed them, but had not had occasion to ask.

  “They are like little fortresses built into the city walls, five of them,” Obadiah explained, clearly proud of his work.

  “Will they take a long time to complete?”
Yana
asked.

  “Not too long now,” he said. “The main tower is almost finished, and we have gathered most o
f the stone we need
. It’s tricky, because the walls we already built for the city are so thick,” he said.

  “Obadiah is a master builder,” Bastion said. “He builds with excellence.”

  “It’s a fine job, sir,”
Yana
said to Obadiah. “The palace is as grand of a structure as I have ever seen.”

  “I do have a new project in mind, Obadiah, when you think you’ll h
ave the crews ready,” Bastion said.

  “I can spare some men,” he said. “What are we building?”

  “Pardon me,” the Chamberlain spoke up, “but we must depart for the night.” He got up, with his wife, and the magistrate followed suit, all of them bidding goodnight.

  “I will be off as well,”
Yana
said. “We have a long journey ahead.”

  “Very good,” the King said. “You were brilliant tonight, young gypsy. I thank you. I pray you even greater success on your quest.”

  “Yes sir. And I shall not forget your charge,” she replied.

  Bastion was left sitting with only Uncle Otta, his father, and Obadiah, as the fire dwindled.

  “Bastion, your gypsy girl did well tonight,” the King said.

  “She can hardly be called ‘mine’,” he replied. “Gypsies are not much for being owned.”

  “The crowds tonight will certainly speculate her role in the
kingdom
,” said Otta.

  “Then let them speculate,” Bastion said. “
Yana
will do as she wills.” Sadness suddenly hit him like a stone wall. “And she will likely be gone, after we drive out the traders,” he added.

  “Gone where?” Obadiah asked.

  “Wherever gypsies go,” Bastion replied. “Other
kingdom
s, other countries...” he trailed off. He hated the thought. He had swiftly come to love being with
Yana
. The effect of her kiss still lingered with him.

  “Unreliable,” Otta said. “That’s what they are.”

  Bastion went to protest, but immediately thought back to when she had charged into a fire against his orders. “Unpredictable, perhaps,” Bastion agreed with reluctance.

  “She would make a fine queen, I think,” said Obadiah.

  “Perhaps she would,” Bastion agreed. “But she would not accept such duty.”

  “Perhaps she needs some persuasion,” the King said.

  “Enough of this talk,” Bastion said. “She will do as she wills. It’s a miracle that she is even serving for this one mission.”

  Obadiah saw the fallen countenance of the young Prince. He could see that Bastion cared deeply for the gypsy girl.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” Obadiah asked.

  “Yes, actually,” Bastion said, brightening. “What do you know about theatre?”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 
Yana
crawled into her
overstuffed bed. It smelled good, but was
too soft for her tastes. Her thoughts wandered to her caravan and her dear friends, and to Emilee. She intended to find a way to her as fast as she could, when they set out. She should have been sleepy from the wine and dancing, but she wasn’t.

  She blew out the candles next to the bed and laid awake in the dark, the moonlight streaming in faintly through the window. The crickets chirped loudly, and
Yana
closed her eyes and imagined she was camped next to her wagon, laying with her friends around the fire, listening to the flutes and drums trailing into the night as the caravan wound down. She found herself picturing Bastion there, and kissing his forehead goodnight, laying in the curve of his body. She thought to the night just a few moons ago, how he had tracked her and slept by that fire with her. 

  She awoke, unsure if she had even been asleep, or only drifting a while. She was still in her too-soft bed, and frustrated. A restless night was not what she needed. She decided to take action.

 
Yana
gathered a small blanket around her, and headed for the door. Out in the hall, she had very little light save for the sporadic candles here and there. She traced her fingers on the ornate metalwork that lined the hall, and made for Bastion’s door.

  It was heavy.
Yana
fumbled with the giant latch, rattling it, making far too much noise. She decided to head back to her room, feeling silly. She couldn’t even get the door open. She turned to walk away, as the door creaked open.