by Gary Meehan
“Is that . . . ?”
Skúla nodded.
The Unifier’s crown. Legend had it the Saviors themselves had presented it to him; history told them his son, Edwyn the Second, had lost it in the Kartiks while trying to retake the Snow Cities.
“You kept it?” said Megan. “You didn’t melt it down?”
“Sentimental value.”
Megan bent forward for a closer look, semi-unintentionally dislodging Rekka’s foot. There were holes stamped into the metal, where precious stones had once been set. Megan pointed at them.
“Where are the . . . ?”
“Bills to pay,” said Skúla. “We’re not that sentimental.” She spread her palms like an obsequious merchant. “Please consider this a gift, from the people of Trávi to the Queen of Werlavia. Might need a bit of a polish to really bring it up.”
Rekka smirked. “And we’re back to life’s lessons.”
“You can’t help yourself, can you, Rekka?”
“How else do you think I got five children?”
“Six, mama,” said Yrsa.
Rekka ticked off her fingers. “Oh yes, you’re right. I’m glad someone’s keeping count.”
“Why don’t you try it on, ma’am?” Skúla said to Megan.
Megan was afraid to touch the crown, afraid of everything it represented. It had been touched by the regal, by the divine, and she was neither, just a political pretext. On the other hand, it was a piece of metal that had languished in a box for three hundred years.
She accepted the crown from Yrsa and tentatively placed it on her head. It slipped down, only the top of her ears and the bridge of her nose preventing it becoming a necklace.
“Edwyn had a big head,” said Rekka. “Who knew?”
Skúla lifted the crown off Megan’s head. “We can pad it.”
Maybe they could. But Megan felt it was going to take more than a few stuffed rags to make her queen.
sixteen
Afreyda was waiting for Megan outside the great hall after the morning’s worship. “Ími has something to show us.”
“I hope it’s more impressive than last time,” said Megan. “How is Flóki, by the way?”
“His hand has not yet grown back, if that is what you are asking.”
Brother Broose hurried after them, feet slipping on compacted snow. He reached out to steady himself on Megan. Afreyda caught his arm before he could make contact and threw him to the ground.
“I wasn’t going to hurt her!” said Brother Broose, limbs flailing as he tried to get back up. “I just wanted to talk.”
Afreyda pressed a boot to his chest and pinned him back to the ground. “You can talk from down there.”
“It’s cold!”
“It is hardly summer up here.”
“Let him up, captain.”
Afreyda reluctantly stepped back. Brother Broose struggled to his feet, brushing ice from his shoulders as if it was dandruff. Afreyda placed herself between him and Megan. Megan was touched by the gesture but also a little annoyed. She could look after herself.
“What is it, Brother Broose?”
“We need a proper temple, Your”—he swallowed, struggling to complete the honorific—“Your Majesty. We can’t keep using the barbarians’ drinking den. It stinks of beer.”
Megan was surprised a priest thought this objectionable. “We’ve barely got enough roofs for everyone. We can’t waste men and material building you a nice office.”
“The Faithful are willing to volunteer their time.”
“If they have time, I have a hundred jobs they could be doing.”
“If we do not celebrate the Faith, then what are we doing this for? To survive? The witches offered us that.”
“We can still worship, can’t we?” said Megan. “If you show me where in the Book of Faith it demands temples before shelter, I’ll consider it.”
“Their own temple would give the people hope.”
“So will not freezing to death.”
Brother Broose scowled. Snot trickled down the channels of his lined skin. Megan squeezed his arm. “We don’t need a temple here, brother, because we’re not stopping. We’re going to go home, when this is over. Back to our own cities and lands, our own houses and temples.”
Brother Broose stepped back, doubt etched into his face. It was a look she had seen on many faces, sometimes subsumed immediately, other times held as if in defiance. Megan wished there was some way she could convince him, convince everyone else, convince herself.
“If you’ll excuse me, Your Majesty, I have lessons to give.”
