by Mira Zamin
After the echoes of cheers had faded from my ears, the prisoners had been safely locked away and matters of state had been attended to, as if in a dream, I called for Cinnamon to be saddled. A pair of guards, who had been with me in the glittering maze, were to accompany me. Talia and Oelphie would follow in a carriage, but I had waited long enough. It felt so surreal that this curse, which had been dictating my life for the past three years, had at last been removed. I could hardly believe. It would be most closely akin to the sensation of feeling that my shadow no longer dogged my footsteps. Something dark, but part and parcel of my existence nonetheless was no more.
But before I left, there was one last issue that I had attended to. A haggard-looking Kershid had informed me, after the grand feast in honor of our victory that Gwydion was no longer in his cell. He had handed me a letter written on paper which felt queer to the touch. The guards were hale and none could recollect seeing him, although one claimed to have seen a beautiful woman—but he dismissed that as a daydream.
Hearing of this woman, I could not but assume that Gwydion’s escape had been the handiwork of his Pari mistress, one of the many specters which had hung between us during the course of our marriage And so, the Pari took amongst themselves a man who had devoted himself to harming the cursed Khamad twins. But for what he had done to Auralia, I would have wished him happiness with his pari, who at long last had him to herself, but in my heart, all I could wish him was grief. At the very least, I knew that he would never achieve his dreams of ruling the Ghalain or even Aquia through me.
Once Kershid had left, I had unsealed the letter with a fingernail, shutting my eyes against the sudden rush of sparks. The note, the words flowing in a familiar script, had merely read, We will meet once again. I had read the note several times over, committing the words to memory before flinging it into the fireplace, watching the golden flames rapidly devour the paper.
As if it had never been
Floating disconnectedly, I leapt onto the mare and sped out of the stables, through Nyneveh’s still-milling and raucous streets, towards Aquia, just as I had blindly rushed away from it three years before. Now, I was returning as a woman who had once been a townsperson, had once given birth, had once been a wife, was now queen, but would always be their daughter and sister.
We stopped only to change horses at inns. Sleep? It was sleep that had created the gaping divide. We caught brief naps beneath trees, never too long. The blowing wind and my own excitement would have made deep sleep impossible in any case.
By the end of the second day, I was home.
Passing the merry and crowded gateway, I was hailed with excited cries. “Selene! Selene!” The familiar faces of my childhood walked these streets again, side-by-side with the new inhabitants of the place—although occasional wary looks passed between the two groups of citizens. Their clothes were still wrinkled and some of them staggered on sleep-weak muscles. The air was sweet with wine, the atmosphere jovial with music. I heard loud booms in the air.
“Fireworks, love!” a potbellied man yelled out at me.
In the streets, men and women and children danced and drank with happy abandon, but I could only walk through the merriment as a foggy stranger. My stomach was tight with anxiety, and suddenly, after all these months of wishing, I had gotten what I had desired, but I still longed to run away. I squared my shoulders. No. I would not run away. Never again.
I was at the gates of the Mehal. They were slightly ajar and I slipped through easily.
And then I could wait no more.
Leaving my entourage behind me, I pulled my skirts past my knees and barreled through the gardens, slipping on the gravel walkways. I pushed through the doors. But the entrance was empty.
“Hello! Hello!” I called. “I’m here!” I heard a faint sound and as I followed it, it grew louder and louder, until I was at the library. I nudged the door open.
And there they were. Everyone I loved, whose heartbeats were mine own, whose pain and fears and hopes and dreams were mine. And as they converged upon me, their tears mingling with my own, we bound ourselves tightly, arms and chests indiscernible from each other. I never wanted to be parted from this warm, breathing, heart-pounding huddle. They slowly loosened their grips until it was only me and Auralia.
“Hello,” I whispered.
She kissed me on the cheek. “Welcome home, Lena.”
“Auntie! Auntie!” Ceara and Evra’s children rushed out from behind their mothers’ skirts, embracing me. The beloved faces of my family were pale and drawn, but blessedly vibrant with expression.
My father embraced me. “Ferdas has told us that you have been elected Queen.”
“No!” cried Danyal although he must have heard the news already.
“There goes the kingdom!” called Nic, in a rare attempt at humor.
I laughed longer and harder than the jest warranted—even the slightest provocation could easily tap my joy. “Oh haha. I will have you know I have just come from a victorious battle.”
“Ooh,” Evra cooed, ever-supportive. I flashed her a smile as I swatted Nic. “You better watch out—or I’ll demote you.”
“How did you get elected Queen?” demanded Ceara with a grin. “What, was everyone else in the family unviable?”
“Now that you mention it...” I said.
