Crier's War

by Nina Varela

  “He . . . he did mention something like this to me.” Crier’s mind whirred, overwhelmed by all the information.

  “He claimed to have discovered a new source of power.”

  “Yes, he told me of his idea, but . . .”

  Junn gave her a long, level look. “My lady, you of all people should know that there is no such thing as just an idea.” Junn leaned forward again. “It is not merely philosophical. It is very real. The Anti-Reliance Movement is already under way. The Scyre’s followers drink his words like sweet wine. There are only a few hundred now, but every day their numbers grow. A few hundred can turn into a few thousand in a matter of days. I need your help, Lady Crier.”

  “My—my help?”

  “To stop the disease, before it spreads.”

  Still, Crier stared, unsure what that meant.

  And so, the queen clarified: “To take him down.”

  Junn said it almost casually, like she was saying nothing more than To bid him good morning.

  Finally, Crier understood why people called her the Mad Queen. How she could be the Child Queen and Junn the Bone Eater, everything at once.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered, mortified by her own cowardice and yet unable to hide it. “I—I am betrothed to him, he’s on the council, he’s powerful—he’s under my father’s protection—”

  He knows about my fifth pillar—

  He could destroy me—

  He wanted, in fact, to destroy all humans, or at the very least, to make the world increasingly uninhabitable to them. . . .

  He was far more a monster than she’d realized.

  “Do not be ashamed of your fear, Lady Crier,” said Junn. “If you were not afraid, I would leave this room and never once look back. But you are afraid. That is why I trust you, and why I’m asking for your help.” Her expression softened. “And I really am only asking. I will not force your hand, my lady. Nor will I beg.”

  “I need time,” Crier said. “I need to think.”

  Junn nodded, leaning back a little. Without the smell and warmth of her, it was a little easier to breathe. “Of course,” she said. “I wish I had more time to give you, but my company leaves at dawn. If you decide you want to help me, take this and slide it under the door to my bedchamber.” She held out a green feather. “In Varn, the color green symbolizes alliance. We use it to communicate.”

  “. . . We? Who’s we?”

  “Those who wish to take sides against the wolf,” Junn said, and smiled, all teeth.

  A few hours later found Crier standing in the corridor outside the queen’s quarters, a green feather clenched tightly in her hand. She had the fleeting thought that she wished she knew where Reyka was, wished she could talk to her, ask for her advice. But Reyka was still missing, and every day that ticked by meant the worst was possible. Reyka might be dead. She might have been killed.

  There was no evidence one way or the other, only the lingering taste of dread every time Crier thought of it.

  She was afraid, but she was also tired of feeling like a pawn.

  And Junn was right. She was tired of Kinok: his blackmail, his hatred of humans, his black-banded followers. The pleasure he took in wielding power, in making Crier feel helpless, reminding her at every turn that he knew about her Flaw.

  She did not like feeling helpless.

  She had no idea what would happen if she agreed to work with Queen Junn, but the days were slipping by so quickly. Soon, the trees would all be naked. Soon it would be winter, and she would be wedded. She would be pushed gracelessly into a new life with Kinok. Where would they go after they were married? Kinok had no estate of his own. That was probably half the reason he’d tried to woo Queen Junn. Where would he take her—the Far North, to the site of his planned new city?

  Crier didn’t know what she wanted. Her old dream had festered and died. All she knew was this: she did not want to be Kinok’s wife.

  With that thought in mind, she stepped forward—and heard a strange noise from inside the queen’s bedchamber.

  Low and throaty, it sounded almost like an expression of pain.

  Crier froze. Was the queen in danger? She was protected by her guards, but what if they’d been overcome? What if she was being attacked?

  Then the noise came again, louder and more drawn out this time, breathy, and Crier realized what it was.

  Her whole body went cold and then terribly, ferociously hot.

  Whoever was making that noise was not in pain.

  In shock, Crier couldn’t move. She listened to the sound of gasps, and immediately her mind went to flesh against flesh, went to breath and lips and . . .

