He locked the door. Before she could ask what he was doing, he launched across the room. He propelled her into the wall, his hands around her throat. Her head smacked into the wood, sending fresh tears down her cheeks.
“Stop!”
But he was too strong, his anger too fierce. “You killed her! You killed her! You killed her!”
“Queen Corra!” the guards thumped at her door. “Are you all right?”
No, she tried to say, but there wasn’t enough air in her lungs. Her chest heaved. Black began to blot her vision.
“Why?” he cried, slamming one fist into the wall beside her face. He was much larger than she was, the biceps in his upper arm keeping her in place. “Why?”
“Let us in!” The guards continued pounding on the door.
Corra kicked, but the lack of oxygen made her legs feel weightless, as though she were submerged in water. Was this how Stessa felt when she died? Her chest burning, her throat raw, her body powerless, her head light?
She hoped so, for it wasn’t too painful.
Lyker brought his face close to hers. Angry red flushed across his cheeks and neck, matching his hair. “You won’t see her there,” he said. Corra blinked. She didn’t know what he was talking about. His swollen eyes filled with tears. “You don’t deserve to be with her.” His chest shuddered. “I won’t let you.”
He pulled away, and Corra collapsed to the floor.
She sucked in a painful breath, her throat numb and searing at the same time.
Lyker towered over her, his hands in his hair. He let out an agonized wail.
“Queen Corra!” a guard called through the door. “What’s happening?”
“I’m fine,” she croaked. “We’re fine. I knocked over a lamp. That’s all.”
She crawled to her bed and pulled herself up by the blankets. Once she was sitting, she turned back to Lyker. He stared into the distance.
“I didn’t kill Stessa,” she said, hand at her burning throat. “I would never kill a sister queen.”
He flashed her a look. “We threatened you.”
Corra nodded. “You were scared. You wanted to protect . . .” She let out a ragged cough. “You wanted to protect your love. I understand.”
He barked a laugh. “An Eonist understands love. Right.”
“I loved Iris.” Corra gasped, then smiled through her tears. It was the first time she’d ever said it out loud. “I loved her.” She wanted to say it again and again, but it wouldn’t bring Iris back. Still, to say it brought a little light into the darkness of these days.
“I would kill for Stessa.” Lyker’s fists clenched by his sides. “You thought we’d killed Iris. Would you not kill for your love?”
Corra studied him. Clearly, the boy was broken, as broken as her heart. Would she have killed for Iris? She wasn’t sure. All she knew was that Iris had been her heart and now her heart was gone.
To kill for revenge was an act of the heart. No, she would not—and could not—kill for love.
“Come here,” she said, patting the space beside her.
Lyker looked as though she might pull a destabilizer on him. She shook her head. “I won’t hurt you.”
He approached her cautiously. When he reached the bed, she held out her hands. They were shaking.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” she said. “I’m sorry I thought you or Stessa were capable of such malice. Truly, I am.” She held her hand to her hidden watch. “But I would never hurt Stessa, or anyone she loved. This palace has always been my home, and anyone within it is family.” She had never spoken truer words. She wished Iris could see her courage.
“You’re not like other Eonists, are you?” He squinted at her.
Corra tried to laugh, but her throat wouldn’t allow it. “I think you’d be surprised by how much Eonists really feel.”
“I wish I couldn’t feel,” he said. “I wish I hadn’t loved her.”
“Loving someone means risking your heart being broken,” Corra said. “But those moments you are together triumph over any hardship.”
Lyker sat beside her. “I’m not sure I believe that. Not now.”
Corra knew how he felt; the pain was almost too much to bear. But then she thought of her mother. “In time, you will.”
He hung his head, his coiffed hair flopping forward. “I don’t know what to do without her. She’s the reason I’m here. She’s the reason for everything.”
“What did you want to do before this?” Corra gestured to the gold-adorned room around them. “What did you want for your life?” She was treading on shaky ground, as Eonists were not meant to question their future or want more. But she didn’t care. She needed to talk to someone about her grief.
“I don’t remember wanting anything more than I wanted Stessa,” he replied. Tears continued to stream down his face.
“But you had other passions?” Ludists were known for their wants and desires; surely there was something else.
Lyker studied his inked hands. “I wanted to be a world-renowned poet.”
“Ah,” Corra said. “And you gave it up for Stessa.”
“And I would again,” he said sternly, “if given another chance.”
“I would choose Iris again and again.”
They smiled at each other.
“You could leave,” she said. “You could return to your Ludist life.”
Lyker shook his head. “I can’t, not now. Stessa wanted to be queen, but she was willing to give up the throne for me, for my happiness. Now that she’s gone . . .” He swallowed roughly. “Now that she’s gone, I have to do right by her. I have to be here, ensure everything she wanted as a queen and for her quadrant is not forgotten.”
Corra held back tears, thinking how she had misjudged the youngest queen. She had hopes and dreams for her reign, and they were cut short, as were Iris’s.