My mother reached out, drawing me to her breast. “You should not have run away from home all those years ago.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “But I’m glad you did.” I curled into her embrace, my heart warming at having her comforting arms around me once more, her warm scent of amber and saffron. I buried my face in her dress. A few tears escaped from my lashes.
“So you are now queen.” Auralia smiled, deepening the dark crescents beneath her eyes. “Any other news?”
Any other news. I bit my lip. As ever, Auralia could read my face. “Selene...”
I took a deep breath and met her gaze steadily. “I have a daughter. Talia.”
My nieces and nephews jumped around me. “Where is she, Auntie?” they demanded, tugging at my skirts as if I was hiding the child under my shift.
I chuckled. “She is coming.”
Evra poked my shoulder. “Do you know where my husband Kisam is?”
My face tightened, thinking of Hadil. “Yes, yes I do.” I brought her fingers to my lips. “I will have him sent to you tomorrow morning.”
“Oh, lah-di-da!” declared Gieneve with a grin. Her hair was still molded to the shape of a pillow, a necessary casualty of an almost year of somnolence. “‘I will have him sent you.’ My, are we not fine?”
“I am Queen, you know,” I replied in-mock irritation, swiping my baby sister into an embrace. I felt her warm tears on my shoulder and heard her say softly, just for my ears, “I feared you would never come home.” I held her closer.
“Oh Seasons!” declared Gareth. “Will we have to hear about you being Queen all the time? Will this be like when you decided you were a djinn and could grant our wishes?”
“Exactly like that,” I shot back, “except now, I actually have the power to do so.”
Guffawing, he clapped. “Oh well said, you cheeky thing!”
But finally, the toll of the ride, the anticipation, and the catharsis of reunion was exacted from my body. I yawned. Danyal regarded me with disgust. “I do not know whether I will be doing that again for a long time. The next time I see a bed will be too soon.”
“I would say something, but for the presence of our mother and sisters and her grace the Queen,” Nic said in a slightly choked voice
Gareth elbowed Danyal and said in a stage whisper, “A year of sleep really can do wonders on a man’s humor.”
I yawned again.
Auralia was by my side immediately. “Oh come now, she’s tired. Let me take you upstairs, Lena darling.”
With goodnight embraces around the room, Auralia and I climbed back up the tower stairs.
“Do you not wish to spend the night with Ferdas?” I asked.
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She wrinkled her nose. “Before marriage!” she said with feigned scandalization. “No, dear, I know that you will not be able to linger in Aquia for long. Ferdas can wait.”
I paused on the steps. “Tell me of you and Ferdas, Rory. How long have you loved him?”
She grew quiet. “Very long, even before you did, but I did not say anything for fear of paining you. But then I acted so hurtfully towards you after Mother and Father told us of the curse.” Her voice hitched. “I regretted it so after you left. It drove me...it drove me to foolishness, but Ferdas was always kind and patient beside me. Say you forgive me, Lena.”
I squeezed her hand. “Truly, there is nothing to forgive. What’s done is done. There is no point in regretting the past if you are happy in the present. And you are happy, aren’t you, Rory?”
“Oh yes.” Her eyes were bright. “Very much so. Much more than I have right to be.”
I kissed her cheek. “Then I too am happy.”
Changing into a nightgown, I curled up on the bed, but Auralia sat in a chair by my side. “I’m afraid Danyal was right,” she laughed. “I do not know when I will be to able to look at a bed without shuddering again.”
“Probably when you are once more very, very tired.”
“Probably.” She grinned. “I have so many questions for you; I do not know where to begin. Oh...the Pari! Start with them.” She curled her legs beneath her, still with the same lady-like grace I remembered so well. “What do you think will happen now?”
I gazed up at her from the pillow. “What can they do? The terms of the curse, as altered by the djinn, have been fairly met. If they try anything again, they will have the might of Ghalain to deal with. No, whatever debt they might have believed existed for the First Tree’s fall has been met.”
“And...” Her voice trailed off shyly. “You said you have a daughter. But...who is her father?”
My heart clenched. “Gwydion.”
“Oh? Where is he then?” she asked, mild and unsuspicious and curious to know of the details of her twin sister’s life. And if I could keep some of those most important details from her, I would die to ensure it were so.
I shrugged as much as one can shrug while lying in bed. “Absconded with a Pari mistress after I divorced him.”
She gasped. “Pari mistress? Absconded? Divorced?”