  She scrambled backward to hide around the corner, far enough from the queen’s door that she could no longer overhear what was happening inside. Her heart churned quickly; her skin was flushed with a new kind of heat. She didn’t even know why she was reacting so strongly. She had seen such things before, from afar: human servants embracing in the orchard when they thought no one was looking. But that was different. That was humans, who mated physically, who were not Made. That was humans, who were weak against their base temptations and desires. Like dogs in heat, her father had said once.

  Automae did not—do that.

  They did not need to.

  But the voice she’d heard (the moan, her mind whispered) had definitely belonged to Queen Junn.

  Crier pressed a hand to her face, touching her own hot skin, and made up her mind to wait out here. If she left now, she might never work up the courage to come back.

  It took only a few more minutes before she heard the door to the queen’s bedchamber open and shut. Crier barely had enough time to shrink farther into the shadows before someone walked right past the corner she was hiding behind, making their way to another door down the hallway. It was dark, and their face was hidden by a mask, but the shape of their silhouette was unmistakable. The person sneaking out of the queen’s bedchamber was her human adviser.

  A secret lover.

  A secret human lover.

  The young man whom she’d heard the queen refer to during the tour as Storme.

  Crier slumped back against the wall, cool stone on the nape of her neck. Stars and skies. She thought of the queen and the adviser, the way they’d acted around each other today.

  She tried to concentrate, to slow the frantic whir of her mind, but it flew uncontrollably to the place she knew it would—Ayla. Her lips. Her breath. Her skin. Darkness and touching and kissing and . . .

  She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood.

  Head spinning, mouth filled with the heavy taste of her own blood, Crier ran away down the corridor and did not stop until she reached her own room, but even then, even with the door slammed shut, she was confronted with the heady darkness, her body, pulsing with new information, and above all, the thing she knew now she wanted, even though it was unnatural, even though it was wrong.

  Passion.

  She was called the Barren Queen, but I never met anyone less empty. For if one is wanting of a child, then by nature their heart is overfilled with love—overflowing, yearning for a new vessel to hold that love, like spilling water.

  There are some who call her a monster. Some who call her mad.

  If longing is madness, then none of us are sane.

  —FROM THE PERSONAL RECORDS OF BRYN, BIRTH-WITCH TO QUEEN THEA OF ZULLA, E. 900, CIRCA Y. 40

  14

  Did you hear about Faye?

  Yes. I heard she’s got her own private rooms in the palace now. I heard she’s got her own handmaiden, just like the lady.

  Not just that. She’s living the golden life now. The leech life.

  How did it happen? Last I heard she was mad. Wandering the halls like a ghost.

  I’d kill for a bit of cake.

  I’d kill for a private room.

  I’d kill for a night in a real bed.

  Makes you wonder what she did for it.

  The whispers were unbearable.

&nb
sp; Ayla had been listening to them all day: in the servants’ quarters, in the dining hall, in the hallways, one scullery maid to another, kitchen boys muttering to each other when they thought they were alone. Faye is a traitor, Faye is a lapdog. Ayla knew exactly who was behind Faye’s newfound lifestyle, and it made her want to shake that certain someone hard enough to rattle their teeth.

  Of all the fool things to do.

  She suspected that Crier had only been trying to help. But didn’t she see? It only made things worse. Drew attention, placed a target on Faye’s back . . . and soon enough, Crier’s attentions would put a target on Ayla’s back too, if they hadn’t already.

  Not to mention, these little acts of . . . what . . . kindness? They made Ayla uncertain, made her question what she thought she know of Crier, of leeches in general. They didn’t have feelings. They didn’t act out of kindness. Crier was no different.

  Was she?

  As soon as darkness fell, the last of Ayla’s patience drained away. Her feet ached from the long day of managing the queen’s tour and racing about to help with the arrangement of her guest quarters and Crier’s dinner gown and—the list went on and on.

  Still, she managed to wait just a few more minutes, until the other servants were asleep, and then she crawled out of bed, threw on a coat over her sleeping tunic, and moved toward the door.