Megan gave him leave and followed Afreyda to the docks, where a boat was waiting for them. As they cut across the calm waters, into which snow gently sprinkled and melted, she brooded on what Brother Broose had said. Eleanor had once said survival was the first step, but what about the second step and the third and every step after that? It was easy to offer promises, no matter how sincerely meant; much harder to keep them.
Afreyda studied Megan with a soft but unflinching gaze. “What is wrong?” she asked.
“Oh, you know.”
“The affairs of state?” said Afreyda. Megan nodded. “You are very young to have such a burden.”
“No older than you, captain.”
“No, I think I am older.”
“Really?” said Megan. “How old are you anyway?”
Afreyda thought for a moment. “I think I turned nineteen a few weeks ago,” she said. Megan wouldn’t be eighteen until the sixth day of midsummer, a date the witches considered oh so important.
“You should’ve told me,” said Megan. “I would have got you a present.”
“I was not sure. It is hard to tell. You have no proper calendars over here.”
“I know, I know. Everything is better in the empire.”
“Apart from the head of state,” said Afreyda. As this was a man she had vowed to kill, Megan wasn’t sure she could take it as much of a compliment.
They made landfall at the end of an expanse of snow-covered beach, whose purity was broken only by a trail of tiny paw prints that looped round in a confused trail before disappearing into the tundra of the bordering hills. There was a small crowd waiting for them: Ími, Fordel, Willas, Vegar, Rekka and one of Fordel’s clerks. The last had a certain singed quality to him.
Megan tried to stamp some life into her chilled feet. “What’s this about?”
The crowd parted. Rekka swung her walking stick, causing a chime as it struck one of the witches’ guns. It had a brother, or rather a distant cousin: a second gun, longer and broader, its body formed of shining steel that reflected the overhead clouds rather than dull pig iron. Both were mounted on wheeled carriages.
“You made that?” asked Megan, pointing at the shiny gun. Ími nodded. “And the gunpowder?”
“We found the formula, Your Majesty,” said Ími. A strained look flashed across the clerk’s face. “Eventually.”
“And what is the formula?”
Ími’s response was a smile and a sweep of his hand toward the hills that lay beyond the beach. “If you like to come this way to the observation post . . .”
Rekka pouted. “We have to walk?”
“If you want to volunteer to stay here and fire the guns,” said Ími, “you’re most welcome, my lady.” The clerk nodded enthusiastically. “We are still in the . . . experimental stage though.”
“I’ve not fallen so low as to attempt science.”
Leaving the clerk behind, they made their way up the hill. Rekka insisted that not only should her husband support her, but Willas should too. Megan got the honor of carrying her walking stick. Only fears of causing a diplomatic incident prevented her from whacking her cousin with it.
Ími wove his way between the shrubs that poked through the snow as if they were an obstacle path, gabbling on like a used-carriage salesman. “Because of our superior steel, we’re able to pack more gunpowder in our gun than the witches can theirs. Withstands the f
orces better.”
“How d’you find that out?” asked Megan.
“Trial and error,” said Ími. He wrinkled his mouth. “It was the error that did it.”
“What does more gunpowder mean?” asked Afreyda.
“Well, louder . . .”
They reached a bunker almost buried into the ground. Steep steps led down to a bare room that reeked of stale urine and rotten fish. That part of the wall facing the beach that was above ground was open, giving a clear view of the inlet beyond. Megan guessed it was used for reconnaissance in times of trouble, most likely by observers with no sense of smell.
“Make yourself comfortable,” said Ími, heading back for the stairs. “I have to go direct things.”
“Is this where he brings all his dates?” Rekka asked Fordel, who answered with a sardonic smile.
Megan had to stand on tiptoes to see out, which soon put a strain on her calves. She gave up and followed Ími outside, pulling her hood up to protect her ears from the biting cold.
He frowned. “I really think it’s safer for you to be inside, ma’am.”
