by S. C. Emmett
I looked back at Arro and found my voice. “What do you think?”
“The man who abandoned his position, who abandoned you, has no right to demand a meeting on his terms, let alone in a place as far as Ziri-nar-Orxiaro. I smell a trap.”
“He insists that it is a safe place for us to meet. Anzhao City would be on neutral grounds, away from the warlords’ meddling.”
“Easy for an Ikessar to say,” Arro grumbled. Blackie came up to rub along his leg, and he pushed the dog away in disgust. He tugged his rice hat back into place. “Take my advice, my queen. Ignore it. The man disappears for the better part of five years and then thinks that you will come running to him after a mere letter? Such arrogance.”
I was silent for a moment. “The warlords…” I started. “A good number of them supported the Ikessars.”
Arro snorted. “They did. And so? They are content with whispers in the dark. None have dared challenge your position.”
“Not yet,” I said. “Whispers in the dark are still dangerous. Did we not learn that in the days of the Ikessars’ rule? They can roust the people, put ideas where they don’t belong. All it takes is one warlord to decide he’s had enough and get two more to agree with him. The rest will follow, and I will be yet another failed Dragonlord in this damned land’s history.”
“It’s like trying to take control of a pack of dogs. Just bark louder than the rest.”
“And you know a thing or two about dogs, do you, Arro?” I asked, watching him try to avoid Blackie’s pestering tongue with a measure of amusement. Finally, I took pity on him and whistled. The dog returned to me. “The other warlords do not challenge me because Rai left of his own accord. They can say whatever they want…They have no proof I put a sword to his back and bullied him out of my lands. But it doesn’t mean it will end there. Lately, they have turned to openly blaming me for his actions, and if word gets out that Rai wrote to me and I refused to answer, they will think I meant to hold on to the crown by myself. The idea of a wolf of Oren-yaro on the throne still frightens them.”
Arro looked like he wanted to argue, but one of the things I appreciated about him was that he saw sense even when he didn’t agree with it. He tucked his hands into his sleeves. “I will convene with the others,” he said. “We will have to investigate this letter before we can make a decision.”
“Of course,” I said. “But this is the first time in years that Lord Rayyel has agreed to talk to us. Regardless of our personal opinions, he remains of importance to the royal clans. Don’t do anything drastic— I will not have him frightened into silence.”
He nodded, wiping his hands on his beard yet again. It was an affectation of his, a Zarojo mannerism. Arro had grown up in the empire, brought over to serve my father a long time ago— I would’ve thought he’d have jumped at the chance to visit his home after so many years.
I went up the flagstone steps leading to the garden, Blackie running in circles around me. I was doing a remarkable job at keeping calm. Only when I reached the fountain did my knees buckle. I sat on the edge, listening to the water bubble and the frogs croak.
“I told you to declare war on the bastards five years ago,” a voice called from the gate. I looked up to see my father’s general striding past the rose bushes. He must’ve been there when they first opened the letter. Although I knew it was a precaution, it irritated me that I was always the last to know, that other people were always making decisions for me. Taking a deep breath, I got up to face him.
Unlike Arro, Lord General Ozo never tried to hide his displeasure, especially his displeasure at my ruling.
He threw a staff in my direction, giving me only a split second to catch it before he charged with bamboo sticks, one in each hand. I stepped back and met his attack. Ozo was a big man, covered in hard muscle that had yet to go to fat, despite his age. Bamboo against bamboo clattered together. I staggered back.
“War,” I repeated. “I told you before, Lord General Ozo. We don’t have the resources.”
He slapped the back of his head with his hand, his arm tattoos a deep black against his sunburnt skin. “I’m the one with the soldiers. I’m the one who can tell you we can crush the bastards if you just gave the order.”
“And I’m your queen,” I said as I tried to jam the end of my staff into his head. Just once, it would be satisfying to see his nose break.
He sidestepped, twirling the sticks in his hands. “Some queen. Your footwork alone…”
I bristled as I fixed my feet. “Is that insubordination?”