  But just as she stepped outside into the cool night air, she heard someone call her name, softly, from inside. “Ayla.”

  It was Benjy. He slipped out of the servants’ building and stood there in the darkness of the night, his curly hair lined in moonlight, his jaw cut by shadows. “Where are you going?” he whispered. “Not visiting the lady at this hour, I hope. . . .”

  Ayla stopped short. “What exactly are you trying to say?”

  Benjy put up his hands, as if in surrender. “Nothing. Only that people will talk. She does seem to have . . . I don’t know. Some sort of fondness for you. Or that’s what they say, anyway.”

  “People always talk, Benjy. But they know nothing. And, and . . . no. I wasn’t going to see Cri—the lady. I . . .”

  Where to begin? So much had happened in this one day—she’d seen Storme, alive again after so many years believing he was dead, was lost to her forever. Then there was the strangeness of the queen herself. And the disturbing encounter with Faye in her new private room. And the way Crier had glanced back at her all day as Ayla walked just a few steps behind her, with something like curiosity—or more—in her eyes.

  But how could she explain all this to Benjy?

  Instead, all she said was, “I left out a dress that needs ironing before tomorrow. I know I won’t sleep if I keep thinking about the grief I’ll get in the morning.”

  Benjy tilted his head at her. “I’ve missed you, you know,” he said softly.

  Her chest thudded with a painful pang. She couldn’t look into his dark, glossy eyes. “Me too.”

  He stepped toward her and she could see his face better now. His lips were parted, once again as if he planned to tell her something important. But all he said was, “Well, hurry up and don’t let the Varnian Queen eat your bones.”

  Ayla let out a small laugh. “She’s not the monster everyone says. Or if that is her true nature, she keeps it well hidden.”

  “As only the most dangerous monsters do,” Benjy said.

  “True. . . . Listen, Benjy. I did learn something strange today. I can’t quite understand it. It’s about Faye.”

  “Did something happen? I heard the gossip, that she was promoted to a guest room. Do you know about it?”

  Ayla shivered as a cool breeze lifted at the edges of her coat. She wrapped her arms around herself. “I saw her. And . . . there’s definitely something . . . wrong with her. She kept mentioning the sun apples. I think Kinok had her managing the sun apple shipments. I can’t quite figure what that has to do with anything, whether it’s connected to Luna’s death, or why Faye has unraveled. I just . . . wanted you to know. In case you hear anything.”

  Benjy nodded. “I’ll see if I can find out anything on my end.”

  “Great.” It felt good to be working together, even if her pulse sang with worry. “Now get back to sleep. I’ll return in a few minutes, but don’t wait up for me.”

  “Need my beauty rest anyway,” Benjy said, and slipped back inside the sleeping quarters without another word.

  Once he was gone, Ayla hurried up the muddy path to the palace. The night was harsh and windy.

  She hadn’t told him about Storme. She couldn’t. Not yet, anyway. She didn’t know what to think of it herself.

  First, she had to see her brother—alone.

  To get her questions answered.

  Her ears hadn’t stopped ringing all day, her mind buzzing with a hornet’s nest of memories: Storme, young and scrawny and grinning in the dusty sunlight; Storme, sitting at their father’s elbow, whittling a new handle for his knife; Storme, standing beside their mother, laughing as she ruffled his dark curls.

  Storme, shoving her down into the dark; Storme, his mouth twisted into a furious snarl, I’ll kill them, I’ll kill every single one of them; Storme, peering out the front door during one of the first raids, I hate those leeches more than anything; Storme, knife flashing in his hand, I’ll cut their dead hearts from their chests.

  Storme, right hand to the leech queen.

  There was no way he was serving her of his own free will. The queen must be hanging something over his head—the life of a friend, a lover, a child, someone, anyone. Whatever the blackmail, Ayla intended to find out. And help free her brother.

  She still had Crier’s key to the music room. She’d find him, bring him there, where they could talk in private.

  She’d tell him about the Revolution, about Kinok’s sinister chart, his means of punishing them, his secret safe, hidden somewhere in his study, in the bowels of the palace.