Megan pointed at the guns, which were aimed down the beach. “They’re not going to hit me from there. Are they?”
“It’s not impossible.”
Megan shrugged. “I’m here now.”
There was clomping behind them. Afreyda, Willas, Rekka and Fordel trooped up out of the bunker. “Really!” said Ími, exasperated.
“It does pong a bit,” said Rekka.
“What about Vegar?” asked Megan.
“He quite likes it. Reminds him of his youth.”
“If you get your legs blown off, don’t come running to me.” Ími waved them away. “I’d advise you to stand a bit further back.”
The crowd shuffled back a foot. Afreyda took Megan’s arm and pulled her further up the hill. Megan wondered if it was entirely a coincidence they ended up with Rekka between them and the guns.
Ími pulled two kerchiefs out of his pocket, one red, one blue. He held the red one above his head, waved it and dropped his arm. Down on the beach, the clerk lit the fuse of the witches’ gun with a torch and raced to a safe distance. There was a boom. The gun recoiled as if disgusted at what it had spat out. A few hundred yards down the beach, a column of snow, sand and smoke was sent into the air.
“That’s for reference,” said Ími. “Now for the interesting part. Or for the spectacular failure. Given there are important people watching, I predict the latter.”
Ími raised the blue kerchief, waved it, let it drop. The clerk crept toward the Hilite gun as if it was a slumbering monster and gently touched the torch to the fuse snaking out of its back. Then, even faster than before, he dashed for cover.
Megan held her breath, waiting for the gun to fire. It was taking longer than the first—a longer fuse? She sought out Afreyda’s hand, squeezed it. A squeeze came in response.
An explosion ripped around the inlet. Megan cringed and instinctively jerked her head away. When she looked back, there was a second crater smoldering away on the beach. This one was further away from the guns by half as much again.
Her brain whirled with the implications. “We can outgun the witches,” she said, facing Afreyda.
“We can hit them before they could even get close enough to touch us.”
“We can defeat them.”
“We can win this war.”
“We can be free.”
The emotion overwhelmed Megan and burst out into a kiss she planted on Afreyda’s mouth. Afreyda stepped back, looking a little shocked, her fingers going to her lips. Megan swallowed, realizing what she’d done, instantly regretting it.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”
She stumbled away. Afreyda caught her before she’d managed more than a couple of steps and twisted her around. She stepped up close so their hoods merged and they were enveloped in their own pocket universe and Megan could feel Afreyda’s elevated breathing play on her skin. Her heart raced until her body trembled. She had faced swords and guns, armies and navies, priests and witches, but this was more terrifying than anything else. She wanted to run away. She wanted to be here and nowhere else.
In the end, Megan couldn’t say who kissed whom. All she knew was her lips were on Afreyda’s, that their mouths were opening, that their tongues were intertwining. They were exploring one another, giving and accepting, declaring themselves.
A polite cough prompted them to break. “We do have a war to plan,” said Fordel.
Megan looked into Afreyda’s eyes, pulse raised, breath not quite filling her lungs. “Get the witches to concentrate their forces,” she said. “Give you a target to fire at.”
“Ships would be best,” said Afreyda.
“Lure their fleet up here.”
“How?” asked Rekka.
“I’m sure you’ll figure out a way,” said Megan.
Right now, she had other things on her mind.
Megan couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so serene—before the witches had come, at least; never, quite possibly. The cares of the world were reduced to background noise, every other person as real as a fading dream. She would have to face them sooner or later—all right, sooner—but for now all that mattered were the arms wrapped around her, the touch of Afreyda’s body as they lay in bed.
“How long have you known?” asked Megan. “That . . . you know?”
“I do not know. You could be talking about anything.”
“That you liked . . . ?”
“You? Girls? Tea?”
“All of them,” said Megan. “Well, I possibly don’t need the complete history of your relationship with tea.”
“It is a very strange drink.”
“There was someone else? Back in the empire?”
“Yes.”
