Four Dead Queens

by Astrid Scholte

  Queen of Toria

  Rule twelve: As soon as a queen passes, her daughter, or the next closest female relative, must be brought to the palace immediately to ascend the throne.

  Marguerite’s breathing grew ragged, color leaching from her cheeks, light dimming from her eyes.

  “We’re running out of time.” People swarmed about her, hands fluttering at her arms, face and hair. “Tell us, Queen Marguerite. Please. Before it is too late!”

  It is already too late, Marguerite thought. She leaned against the pillows, unable to keep her head upright. No. I promised myself I wouldn’t. I can’t bring her into this. Not now.

  The palace doctor wore a silver dermasuit, a silver mask and a deep frown. The inspector stood beside him, watching every movement with detached interest. They whispered back and forth.

  She’s dying.

  She did not require him to say it out loud. And yet they would not let her die in peace.

  Poison.

  The words were whispered among those gathered in the infirmary. She’d been poring over her maps of the palace, trying to work out how the murderer had killed Iris, avoided being caught in the processing room when the palace went into lockdown and then murdered Stessa a day later, when her advisor, Jenri, had rushed into the room. He was covered in ash, a large gash across his arm.

  Marguerite had bolted upright, her chair falling backward. “What has happened?”

  “My queen,” Jenri had breathed out. “There was a fire . . . Queen Corra didn’t make—” But she did not hear him finish. She’d collapsed, her heavy skirts pillowing her fall.

  At first Jenri had thought it was shock. He took her to the infirmary for observation. Then she started convulsing.

  Poison—sprinkled over the parchment of her maps and absorbed through her fingers and into her bloodstream.

  First Iris, then Stessa and Corra. The assassin . . .

  Marguerite could not believe this was happening. It had been less than two days since Iris’s death, and all the queens had been murdered. Now it was her turn to die. She hoped she would not be separated from her sister queens in the next life.

  At least she’d had more years. Stessa, Corra and Iris—they were all so young. Too young. Like . . .

  No! She would not utter a word. Her daughter must remain safe from the palace’s influence. Especially now. It was far too dangerous to involve her in this mess.

  “I need to sedate her,” the doctor said, trying to maneuver his way to her bedside. There were too many people in the infirmary. “It might slow the poison.”

  “No,” Jenri said. “We need her lucid. We need to know where her daughter is!”

  The doctor glanced at the inspector and shook his head. “Then she is doomed.”

  Jenri’s concerned face loomed overhead. “You are the last queen,” he said. “Without your daughter, Quadara will be left with no one to rule—with nothing. Please, my queen.”

  “This is what they want,” she managed to say, her voice startling her. It sounded like metal scraping against metal.

  “Who?” Jenri asked, smoothing back her sweat-soaked hair from her clammy forehead.

  She shifted her face away from him. “Whoever did this to us.”

  “Then don’t let them win,” her handmaiden, Lali, replied. She was tracing calming circles on the back of Marguerite’s hand.

  With her surviving family all men, Marguerite had feared this day would come. She knew she had to produce an heir; it was Queenly Law, after all. Luckily—or unluckily, depending on your point of view—all matchings since Elias had resulted in no further pregnancies. Marguerite couldn’t bear the thought of choosing between her child and the throne again. And yet here she was, facing the same dilemma, seventeen years on.

  Marguerite lurched forward. A bucket was placed under her chin before she retched up what little was left in her system. The doctor had given her a vapor to encourage the expulsions, hoping it would expel the toxin, but all it had done was make Marguerite weaker.

  She lay down, her body weightless and her mind full of clouds.

  Another spasm jerked deep inside. She curled into a ball and howled in agony. Not much longer! she begged to the queens watching silently from above. Please. Make it stop!

  “I’m sorry, my queen,” Lali said, her head bowed. “I had to tell the advisors about your daughter. For Quadara.”

  Marguerite wanted to rip her hand out of Lali’s, but she didn’t have the strength. She had trusted her. Trusted she would never utter those words again. Your daughter. But Lali had betrayed her, and now Jenri asked for the impossible. He had decided Toria was more important than her wishes, more important than her daughter’s well-being.

  But that was not his decision, nor her handmaiden’s, to make.

  “Please,” Jenri said. “You must tell me where she is. Tell me to save your quadrant, to save the nation.”

  “I cannot,” she replied. “She is not prepared.” But it was worse than that. Much worse, for how could her daughter be ready to take the Torian throne when she did not even know she was of royal blood? She would not thrust her daughter into this life without any warning. And the palace was no longer the safe place Marguerite had thought it to be.

