The Puppet Queen: A Tale of the Sleeping Beauty

by Mira Zamin

Concerned murmurs followed me as I entered the Assembly chamber the next morning. Hesitantly, I met Kershid’s eyes. They were red-rimmed with grief, but held no animosity, no suspicion—only deep sadness.

  Surprising.

  Tentatively raising my gaze, I saw that the Assembly members, from Idrees to Lyra looked at me kindly. To them, I had proven my devotion to Ghalain and honor by elevating it above love. Only Hadil, Quenela, and Kaladus examined me with dark doubt.

  Ferdas stood up, brushing down his neat tan coat, which emphasized the blackness of his hair and announced, quite unprovoked, “On behalf of the Emir of Aawset, I wish to acknowledge Emira Selene’s bravery in turning her husband into the law. We believe that her loyalty to Ghalain should be marked.”

  The assembly nodded in near perfect unison. Perhaps they too were desperate for the end of months of power-wrangling, ready to return to their homes and tend their lands and if they had to make a heroine out of me then so be it. It was no longer placid Winter, but fertile Spring and their lands needed their attentions.

  I wondered, as I had done a dozen times since the funeral, if I had been right in betraying Gwydion’s trust. Yes, he had proven himself capable of great malice and unkindness, but I had sent him to his death with words he had spoken to me in confidence. And I owed him a blood debt. He had once defended my life with his own. I had not truly understood the ramifications of that until Gwydion stood on the precipice of his own demise.

  As if hearing my thoughts, Quenela remarked bitingly, “Are we such a load of fools that we will take Emira Selene at her, if you will excuse me, overly ambitious word?” She peered at me frostily, as if trying to summon the truth through the will of her scrutiny. I met her look calmly. Search away. Her tightly bounded hair swayed dangerously.

  Ferdas, Aunt Lyra, and Idrees immediately rose to my defense, each talking over the other.

  “As a child companion of Emira Selene’s—”

  “—I would be more than willing—”

  “—to vouchsafe for her honesty—”

  This time, it was hard to keep the surprise from my face. Liem’s honey glance fell on me. Gwydion had landed a few blows on Liem’s perfect face after all, but the bruise marring his cheek appeared more like a fashionable fancy than an injury.

  “Let us allow Emira Selene to speak for herself,” Liem suggested mildly. They descended into poised silence.

  Forcing myself to not chew the inside of my lip, I summoned from memory the speech I had mulled the night before. Rising, I professed, “When Gwydion confessed his actions, I did not know what to do. I will admit: I considered remaining silent. Yet, Ghalain and justice ultimately trump the affection I bear for my husband. If I could have chosen a final outcome, it would not have been this. I vow to you, by the Seasons and on the lives of my family, I was in no way involved with Queen Erina’s death.” Palms upturned, I spread my arms wide. “I hope that in spite of all this, this Council will be able to choose the best ruler for our country soon. Ghalain has been headless long enough.”

  To my chagrin, there was no swell of applause, but there were a few polite smiles. Well, this was no children’s tale and I would not win the Council over with a rousing speech that moved the lot of them to tears and convinced them that I was the one to rule Ghalain.

  Corrine of Bahart, spoke then, her reedy voice matching her frail, lined appearance, but her delivery was bombastic. “Behind that calculated speech of the girl’s, there lies good sense. We should return to the point of this Council. How many months have we been ensconced here without accomplishing anything? I am tired; I know you are tired and we all long to go home before planting season ends. I propose that we do not leave this room without selecting a ruler. We have already preponderated the entirety of the evidence for each ruler; let us vacillate no more. Let us decide.”

  I was amused to note Ferdas’s response of “Yes, marm.” It appeared that once Corrine began, she evoked our childhood tutors. Noticing his slip, Ferdas flushed.

  I watched Corrine with wary admiration. Had she wished it, I had no doubt she could have snapped the crown away from me or Quenela without batting a paper-thin eyelid.

  Fleetingly, I was jealous of Corrine. I wished that I had had the presence of mind to galvanize the Council into action to convince them of my ability. Perhaps you have no ability after all, a small voice whispered slimily in the back of my mind. Perhaps you should leave the ruling to those who actually know the business of it—not someone who is merely proficient in the arts of feigning and mimicry. Even though I knew it was a mark of insanity, I still hissed back, I am not unwilling to learn and heed my advisors. No one is born knowing precisely how to rule!

  “Lord Kershid, if you will?” Corrine said gracefully. Her large jeweled earrings swayed, catching and throwing light.