  She was used to the twisting hallways of the palace by now, having walked it so many times with Crier. The queen had been put up in the north wing, the same as Hesod and Crier, as it was the only wing with guest chambers big enough to house her guards and servants and advisers and anyone else she’d brought along with her from the southern mines up to the cold northern shores.

  “You.”

  Ayla froze midstep. She turned slowly to see a leech guard stalking toward her, his face like marble in the moonlight, boots unnaturally silent on the flagstones. A sheath glinted at his waist.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded. “No servants have been granted entry to this wing.” He looked her up and down. “No pets, either.”

  Revulsion had the taste of bile. She struggled to keep her face and voice calm. “I am Lady Crier’s handmaiden, sir, and I am here on her direct orders.”

  “Right. And what lady’s errand is so urgent at this hour?”

  “I don’t think that’s any of your business,” Ayla replied.

  Mistake.

  The guard’s eyes widened and his perfect mouth twisted into something ugly. “You arrogant little maggot,” he said coldly, taking a step forward.

  The closer he got, the more obvious it was how much taller he was than her, than any human she knew; how much stronger, too. How quickly he could dart forward and snap her neck simply for impertinence. “Know your place. If you don’t, I will take pleasure in teaching you.”

  Ayla stumbled backward, thinking of her stolen knife—her sharp little knife, so deadly and so useless back in the servants’ quarters. “Don’t touch me. Lady Crier won’t like it if you harm me.”

  “Lady Crier has no use for such a disobedient handmaiden,” he said, toying with the hilt of his sword. “I think you would serve more purpose as a warning to the others.”

  “I said don’t—”

  “Handmaiden!”

  Ayla whirled around, and there he was. Storme. He was striding down the corridor from the opposite direction the guard had come, gilded in moonlight from one of the windows lining t
he stone walls. Ayla was once again struck by how big he was, how broad. She had known him as a scrawny child, no meat on his bones. She herself had stayed small, half starved and hard-worked, but Storme had grown up strong. She felt twin swells of pride and shame.

  “You are dismissed,” he said to the guard, leaving no room for argument. “This girl was summoned by the queen of Varn. You will inconvenience her no longer. Leave us.”

  Even the way her brother spoke was different now. Mature. The voice of a man, not a boy.

  A man she didn’t know anymore.

  But it worked: the guard opened and closed his mouth. Then, furious, he turned on his heel and slunk away into the shadows.

  Neither Storme nor Ayla spoke until the guard’s footsteps faded away. Then—

  “Ayla,” Storme breathed.

  Her whole body seized up. Every muscle in her wanted to run at him, to throw her arms around his waist, to feel for herself that he really was here, whole, alive. Her arms wanted to hug him and her eyes wanted to memorize his face, to search for all the tiny remnants of their parents; her feet wanted to stamp on his toes; her mouth wanted to say, I’ve missed you so much, I can’t believe you’re here, I can’t believe you survived, why did you never come back for me?

  Instead, her mouth said, “I never thought I’d see you working for a leech.”

  Storme’s face shuttered instantly.

  He leaned back against the window.

  “I could say the same to you,” he said.

  This wasn’t at all what Ayla wanted, but now that she’d started it, she couldn’t stop. “Are you a servant like me?” she asked him, stepping closer. “Are you trapped like me? What does the queen have on you, Storme? Are you plotting against her? Are you getting close to her so you can—”

  “Shut up,” he said fiercely. “Shut up, you know they can hear through stone walls. You’ll get yourself killed.”

  She paused, and realized she was breathing hard. She was so—there wasn’t a word for it; she wasn’t angry or sad or scared or overjoyed or guilty or betrayed or any of it, she was all of it, all at once, her emotions mixing like oils in bathwater, impossible to separate and define. “You’re not her servant,” she said, trying to work through the things she’d been obsessing about all day. “You’re—she doesn’t treat you like a servant. You’re her adviser. How did that happen, Storme?” She stared at him as if the answer would show itself on his face. “What happened to you?”