With a rueful grin, I told her of everything that had happened since I had run away, my life in Viziéra, the return to Aquia, Nyneveh, the war, leaving out any bits that would have hurt more than helped. She was the kind of audience that only a twin sister who shared half my soul could be, laughing at all of my wry observations, becoming infuriated with the indignities visited upon me, and clapping loudly as I told of my triumphs. She did not ask why I had moved her to Carez and I made no move to tell her. As the rosy fingers of dawn began spreading across the horizon, upwards and pulling away the warm sheet of night, my voice trailed off in a hoarse mumble.
Auralia pulled the coverlets up to my chin. “You are marvelous, you know.” Ignoring my incoherent protests, she continued. “When I slept, I dreamt happily and even the worst nightmares, where...well, never mind, but even then, I knew all would end well, because somewhere, you were out there, and as long as one-half of me roamed the world, I would always be safe.”
As the golden dawn, at long last, unraveled itself from the dark threads of night, I fell into deep, warm slumber, my hand interlaced with my sister’s.
Epilogue
The Queen had called for three days celebration in honor of the lifting of the curse. With some of the proceeds from her victory in the War of the Two Queens, she had sent casks of crimson wine, amber ale, and green qunab to each of the cities. They toasted Aquia. They toasted Nyneveh. They toasted the Queen. Seasons, they toasted the defeated Queen! By the end of the three days, there was little the people of Ghalain had not toasted. On the fourth day, Queen Selene hosted an open court in Nyneveh for petitioners and if the request was reasonable, she was unlikely to refuse. With the help of the Thirds Council to oversee the efforts, in that day, she began to fulfill the promises she had made when she had been campaigning for queenship to bring Ghalain into the future. Every year afterwards, she held open courts on that day in memory of the battle.
And in one of those years, something of her past reappeared.
A hooded figure lurked until the sun had almost set and most of the petitioners had been attended. He would have wished that he could have met with the Queen alone, but he knew that was impossible. He watched her, happily laughing with Emir Kershid of Tirahm, a title his following the death of his brother. Something jealous twisted in him. Drawing his stained crimson cloak around him, he wondered if the Steward now shared the bed of the Queen. He noted that the engagement ring he had given her, that Pari jewel, an Aperine heirloom, no longer glittered blindingly on her tapered fingers. He could hear her voice now: What do you have to be jealous of? I am not the one who took off with his mistress the moment he was freed from his wife.
“Sir?”
Her voice cut through him, like a knife easily slicing through bread. It had not always been so. He stepped closer.
“What is your petition?” Despite the long day of work, her voice was unstrained, patient and warm. He wondered if she had grown queenly only recently or if she had always been so. He had thought himself so much stronger than the woman who sat upon the Bronze Throne, but that was just another thing he had miscalculated. He wondered what life would have been like had he not been so blind.
Still, if not for him, he doubted whether Selene would have ever sat on the throne. Had it not been he who had requested the Pari princess to enchant Fyodor into supporting Selene? She had spelled him so unwillingly and the glamour had quickly worn out, but not before Fyodor had had the chance to cast his vote for Selene.
“No one may appear masked before the Queen. Lower your hood, sir.” Kershid’s sonorous voice was sharp and the visitor suppressed a swell of dislike.
The visitor dropped his hood and raised his apple green eyes boldly. A parade of emotions marched across Selene’s face; revulsion, hatred, fear, and something, something soft that passed almost before he could register it but gave him cause to hope.
“Seize him,” Kershid ordered flatly.
Selene put a hand on his arm and said sternly, “I am still queen here, Kershid.”
“Yes, your Majesty.” Kershid fell back, chastened.
Selene turned her steely blue gaze on him. It was a cool regard that picked apart everything about him: from the growth of his beard, to the muddied hem of his cloak to his scuffed boots with their Pari-forged buckles.
“You do know,” she said icily, “that I am within every right of the laws of Ghalain to summon a guard and have you carted off to prison?”
“Yes, your Majesty,” he said with uncharacteristic meekness. It had been a chance coming here, but he was willing to take the gamble. He looked up at Selene on her throne. The pay-off would be rewarding.
She was caught off-guard by his diffidence. “So, what have you come to risk your life for?”
He threw himself to his knees. “I beg your Majesty, provide me another chance to be your husband. I swear, I will honor you as I should have.” He would honor her, and they would rule together, and he would be King of Ghalain as it should always have been.
Her lip curled into a sneer, and with a disgusted jerk, she pulled her wide blue skirt back. “Given your mountains of sin against me and the kingdom of Ghalain, I do not think so.”
Another word, another evil remained unspoken between them: Auralia.
“Your Majesty...for the love of your child,” he pled.
Her jaw clenched. Two more names: Evela, Talia. Seeing her discontent, Kershid stood, ready to motion the guards. “Your Majesty, at your command.”