  Starting, Kershid announced, “You have before you paper and pen. Write down your choice for king or queen. I will pass around this silver jar in which you will drop your choice. I will count them and we will go until a name has been chosen by a majority.”

  Quills scratched against paper. From the corner of my eye, I tried to spot the telltale snaky “S” of “Selene” being formed under cautious hands. Catching my eye, Quenela smiled unpleasantly. Hastily, I looked away and wrote my own choice: Selene. Kershid handed the silver chalice to me. Its intricate carving, molded to depict an elaborate scene of a royal coronation through the streets of Nyneveh, rubbed through my hands. With a swift prayer to the Seasons, I dropped my paper in the goblet and it hushed reassuringly against the silver. Feeling sick, I passed it to Hadil and so it went around until arriving again in Kershid’s hands. I could hardly restrain from trying to lean over to read the names alongside him.

  Carefully unfurling each paper, Kershid noted the results in a thick leather-bound ledger. Once he was done, Kershid watched us, amused.

  What does this mean? Is this good? Is this bad?

  Clearing his throat, he announced, “I think it is safe to say that each of you voted for yourself. There was one vote for Emir Fyodor, one for Emir Kaladus, one for Emira Lyra…”

  We chuckled abashedly like children caught painting the family dog red.

  The room fell quiet again. Picking up another slip, I wrote my name again, this time feeling more confident. The chalice was passed around again and again, Kershid counted the names. Anxious to hear the results, we all leaned as forward as the breadth of the table would allow. Sweat pricked on my hands and along my forehead.

  “Three for Emira Quenela, two for Emira Selene, two for Emira Corrine, and one for Emir Hadil.”

  Quenela shot Hadil a disgruntled look. In response, Hadil shrugged indifferently as if to say, No matter. Do not worry yourself. I wished I could take his counsel for myself.

  Feeling the cold quiver of disappointment overtake me, I tried to smile peacefully, as if all was going to plan. Nonetheless, I parceled out level looks to my supposed supporters, Ferdas, Lyra, Idrees, and Fyodor. What game were they playing at? At the very least, I should have had four votes. Not two. Not just my vote added to someone else’s vote fighting against Quenela well-assembled opposition.

  Quills scratched methodically as we wrote names; Kershid passed around the goblet. We looped through the actions Seasons’ know how many times. Sometimes I would gain a vote, sometimes Quenela would gain a vote, sometimes we would both lose votes. Perhaps Corrine was wrong—perhaps, despite the months of debate, we were not yet ready to decide on a ruler. Should I vote for Quenela to end this? I thought, stealing a look at her. I winced. I could not so lightly disregard her preying on Aquia—or her attempt on my life. I knew she returned the sentiment and would be loathe to allow me to walk away scot-free after opposing her so adamantly. The chalice, now warm due to its passage though many hands many times, came to me again. After placing a whisper-thin piece of paper saying Selene within, I absently handed it to Hadil.

  My stomach felt hollow and I wondered if we would pause this fruitless voting to b
reak for luncheon. As I was envisioning tender strips of beef cooked with translucent rings of green onion and bright red spices, Kershid received the chalice and counted through the names. Just as I was adding a dash of pepper to the dish, Kershid revealed, sounding surprised, “Six votes.”

  The beef disappeared from my mind and I suddenly straightened, looking around in shock. Well, that is it. I certainly did not win their votes. For Seasons’ sakes, I was thinking about beef! If they knew, they would denounce me for the fraud I am.

  Quenela’s knuckles whitened as her fingers tightened around the edge of the table. Even Corrine’s lips seemed pursed more tightly than before.

  “Emira…”

  Oh my Seasons, I am going to faint. Closing my eyes tightly, I thought of home, of Aquia. Of my mother and father, both constantly busy but warm; of Gareth, Necolai, and Danyal, triplet terrors but the best brothers a sister could ask for; of Evra and Ceara, wise older sisters who were not above teasing; of Gieneve, who was so like me, the sister I would have felt most connected to if it had not been for Auralia…the sister to whom I still felt most bound, for whom I would do anything, for whom I was still pursuing the crown. Even if Quenela wins, I will not let them stop me. I will concentrate my efforts on Aquia, even if I have to tear down Pari with my bare hands. Aunt Lyra laced her fingers through mine, giving me a comforting squeeze. Drawing a breath, I forced my gaze back to Kershid. I pushed down the tears of disappointment. I would not let Quenela have that satisfaction.

  “…Selene.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three