by Gary Meehan
“She’s carrying my child,” said Damon. “I can’t let you harm it.”
“How could . . . how could . . . ? I trusted you.”
“Did you?”
“Not to do that anyway. Not with her.”
Damon’s aim wavered. He kicked some splinters of the battered door out of the way and steadied himself. “I didn’t have much of a choice. Like now.”
Afreyda raised her sword and advanced on Damon, her path putting her in between his crossbow and Megan. “You will have to go through me.”
“Do you think that bothers me?”
“It will when Megan slits your throat while you are busy reloading.”
A voice echoed through the ages. Who threatens two people with a one-shot weapon? “Step out of the way, Afreyda. If he wants to shoot me, he can try. It won’t make any difference. What has to be done will be done, whether you do it or I do it.” Afreyda shuffled out of the way a fraction.
“She’s using you like she used me,” Megan said to Damon. “Like she uses everyone. What do you think’s going to happen? You’re going to retire to Percadia and play unhinged families? You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to prove anything to me. Or Eleanor.”
“This isn’t about her.”
“No. She was worth it.”
There was a tutting behind Megan. Gwyneth glided down the aisle, arms tucked in her sleeves like a bride. Taite remained on the bare steps, head swinging round, looking for a way out. Megan jerked her head. Taite took the hint and fled, disappearing into an antechamber.
“Let me take her, Megan,” said Damon. “At least until the baby’s born. After that . . .”
“Is that all I am to you?” said Gwyneth. “A walking womb?”
“You really have no concept of hypocrisy do you, Gwyn?”
“We can be together,” Damon said to Gwyneth. He looked to Megan. “If you’ll let us.”
“You really do want to . . . ? After everything she . . . ?”
“I’m not saying it’s going to be the perfect marriage . . .”
“Ma—?” Megan choked on the word.
“Child needs its parents,” said Gwyneth.
“No,” said Megan. “You have to pay for what you did.”
“Isn’t a lifetime with me punishment enough?” said Damon.
She looked to Afreyda who, after a pause, gave a reluctant nod. Gwyneth leaned into Megan and pressed their cheeks together. The contact both repulsed and comforted Megan. When was the last time she had touched her sister? That terrible night in Eastport? Megan could only remember pain and confusion and panic.
“Accept it,” whispered Gwyneth, “you’ve lost. You can’t take everything from me.”
Megan bowed her head, trying to work out what to do, whether surrendering Gwyneth to Damon was the right thing to do or an abnegation of her responsibilities. How many enemies had she pardoned and accepted? Couldn’t she manage one final one? But could she risk leaving Gwyneth alive and unrepentant, able to recruit followers?
A trickle of dark liquid ran along the edge of Megan’s sole. She crouched down for a closer look. Was that . . . ? She stretched out and dabbed it with the tip of her finger. It was. She turned to Gwyneth, meaning to look her in the eye, but her gaze got no further than the spots of scarlet blossoming beneath the waist of her sister’s gown.
The others had seen it, too. There was a crash as the crossbow slipped from Damon’s fingers. Gwyneth backed off, her eyes wide with shock, leaving a thin trail of blood in her wake.
“I’m losing it?” she cried.
“Was there anything to lose?” said Megan, rising to her feet. “You sure you’re not just getting your period, Gwyn?”
“This is all your fault!”
Megan had been expecting the strike ever since she’d noticed the knife missing from the steps in front of the throne and Gwyneth’s clumsy attempts to keep her hands hidden, but she hadn’t been expecting the sheer hatred in her sister’s eyes. Sunlight glazed off polished steel as the blade hurtled toward her. There was no finesse to the lunge, but it had all of Gwyneth’s fury behind it.
Instinct took over, instinct created and honed by the ordeals Megan had endured at her sister’s hands. She sidestepped the blow and thrust forward with her own knife. The slender blade pierced flesh oh-so-easily, before Megan had conscious thought of what she was doing.