Megan tensed. Afreyda shushed her and kissed her bare shoulder. A spark ran the length of Megan’s body.
“It was a long time ago.”
“What happened to her?”
“Her father found out about us. He banished her.”
“They disapprove then, in the empire? Of two women . . . ?”
“Yes.”
“But you did it anyway?”
“Yes,” said Afreyda. “They will disapprove here too? The priests?”
“Priests disapprove of everything other people do,” said Megan. “Do you think about her? This girl?”
“Do you think about Cate’s father?”
Wade. “Not for a long time.”
“Did you lo—Did you like him?”
“I don’t know,” said Megan. “I thought I did at the time, but I think that’s how everyone expected me to feel. I convinced myself I cared for him, but I was just doing Gwyneth’s job for her. It’s what you’re meant to do, right? Meet a boy, get married, have children. I almost got that right. All right, I cocked up the order . . .”
“And now?” said Afreyda. “Are you going to do what you are meant to do?”
“No. I’m going to do what I want to do.”
“Because you are queen?”
“No,” said Megan, “because I’m me.” She lifted Afreyda’s hand to her lips and planted a soft kiss on each of her fingers. “Priests, witches, they all want to tell people what to do, what to feel. Not me. Not any more. I don’t care what they say; I don’t care what they do. No one’s going to stop me being with you. If they try, I’ll have a blade waiting for them.”
seventeen
The throne room fell silent. Everyone got to their feet. Horns blew. A shiver rippled across Damon’s skin. Gwyneth entered and paraded down the aisle, the True captains carrying her train like the world’s grimmest bridesmaids. Her gown was a gorgeous concoction of white silk slashed at regular intervals to reveal the red velvet underneath—wounded innocence, how very like Gwyneth—bare at the shoulders to show off her perfect olive skin. She looked utterly beautiful. Then she smiled and Damon wanted to say a prayer for the whole world.
It was ludi
crous, this elevation of a peasant girl to Queen of Werlavia, but then what did justify power? Bloodlines, money, popularity, the ability to kill a large number of people in a short amount of time? How long would they endure her? How long before distaste of her capriciousness outweighed the fear of splitting the True? How long before someone raised her daughter, and reminded the True she was the one they should be following, the one they had fought for?
Tobrytan was waiting by the throne. He bade Gwyneth sit. Gwyneth gave him the kind of look that suggested she needn’t be bid to do anything then regarded the assembled throng. They stared back, unsure of the expected response. Gwyneth gave Tobrytan a regal wave. Tobrytan swallowed and started. Gwyneth had insisted on using Werlay in the ceremony—classier, she claimed—though she had at least agreed to spare Tobrytan and the audience the traditional recitation of The Unification, an epic poem telling the story of Edwyn’s conquest, written by someone who thought the version in the Book of Faith neither long nor hagiographic enough.
Tobrytan’s delivery was hesitant and monotone, as stiff as that of a schoolboy made to present his homework in front of class. Mispronunciations were rife; many words were omitted or replaced with “um”; at one point he called Gwyneth the “evil she-wolf from hell” instead of “our glorious monarch”—Werlay was not a language that forgave sloppiness. A few merchants in the crowd sniggered. They looked rich enough to afford the kind of useless education that included dead languages.
Tobrytan declaimed each of the three coronation vows, Gwyneth answering each of them with a simple Prana—“I pledge.” If she was being honest, which was probably asking too much, she would have answered Mata, Pōta, Diso Kătera—“I might,” “Possibly” and “Not a chance.”
A lieutenant marched in from a back room, carrying the crown on a velvet cushion. They’d found the headpiece in the old royal vaults. Best guess was it had been made for Queen Alodie, who had abandoned the throne after internecine battles with the priests and founded the Sisters of the Faith, a career path Gwyneth was unlikely to follow. The crown had been reset with sapphires, with the star-broken circle picked out on its front in rubies. At its apex was a massive diamond.