by Mira Zamin
As the Queen had promised, I was invited to attend her later in the week. A guard pushed the door open and my heels sank into the silken carpets as I stepped forth. The chamber revealed fine stone carvings, which even the gaudy pink and gold hangings could not disguise in the sunlight. Seeing the Queen in the bright light for the first time, I was struck by how her cheeks had hollowed, revealing cruelly sharp cheekbones. Yet, at her bedside stood a curled stack of papers. Even as the claimants contested for the throne, abandoning Erina, she did not abandon her duties.
“Come sit,” she whispered.
I took the chair at her beside, facing a portrait of a young man with ornately curling hair, raising an imperious eyebrow. I cocked an answering eyebrow.
She caught my glance. “My husband, Jalad of Murban, an uncle of Fyodor’s. Died in the Second Hademer War soon after the twins were born. A hero.” She closed her eyes wistfully.
“And,” her voice barely managing above a whisper, “a mere four years after that, I became Queen. I was forty then and have ruled for these twenty-four years. And now I pass...” She regarded me through rheumy eyes. Even foggy, her cat’s eyes were cutting. “Sometimes I wonder if accepting the throne was the best choice, but then I think I could not have passed my life without being Queen. As if my soul were tied around it.” She stopped tiredly before continuing. “I have heard some disturbing news. Is it true that you and your husband were attacked in Nyneveh’s streets.”
“Yes, madam.”
“And who...?”
“We think it was Quenela. We were returning from her home after delivering news of a setback for her. Unfortunately, two of the men were killed and the other fled. Our driver was murdered. She denies any involvement utterly and so we stand.”
“What utter savagery.”
“Indeed,” I agreed fervently.
“There was a time, before I grew ill, that such actions would not have dared play out. Not on the streets of Nyneveh, not on the fields of Aquia.” She grew quiet. I waited for her to speak. “Why do you want to be queen?”
There were Gwydion’s threats, there was the leverage I would have against the Pari, and then there was this: the thrill of my negotiations with Quenela, the satisfaction of convincing the Thirds Council, the Queen, and the Assembly that I could rule Ghalain, of producing a solution for a thorny problem. Whatever Gwydion said, after this was done, I could not retire from political life, whether I be Emira of Aquia or Queen of Ghalain.
She raised a trembling finger. “That glint in your eye.”
I laughed softly.
“Pardon.” A manservant bowed. “I bring your afternoon medication, Majesty. And some refreshment for the Emira.” Unsteadily, he served her a dark tea that released a strongly bitter scent. I wrinkled my nose. I did not envy the Queen her medicine.
Queen Erina raised a shaking a cup. “To queens.”
By the end of the night, she was dead.
Chapter Nineteen