Gwyneth staggered backward, clutching her stomach. She grabbed the knife, made to pull it out. Someone warned her not to—Damon, Afreyda, maybe even Megan herself. Gwyneth ignored them. The blade came out with a wet smack and a spurt of blood. More blood followed. Gwyneth tried to stem the flow, but it forced its way through her fingers and dripped to the floor.
Megan knew she should do something: staunch the wound, finish Gwyneth off, comfort her in her last moments. She could do nothing but remain rooted to the spot. Emptiness numbed her. She felt neither satisfaction nor grief, just an ill-defined nothingness.
Gwyneth was pale now. Her legs gave way. Her gasp as she hit the floor jolted Megan into movement. Gwyneth held out a hand. Dismissing not beckoning. Megan froze. Gwyneth raised her head, stared at Megan through the bedraggled curtain of her hair.
“My sisters will be born again.”
With that, Gwyneth crumpled. Nothing to stop her, Megan ran to her, the tears filling her eyes for the girl she had once been if not the woman she had become.
thirty-six
A knock prompted Megan to look up from changing Cate. “Come in.”
Father Galan eased his bulk into the room. Access to unrationed food these past few weeks had allowed him to fill out again. “They’re ready for you, Your Majesty.” He nodded at Synne, who was sat on the couch bouncing baby Eleanor on her knee, then cocked his head and regarded Cate. “Is that really the best use for the Supreme Priest’s desk?”
Megan thought it best not to tell him what she’d scrubbed off it an hour earlier. “I’m sure she’s not the first girl who’s been laid on it.”
“Quite.”
Megan had commandeered the Supreme Priest’s quarters in the temple as it was the only place in New Statham she could be sure hadn’t been tainted by the witches. She thought being close to God might help her find forgiveness, but whether she was praying with five thousand others, or alone at night when she had the temple steps to herself and stared up at the stars in vain search of a divine presence, she found herself no closer to knowing His will. She would have to find peace within herself, and deal with God in the afterlife.
She finished tying up Cate’s nappy and sat her on the couch next to Synne. “I’ll be back soon. Are we all packed?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I think you can stop calling me that now.”
Father Galan led Megan through the temple, his sandals slapping against the dusty stone. “Are you sure about this?” he said. “It’s not too late.”
“I’m sure,” said Megan. “Did you sort out a constitution?”
“We have the basis for one.”
“And . . . ?”
“Every man who has reached his majority”—Megan glared at Father Galan—“and every woman, will elect town elders who in turn will elect county governors who in their turn will elect a Secretary of the Realm.”
“And the priests?”
“We will be available as . . . advisers.”
And in control of the bureaucracy. Megan knew from dealing with Fordel how much power that conveyed, but she didn’t have a choice: the priests were the only ones capable of administering the Realm. At least the people now had some say, something to build on.
“Do you think I’m doing the right thing, father?”
“I think you’re creating a system perfect for bribery, back-stabbing and bickering.”
“Is that a yes?”
Father Galan stopped, took Megan by the shoulders. “My child, we will be at the mercy of scores of petty princes each of whom will think they have the greatest legitimacy, the very thing the
Unifier fought to protect us from. The Realm will not stand the pressure. It will fracture within decades.”
“You don’t know that,” said Megan. “The Snow Cities have been allied for centuries.”
“Because they had a greater enemy to defend themselves against.”
“If the Realm fractures, so be it. Does it really matter if people are governed from New Statham or Eastport or Thicketford?”
“If we had a strong monarch . . .”
“No,” said Megan. “People rebel even against strong monarchs and I will not start a war to preserve my own power.”
“And what about the Diannon Emperor?” said Father Galan. “The witches were only his first move. He will come again.”
“And we’ll be ready for him, whether the Realm is in one piece or a dozen. Have faith in the people, father. Don’t fear the worst all the time. Allow yourself to hope for the best once in a while.”
It was a speech aimed more at herself than the priest. Megan couldn’t help fearing she was abandoning the people, destroying the legacy of the Unifier, but she couldn’t let herself become a tyrant. It was presumptuous to believe she was the only one who could protect the Realm. There were millions out there as good as her—time for a few to stand up. And time for her to go home.