“That’s honesty,” he snarled as he charged me a second time. I spun on my heel, my staff slamming into his gut. But he only laughed it off. “This land is teetering on the brink of destruction because you can’t make up your mind about what to do with that husband of yours.” He continued to attack. “The other warlords laugh at you behind their cups. The peasants think you weak. You want to see the bastard? Order me to set fire to his holdings, and he’ll come riding back to save his clan. I’ll cut off his head, then.”
“He’s still your Dragonlord,” I gasped, barely keeping up with his assault. I didn’t know where the man still found the energy. He was old, too old to be sparring in broad daylight.
Sweat poured down his face as he finally grabbed my staff, dragging me up to him. “Uncrowned, like his uncle before him,” he said. “I won’t submit to it. He’s no king of mine. And you won’t be queen for much longer if you don’t make a decision. You forget that you’re Dragonlord, too.” He spat on the bushes, a healthy globule that trickled down the leaves. My poor gardener was going to be livid. Then he pushed me away.
“Must this end in war?” I asked, relaxing my stance. “If I can find a peaceful resolution…”
“A peaceful resolution?” he asked incredulously. “You? You’re Warlord Yeshin’s. Yeshin the Butcher’s daughter. The land will never allow you peace if you don’t crush them under an iron fist first. You want our people to listen to you instead of their warlords, their clans, their families? Put them on a tight leash. Strangle their necks if you have to.”
“Says Yeshin’s general.”
Ozo sniffed, flicking his sticks from side to side. “Or you can walk willingly into this trap for the sake of seeing your sorry sack of a husband and bring shame to the Oren-yaro. After everything your father has sacrificed, you would do this to him. And for what? The man has been nothing but trouble to Jin-Sayeng!” He lunged. The right stick smacked against my face before I could lift the staff to protect myself.
My skin prickled as I twirled the staff, jabbing him on the side. “You would say that, Lord Ozo,” I hissed as I pulled back to jab him again. “You hate his clan.”
“Hundreds of years under his clan’s rule has brought us nothing but sorrow.” He rewarded my efforts with another blow to my head. I reared back, shaking, and he gave a small grin. “You’re the one with every reason to hate them. Their incompetence killed your brothers.”
“Brothers I’ve never met,” I grumbled, wiping my jaw.
“They were good men, and the Ikessars took them from us. Before your father’s war, we had a Dragonlord who chose to wander the world instead of rule. And his father before him…” He spat again. “Shoddy rule after shoddy rule, and now this. Now you have the chance to prove to Jin-Sayeng we don’t need the bastards at all.”
My fingers tightened around the staff. “We don’t, Ozo. But this alliance was my father’s decision.”
“A sorry excuse for an alliance. I’ve never seen an alliance where the other party slinks away and refuses to do their part for half a decade. And if you do decide to go to the empire, what then? Do you know how corrupt their cities are? Their officials won’t help you. As far as they’re concerned, Jin-Sayeng is a land of penniless peasants, and they wouldn’t be wrong. And all you’ve got is that cracked halfblood adviser of yours, and Captain Nor. Nor’s Oren-yaro, at least— I don’t doubt her capabilities, but she’s not Agos.”
“Don’t sta
rt this, General. Not again.”
He lowered his sticks. “He was the best guard captain my army had produced, and you threw it all away for nothing. Don’t come running to me for help if you get in trouble.” He started to walk away.
“Not another step, General,” I said in a low voice.
“You’ve got a sword. Put me in my place if you want to stop me,” he snarled.
I dropped the staff and drew my sword.
He turned his head to the side and laughed. “Now what? Cut me down.”
“Don’t test me.”
“But I am,” he said, laughing. “I am, and you’re failing. You hesitate. You always do, pup, and I’m sure when the time comes, you’ll hesitate with him, too. Your lenience will be the death of us all.” With a wave of his hand, he walked off. If he was anyone else, I could’ve had him executed on the spot, but…he was still a lord. An elder. In many ways, his authority eclipsed mine.