She waved him down, a thoughtful gleam in her eye. “No...Speak plainly, Gwydion. No more of your mysterious and pious circles.
What do you want?”
“Another opportunity. Did I not, when you were ill after your coronation, prove my utmost affection and loyalty to you? Did I not obey your commands and wait by your side and be your comfort and strength? I would ask you to remember those days.” He had been moved to true emotion after the birth, but through it all, every action had been laced with a thought to ingratiate himself to her goodwill so that he might be saved from death and ignominy. He was Gwydion Aperine and no kindness was free.
She reflected quietly for sometime and then finally raised a doubtful eyebrow. He recognized the gesture. It was his own. “I cannot grant you an opportunity without forgiveness and in turn I cannot forgive you without redemption. You have committed some of the gravest offenses known to man. Yet, you are the father of my daughter. But even that, we know, was under the darkest auspices.”
She peered at him closely, her blue eyes almost black with intensity. “And think not you can fool me with sweet words, Gwydion Aperine. I know the very shadows of your soul.”
He could almost believe it.
He wanted to run, to leap away from this folly. What had he been thinking? He knew what he had been thinking. He had hoped forgiveness would be easily bought, with a smile and kind word, as if such petty change could erase a world of misdeed. He regarded Kershid who watched him with an equanimous hatred.
Selene raised her voice. “But for the guards, you must all leave.”
The lingering attendants and petitioners and even Kershid departed. Gwydion regarded it as a good sign.
“You want forgiveness,” she whispered roughly. “Don’t you know that there are some deeds unworthy of it? Murder...rape...”
He fell to his knees. “Surely, there is some way I can convince your of my sincerity. I have come from Pari, where I could no longer remain. The joys left me cold, food turned to ash in my mouth, my sins weighed on me so.”
“I could nearly believe you.” She said it softly, almost wistfully.
Gwydion drew hope. It had been so many years since then. Auralia was happily wed to Ferdas, blissfully ignorant of what had happened to her. What he had done to her. Queen Erina would have died anyways—so what if he had hastened her departure? And there was Talia. From the moment he had stepped back into Ghalain, he had heard tales of the beautiful golden-haired little princess the Queen doted on. He had given her to Selene. However Talia had come, he had brought Selene that great joy in her life. Surely that must count for something? So far as he could reckon, the good he had brought into the world, far outweighed the bad.
“But I cannot find it in my heart to forgive you the gravest trespass of my sister’s person. She may not know, but I know and there are few deeds under the sun that are more evil. And more worthy of vengeance.”
Gwydion could not believe what she was saying. How could she say such things? He knew that in spite of everything, she loved him...didn’t she? Surely she loved him, the man who had defended her life, who had brought her the crown, who had comforted her after the stillbirth...surely she would not then imprison him?
As if reading his thoughts, she said, “No, I will not imprison you.”
He could have sighed with relief, but knew better than to let any emotion touch his face. He was steady and cool, as if impervious to all that happened around him.
She spoke aloud, but Gwydion had the feeling that the words were for herself. “I once vowed that I would take your head.” Her eyes cut to him. “I will not be foresworn.”
Some of the coolness, so studied from the courts of Hademer, fled. Sweat picked out on his brow. “No!” He could not help the cry. It was torn from his throat.
“You will resist your Queen?” The words were icy and careful. Suddenly, he could not see the Selene he had grown up with, the Selene he had wed, whose emotions danced plain on her face and whose rages and sarcasm rose with ease. No, this was a different creature entirely. She was cold and meticulous and with an almost unearthly glow, an avenging goddess.
It was then, that Gwydion realized he was about to die. He braced his knees and found his careless mask again.
“Matiz, your sword,” Selene called to the guard still at the side of the throne. The man loped over easily and handed the Queen his blade, obeying without question.
“Remove your cloak,” she ordered Gwydion. With unsteady hands, he too obeyed without question.
The stone floor was cold and hard beneath his knees.
Selene hefted the blade with both hands. It gleamed dangerously in the sunlight. His pulse bobbed in his throat. The blade lightly touched his neck once. Blood pounded dizzily in his head. And then the cold iron touched his neck again, only to be lifted. The soft golden hairs on his nape prickled. Perhaps Selene has lost her nerve, perhaps she will let me go, Seasons imprisonment would be better—
The blade sang in the air.
And so ended the life of Gwydion Aperine.
Selene handed the bloody sword to Matiz. “Apologies for the mess.” The hem of her gown was stained black with Gwydion’s blood. His head had rolled a few feet from the crumpled heap of his body. Spring green eyes stared blankly at the high ceiling.
Selene walked out of the room without a backwards glance.