“Stessa would be proud of you,” she said.
“Thank you, Queen Corra.”
“Will you do me a favor?” she asked.
“Anything.”
“I’d like some water for my throat.”
“I’m sorry I—”
“You’ve apologized already.” She cut him off with a wave of her hand. “I need water now, not apologies.”
He met her eyes. “You sound like Queen Iris.”
Corra smiled widely. “I do, don’t I?”
* * *
—
AN HOUR AFTER Lyker had left, Corra woke to an excruciatingly raw throat, as though someone had run a blade back and forth across it. Her eyes were sealed shut from stale tears and sorrow. She’d fallen asleep in her gold dermasuit. Her crown was glowing hot.
She bolted upright, but Lyker was gone.
Her room was a haze of smoke.
She gagged, rolled off the bed and hit the floor. Beside her lay the glass of water Lyker had given her before she’d climbed under the blankets. She’d asked him to stay until she had fallen asleep.
“Lyker!” she cried, then coughed. “Are you here?”
She was met with silence and a strange crackling sound.
Fire.
“Guards!” she cried out. But her voice wouldn’t carry. The damage to her throat courtesy of Lyker’s grip and the smoke clogging her windpipe was too much; her voice was a whisper. She couldn’t see where the fire had started, but she could feel it. Her dermasuit began puckering and blistering from the intense heat. It was coming from her bathroom.
“Guards!” Again, no response.
She pulled a strip of cloth from her blanket and mopped up the spilled water by her bed. Placing the wet cloth over her mouth, she skittered across the floor, finding her way by memory. Her senses were full of smoke: her eyes, her nose, her mouth. The tiled floor was hot. The crackling grew louder.
But she would fight. As
Iris would have. Should have. She wouldn’t be the next in the list of dead queens.
A small sliver of light caught her eye. The gap under the door! She swallowed a few times to wet her throat—it was like swallowing acid—then she pressed her mouth to the gap and screamed, “Help! Fire!”
Shadows moved on the other side of the door. Her guards. Thank the queens above! They’d heard her.
The door handle jiggled somewhere above her head. She scrambled away, allowing them to open the door inward. The fire roared behind her. Something exploded and showered her hair in splinters. Her headboard. Her room was collapsing around her.
“Queen Corra! We can’t open the door,” a guard yelled above the roar. “Is something blocking it?”
Corra took a deep breath and stood, feeling around for the blockage.
She fell back to the floor. “There’s nothing there.”
The guards began throwing their bodies against it.
“It’s locked!” someone shouted.
But she couldn’t remember locking it. And although she wished she hadn’t, she thought of Lyker. Had he changed his mind and locked the door again? Then how had he left?
“Can you unlock it from your side, Queen Corra?” a guard asked.
She launched herself upright once more and felt around for the lock. In the past, she’d only ever locked it when Iris visited.
Her gloved fingers scraped on something rough. There was no lock—the handle had been twisted clean off.
“I can’t open it,” she shouted. She moved to the window and banged on the glass. She could see silhouettes on the other side through the smoky haze. “Break the window!”
“Stay clear, Queen Corra,” the guards yelled.
Corra fell back to the floor. “Hurry.” The smoke took residence inside her chest, filling every hole, every cell, until her body felt like smoke and ash. “Hurry!” Her dermasuit tried to maintain her body temperature, but it couldn’t fight fire.
A booming crack sounded from behind her, and though her vision was blurry, she could now make out the angry red flames.
She pressed herself into the far corner of her room, the rag over her mouth. It wasn’t wet any longer, and her dermasuit began to melt off in pieces. She covered her face with her hands.
This is the end. She’d be reunited with Iris sooner than she thought. She would see her mother again. I’m sorry, Mother.
And now she understood what Lyker had meant when he’d said, “You won’t see her there.” He didn’t want to kill Corra, as he didn’t want her reunited with his lost love when he was still in the land of the living. Then who had set the fire?
An object collided into the bedroom window as the guards attempted to shatter it. The glass groaned, soon to break, but Corra couldn’t lift her head. Heat encased her body and mind, and she was reminded of Iris’s embrace.
I’m coming, she thought, her hand at the watch around her neck, above her broken dermasuit. But she wasn’t scared.
Soon they would be together, no longer apart.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Keralie
Why did they continue with this charade? When would the palace admit the queens were dead and there was no one to hold court? I didn’t understand. Had they already located the royal ancestors? Who exactly was I in line to speak with?
“Stop fidgeting,” I admonished, my hand on Varin’s sleeve. “You look like you’re up to something.”
“We are up to something,” he replied, his hands shuffling in and out of his coat pockets. His stolen outfit was too small, but I didn’t mind his shirt stretching over his broad chest. My hands and eyes lingered unconsciously. He shifted away from me, his prominent cheeks darkening. He still wasn’t used to being touched.