My fingers trembled as I watched him disappear around the bend, the same way my husband had done all those years ago. War. The word twisted inside my gut. General Ozo had wanted it declared the eve of the coronation. War would bolster Oren-yaro rule…if we won it. We had the largest army in the land, but that meant nothing if the others united against us.
“Mother.”
A second voice, one that most days would have calmed me. Today, it filled me with dread. I sheathed my sword, wiped my face, and turned to my son.
“I heard what the general said,” Thanh breathed. He hesitated. “Is it true?”
“You really shouldn’t be eavesdropping on grown-ups.”
He cocked his head to the side, the way he always did when I called him out for things and he understood he’d done wrong, he’d just rather not dwell on it. I believe my father would’ve called it something like discourtesy. Defiance. I merely found it amusing. “But are you really going to see Father? You’re going to bring him back?”
Up until that moment, I hadn’t been sure what I was going to do. A part of me was inclined to set the letter aside. I had done it before. After Rayyel left, it took a whole month for his first letter to arrive. It was an angry letter, full of his misgivings about our relationship. I left it inside my desk, refusing to read the rest of it. I had hoped he would send another soon, that time would ease the anger, would allow us to speak without throwing barbed words at each other.
That soon became five years. The letter in my hands was his second.
“If I do go to Anzhao,” I said, “I can bring you back a book, or a falcon. I’ve heard they breed such beautiful falcons in Anzhao City. A white one, perhaps. And they have these little dogs…”
“I want my father,” Thanh said, his voice growing stern.
I stared at my son, at the way he held himself, firm jaw, straight back, more pride and dignity than most adults I’ve known. My beautiful boy, seven years old, aged by his father’s absence in a way I couldn’t have anticipated. I had watched him turn from that chubby-cheeked toddler calling impatiently for his papa to this calm, quiet child who could no longer recall his father’s face. Do you know what it feels like to see your son looking back at you, waiting for an answer that would soothe away those hurts, all those years of crying for his father in the night? To know that your words could crush his hopes and dreams in an instant? The boy could break me.
I held my breath and spoke before I could even really think it through. “So I will,” I said. “I’ll bring your father back, even if it’s against his will. I promise. We’ll be a family again.”
If they were lies, they were such beautiful lies. The rush of relief in his eyes sealed the deal.
I’ve never known a life outside politics.
I have been told that monarchs can have hobbies. The last true Dragonlord, Reshiro, kept butterflies. But then again, he was an Ikessar, and only Ikessars would find interest in that sort of thing.
My words to my son ringing in my ears, I returned to my chambers to try to find that first letter. It was gone. The drawers contained other things— a rattle from when my son was an infant, various brushes and empty ink jars. Old books. A wrinkled piece of brown paper I had folded several times over for my son— it had been a boat, and then a hat, and then a frog that could jump if you pressed its back. No letter. It was odd; I was sure I had left it there.
I returned to the new letter and read it a third time. My husband’s words were flat and empty, precise, as if he were asking to meet with any other official. He addressed it to my full name and ended with his, with no hint of emotion anywhere. As if I was nothing. Not his wife, not the mother of his son. Not a woman he loved.
You would think that last part wouldn’t sting anymore. I had considered the possibility enough times in the past— years of silence could do that. He didn’t love me anymore. He never loved me at all. But I knew thinking like this was wasted energy. I could unearth all my memories of him and turn them over in my head until I came close to madness, and I would still come to a different conclusion every time. That look in his eyes as he helped me down the steps when I was heavily pregnant with our son— was it devotion, or was it abhorrence over my weakness? Whenever he held my hand, was it because he wanted to, or because I wanted him to?
That old irritation returned. Assurance was not something I had ever received in my marriage, and it would be foolish to expect it now. I could just as easily shove the letter into my desk again and forget about it for another five years. Life was complicated enough as it was. Rayyel left us. Twist the words however you want; he was the one who walked away.