Megan and Father Galan stepped out of the temple and into the glare of the afternoon sun. A squad of soldiers was waiting for her, their captain resplendent in her new uniform. Megan smiled at the woman she’d fallen in love with, resisted the urge to kiss her. She was slave to protocol for a little while longer.
The squad fell in behind them as they set off across Saviors’ Square, through the corridor in the crowd formed by a column of city guards. Faces turned to follow Megan’s progress, neighbors barged out of the way, children held up above the forest of heads, all wanting to get a glimpse of the last queen. What did they think of what had happened, what did they think of her? Did they think she was deserting them or were they glad to be rid of her and her whole damned family?
“Any sign of . . . ?” she asked Afreyda, who shook her head.
“I can ask my successor to step up the search.”
“No point.” In a city packed with thieves and conmen, there was little chance of finding Damon if he didn’t want to be found. And given the numbers streaming in and out of the capital in recent weeks, it would have been easy for him to slip away if he’d wanted to.
Trestle tables protected by a flapping canopy had been erected outside the doors of the palace. The original plan had been to hold the ceremony in the throne room, but there was no way Megan wanted to step in there again, so instead they were to do it outside, where everyone could see. The great and the good and the pushy were mingling about: the new Supreme Priest, Grandfather Kimball, Brother Broose almost literally chewing his ear; Fordel and Rekka to represent the Snow Cities, with Willas in close attendance; Prince Y’donno, officially instated as the Andaluvians’ ambassador to the Realm, his robes occasionally catching the wind and smacking the other guests in the face; Sener, fresh bruises and a limp indicating the witches hadn’t been entirely forgiven yet; and numerous other priests and self-important citizens whose involvement in the war had been very behind the scenes.
Pleasantries were exchanged, greetings murmured, small talk offered up about the weather and the New Statham traffic. Fordel tried to catch Megan’s eye. Megan tried to pretend she hadn’t seen him, but he approached anyway, grabbing a pair of drinks on the way. He handed one to Megan, clinking her glass before she had any opportunity to reject the toast.
“Looks like you won, Your Majesty.”
“The Faith’s scientists report good progress making gunpowder.”
“I heard the explosions,” said Fordel. “I hope no one was hurt.”
“Nothing that can’t be sewn back on.”
Fordel took a deep draft of wine and swept his hand around the square. “This could have been ours,” he said.
“I was never interested in having it,” said Megan. “Admit it, it’s better this way. You’d only be fighting insurrections and rebellions for the rest of your life.”
“Maybe.”
Megan’s gaze fell on Rekka and Willas. He was stroking Rekka’s cheek. She took his hand and pressed it against her face, leaning into it like it was a pillow.
“I never thanked you for looking after him, did I?” said Fordel.
“Think it was the other way round.”
“And now you’re taking him away.”
Willas had stuck to his plan and decided to settle in the Realm. “He’s a grown man,” she said. “It’s his choice.” She took a sip of wine—Saviors, it was strong. She felt light-headed. “You should retire too. Settle down with Ími and his experiments.”
Fordel gave her a smile that wasn’t totally devoid of humor. “One day maybe.”
Grandfather Kimball finally broke free of Brother Broose and bustled over. He was carrying a wicker basket filled with purple lumps, which he presented to Megan with obvious pride.
“A gift from the people of Levenport, Your Majesty.”
Megan wondered what she’d done to offend them. “Er, thanks,” she said. “I’m sure the kids’ll find some use for them.”
“They’re aubergines, ma’am,” said Grandfather Kimball. He caught Megan’s blank expression. “You eat them.”
“Willingly?”
Grandfather Kimball looked indignant. “Just kidding,” said Megan. She handed the basket to Afreyda, whose look didn’t exactly shout joy, then clapped her hands. “Right, let’s get on with this. Where are these papers I have to sign?”