The process of gaining access to Queen Marguerite had taken the entire the morning. First, we signed in at the visitor processing room and were inspected for any weapons or dangerous items. Next, we were ushered into a theater with around one hundred other Quadarians who’d traveled to the palace. We were forced to watch all of this year’s Queenly Reports to ensure we didn’t approach the queens with previously rejected requests. Afterward, the guards separated the group into our quadrants.
We shuffled down an arched corridor with the other Torian visitors. Varin kept his head down, hoping no one would recognize he was too handsome to be anything but a perfectly engineered Eonist. He’d hidden his comm line in a safe place outside the palace, to maintain the illusion. He’d slicked his hair back in a traditional Torian style and the two-day-old stubble on his jaw roughened his look. Even I wouldn’t have picked him out of the crowd as an imposter. Still, my fingers twitched, wishing to rake them through his hair—something I’d seen him do countless times—to free his longer locks.
Several crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling like icicles on trees in a winter storm. Everything else was dipped in gold. I struggled against the desire to touch the exorbitant wealth, keeping my hands tucked under my arms. I had to be good. Better. Like Varin. Maybe then they’d reward me with HIDRA.
Portraits of the past Torian queens followed us with their painted eyes.
“They’re so lifelike,” Varin murmured, his hands reaching out toward the paintings.
“Stop touching things,” I said, repeating his words back to him from when we were in his apartment.
The left side of his mouth lifted but he didn’t say anything.
The crowd pushed us forward, everyone desperate to see Queen Marguerite. They were in for a surprise. Varin darted glances at the Torians around us, as though he was appalled by our disorganization.
I had to admit, a part of me was thrilled to be inside the palace. When I was ten years old, I would play the Torian queen—my throne made of ragged pillows—while Mackiel played the queen’s advisor. A favorite game of ours. We usually ended up squabbling over who would rule what part of Toria. I’d always forced the Jetée and its various sordid businesses upon him, and took ownership of the wealthy houses and lawful businesses of the Skim for myself. Mackiel had said I was selfish. I had never argued otherwise.
We would play the game for days, until I tired of the storyline.
“Ruling Toria is boring,” I would say, kicking down the pillow throne.
I don’t remember Mackiel agreeing.
I twisted the comm case locket between my fingers. Had the childhood game meant more to him than a way to pass the time? Had he always wanted to tangle himself with palace politics, to prove he was more powerful than his father, better than his father, while I enjoyed the delights of being a dipper, having access to everything and anything I wanted?
I let the locket fall back against my wrist.
The crowd was funneled by the guards toward a vast opening, taking us along for the ride.
We stepped into a circular room where the high glass ceiling was the apex of the palace’s golden dome. The sun gleamed down onto the elevated Quadarian dial, fracturing the light into streams and highlighting the words carved into the marble tiles around the room.
The throne room.
But we couldn’t see the queens on their thrones—or whoever had taken their place. They were hidden by an ornate wooden partition, encircling the dial. There were four doors to enter through the partition, one for each queen, shielded by a guard.
The crowd gasped audibly behind us. Some Torians pushed forward, eager to see around the partition. The back of my neck prickled, desperate to know what the palace was telling everyone about the absent queens.
“The light of Quadara,” Varin whispered, his eyes drawn to the light streaming down from the dome. “It’s magnificent.” His fingers fluttered as though he itched to paint it.
I nodded, words struck from my mind. Ancient Quadarians believed the nation was born from this very point, spiraling out in a clockwise direction. At first, the land had been fertil
e and lush due to abundant resources. This first region became Archia, once attached to the mainland. The land then developed to the south; resources were less available but provided an accessible coastline with bountiful seas. Toria. From there, the land changed. To compensate for having few natural resources, Ludists created man-made landscapes and canals and filled their idle time with entertainment. Finally, there was Eonia. As the region nearest to the north, with plummeting temperatures, crops and livestock were unable to survive. Eonia had no choice but to build their sprawling city and focus on technology to survive a mostly frozen land.
There was no denying the room had power.
“Wow,” I breathed, forgetting our purpose. The weight of the room pressed upon me—its meaning and history. We neared the exact point where the quadrants once met. I could tell from the slack-jawed crowd that they shared the same sentiment.
We stepped toward the guard when it was our turn.
“One at a time,” the guard said, holding up a hand.
I exchanged a glance with Varin.
“You can do this,” Varin said. “You’re doing the right thing. Just don’t get yourself arrested.”
“You worried about me?”
He pressed his lips together before replying, “Just be careful.”
I nodded numbly. Something tumbled within my belly. I stepped forward, leaving Varin behind with the rest of the Torian crowd.
Was I about to meet with Queen Marguerite’s advisor? Wouldn’t it be obvious something had happened to her? Why hadn’t they closed court while they waited for the new queens to take up their thrones?
Before I had time to practice what I was going to say one last time, the guard opened the door in the partition and ushered me through. I cleared my throat.
Here we go.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Marguerite
Four Dead Queens Page 20