I sat on the edge of the bed and looked through the window. Out in the courtyard, I spotted members of the Queen’s Guard busy with their daily exercise, the light drizzle cloaking their sinewy forms. Their faces were blank, determined. I doubted that expression would go away even if you threw them naked into freezing snow.
Unfaltering, dutiful, and loyal to a fault— these tenets are why the rest of Jin-Sayeng have labelled our people wolves of Oren-yaro, a term that started as an insult. These wolves, they like to say, these bloodthirsty beasts, these savages who would stop at nothing. But far from taking offense, we decided to adopt the title, bestowing the name wolf of Oren-yaro on all who fall under the shadow of our province. As a people, we embrace these tenets, regardless of clan, regardless of caste, setting us apart from the rest of Jin-Sayeng. It has created a unity never before seen in these lands. We know it. The others know it. It is why the Oren-yaro are as feared as they are revered; the strength of our resolution has toppled realms.
Let me tell you a story. A long time ago, five hundred and twenty-six wolves of Oren-yaro died protecting Shirrokaru, the Jin-Sayeng capital and Ikessar stronghold, from warlords who rebelled. The rebels numbered over three thousand. By the end of the assault, all our soldiers lay dead except for one: Warlord Tal aren dar Orenar. He stood in the middle of that battlefield, covered in the blood of friend, family, and foe, and held his position for over two days in case the enemy dared to return. When the Ikessar lord came to view the slaughter, Warlord Tal was still able to throw his sword aside and bend his knee before he died.
I had no intention of bending my knee, not to the man who had broken his vows. But I thought of Warlord Tal, for whom I was named, as I watched my soldiers out in the courtyard. I watched them go through the motions, their voices drowned by the torrent of rainfall, and thought that if Warlord Tal could do it— if he could fight a battle in the face of defeat and then stand strong between those corpses for the sake of never giving up his post— then I could do my part. I could learn to swallow the silence and face my husband again.
if you enjoyed
THE POISON PRINCE
look out for
THE MASK OF MIRRORS
Rook & Rose: Book One
by
M. A. Carrick
Nightmares are creeping through the City of Dreams….
Renata Viraudax is a con artist who has come to the sparkling city of Nadežra— the City of
Dreams— with one goal: to trick her way into a noble house and secure her fortune and her sister’s future.
But as she’s drawn into the elite world of House Traementis, she realizes her masquerade is just one of many surrounding her. And as corrupt magic begins to weave its way through Nadežra, the poisonous feuds of its aristocrats and the shadowy dangers of its impoverished underbelly become tangled— with Ren at their heart.
1
THE MASK OF MIRRORS
Isla Traementis, the Pearls: Suilun 1
After fifteen years of handling the Traementis house charters, Donaia Traementis knew that a deal which looked too good to be true probably was. The proposal currently on her desk stretched the boundaries of belief.
“He could at least try to make it look legitimate,” she muttered. Did Mettore Indestor think her an utter fool?
He thinks you desperate. And he’s right.
She burrowed her stockinged toes under the great lump of a hound sleeping beneath her desk and pressed cold fingers to her brow. She’d removed her gloves to avoid ink stains and left the hearth in her study unlit to save the cost of fuel. Besides Meatball, the only warmth was from the beeswax candles— an expense she couldn’t scrimp on unless she wanted to lose what eyesight she had left.
Adjusting her spectacles, she scanned the proposal again, scratching angry notes between the lines.
She remembered a time when House Traementis had been as powerful as the Indestor family. They had held a seat in the Cinquerat, the five-person council that ruled Nadežra, and charters that allowed them to conduct trade, contract mercenaries, control guilds. Every variety of wealth, power, and prestige in Nadežra had been theirs. Now, despite Donaia’s best efforts and her late husband’s before her, it had come to this: scrabbling at one Dusk Road trade charter as though she could milk enough blood from that stone to pay off all the Traementis debts.