Grandfather Kimball led her to the table. Three parchments were laid out there, their ends weighed down with stones. They each said the same thing:
I, Megan of the house of Endalay, Queen of the Realm, Countess of Ainsworth, Baroness of Laxton and Herth, First Lady of Kirkland, Overlord of the Spice Isles and Defender of the Southern Lands, do hereby declare My irrevocable determination to renounce the Throne and all Titles for Myself and for My descendants, and My desire that effect should be given to this Instrument of Abdication immediately.
“Sign anywhere, ma’am,” said Grandfather Kimball. “An ‘X’ will do if you can’t write.”
Megan flashed him a dirty look and scratched her name underneath the text. Grandfather Kimball added his own signature then passed it down to Father Galan for him to witness. The process was repeated twice more. At the end of it Megan felt no different. There was no let-up in the pressure on her soldiers, no relief in her sorrow. It would take more than a few scrawls to accomplish that.
“Anything else?”
“No,” said Grandfather Kimball. He then pointedly added, “Megan.”
That was it then. Megan might need time to adjust, but others were more flexible. She waved a finger back toward the temple. “I’ll just be heading—”
Afreyda barked out an order. To a man, their escort swiveled toward Megan and saluted. Then Afreyda did the same, and then Willas, and then Father Galan, then before Megan knew it everyone in the vast crowd was saluting her, the action forming huge waves in the crowds, and she could do nothing more than clasp her hands to her face and let the tears flow.
epilogue
Megan was wiping dough from the girls’ hands when the figures darkened her doorway, silhouettes picked out by a fiery halo. For a moment she thought they were the Saviors, come to admonish her for her actions. Then they stepped inside the mill and she recognized Willas and someone she thought she’d never see again.
“Found this lurking in the village,” said Willas, dragging his companion forward.
“I wasn’t lurking, I was looking for somewhere to tie up my horse. A quarter-shilling they were charging at the inn.”
“Rebuilding levy. He says he wants to speak to you. Want me to stick around?”
“No, that’s fine, cap”—old habits died hard—“that’s fine, Willas.”
The former soldier nodded. He knott
ed his fingers, looking apprehensive. “Was there something else?” asked Megan.
“Synne wants to know if you and Afreyda’ll come to dinner sometime. She—we—have something to tell you.”
“We’d love to,” said Megan. “Once I’ve dealt with . . .”
Willas nodded again and left, leaving behind an awkwardness that was almost palpable. Megan gave her visitor an awkward smile and turned her attention back to Cate and Eleanor, attacking their encrusted skin with renewed vigor.
“Bit young for baking, aren’t they?”
“They like to ‘help,’” said Megan. “What’re you doing here?”
“Came to see how you were doing.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really,” said Damon. He picked up a scrap of dough and rolled it between his finger and thumb. “So . . . how are you doing?”
“Good.”
There was an awkward silence. “This is the bit where you ask how I am.”
“I know.”
“So . . . ?”
Afreyda stalked into the kitchen. A tool belt hung where a sword belt once had, though the hammer she grasped was in no way an ineffective weapon. Damon gave her a wave; in return she scowled at him.
“What is he doing here?”
“It’s all right, Afreyda,” said Megan.
“Have you forgotten that the last time you saw him he was aiming a crossbow at you?”
Megan sighed. “No, but we agreed to leave everything behind. And that means everything.”
She wiped her hands clean of the dough the girls had transferred to her. “Can you look after Cate and Eleanor for a bit?”
“Of course,” said Afreyda.
“Thanks.” Megan motioned to Damon. “We’ll go for a walk.”
She led him out of the mill and down the path that led to Thicketford, a path that took them past the graves of her grandfather and the girls’ fathers. Megan hardly noticed them any more, but Damon made the sign of the circle. Bit late for respect, thought Megan, but she said nothing.
“What are you going to tell the girls about them?” asked Damon, indicating the graves.
“The truth,” said Megan. “We both know the trouble the alternative causes, however well intentioned.”