  But what would that mean for her beloved Toria and the rest of Quadara? Marguerite was a rare queen; when she’d first entered the palace, she found she could not focus solely on her quadrant. She wanted to be involved in all decisions. She wanted to make Quadara stronger, not only Toria. Now the nation was shattered, and the only solution was to give up her child’s whereabouts.

  “There’s no one else,” Jenri said. He looked truly remorseful for the situation they had found themselves in. “You know I would never ask something of you unless I had no other options.”

  “Anyone else,” she rasped, her eyes wildly bouncing around the room. “Please, Jenri. If this happened to me, then it is sure to happen to her as well.”

  Too young. Far too young.

  Lali knew how much this secret had cost Marguerite over the years. She knew it was worth everything to her—to ensure her daughter was kept separate from this world.

  How could she?

  Someone gripped her chin as her eyes rolled into the back of her head. The pain in her chest was too much, and the fatigue too aggressive. Marguerite longed for stillness.

  The machine attached to her started beeping wildly.

  “We’re losing her,” the doctor said. “We have minutes left.”

  “Tell us, Queen Marguerite,” someone begged. Marguerite’s vision was tinted black. “Tell us to save Quadara!”

  “There are no other female relatives,” someone said. “We cannot find anyone to take the other thrones. Toria is our only hope. You are our only hope!”

  Marguerite shuddered, breaths leaving her body in gasps. She couldn’t give up her child to this wicked palace of darkness and death. She was a mother, and although she hadn’t seen her child since her birth, she had to protect her daughter.

  She was also a queen.

  Sworn to protect Toria, sworn to keep the peace between the quadrants. With no queens, Quadara would fall to chaos. The nations across the seas would turn their eyes toward the wealthiest nation. Quadara needed to remain strong.

  Could she continue to choose her daughter’s future over the nation’s?

  “Queen Marguerite,” the inspector began. “We need to—”

  “No!” she cried. “Leave me be!”

  But someone gripped her shoulders. Jenri. “We will protect her. I will protect her. I will not allow this tragedy to reoccur, but we need to protect Queenly Law. We need to save Quadara.”

  Marguerite wanted to laugh. Jenri had not stopped the poison from being sprinkled across her precious maps; the inspector had not stopped the assassin from slaying her sister queens. How could they stop
a shadow without a name?

  She closed her eyes and bit her lip as another spasm took hold. Was it her imagination, or did it feel less aggressive? Her body went numb, as though floating to the queens who awaited her arrival. Her beloved sister queens.

  “Queen Marguerite,” a voice called to her from this world, grounding her. “This is what you’ve spent your life working toward. Don’t let it fall to ruin. Don’t let the assassin win!” It was Lali. “Don’t let them destroy Toria!”

  You will make it up to them, Iris had said years ago when Marguerite had fretted over what she’d done to Toria by hiding her daughter. It was a decision that had haunted her every day since.

  Was this the moment Iris had meant? A chance to redeem herself? But what about her daughter? Her safety? With an assassin loose in the palace, how could she knowingly bring her into this?

  Marguerite rolled her head. “Do you swear it, Jenri?” she asked, her eyes trying to find him. “Swear she will be safe?”

  “Yes, my queen,” he replied from somewhere beside her. “She will be safe here, with me. I will go, alone, to retrieve her. I will not leave her side while she’s here and until we find the assassin. I promise you. Toria and your daughter will be safe from harm.”

  If Jenri promised to care for her daughter, ensuring nothing happened to her, then they could still save Quadara.

  Seventeen years ago, she’d placed her daughter’s well-being above the nation’s. She broke Queenly Law. Now was the chance to make things right. And she wouldn’t only make it up to her people; she’d make it up to Quadara. She had to. With all queens dead, this was the only option. Jenri would bring her daughter to the palace and teach her the ways of the queens now passed.

  She let out an exhausted sigh, barely able to focus her eyes on her advisor. “The map above my desk—” The map she ran her fingers along each evening before retiring to bed. Her body shuddered, her chest pressing upon her lungs. “Turn it over.” With her last exertion, she pinned Jenri with her gaze—hoping to convey every emotion and thought tumbling in her heart. “It will show you where to find my daughter.”

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Keralie

  I can do this. I can do the right thing. No one here knows who I am. Or what I’ve done.

  Varin gave me a small encouraging smile before the guard closed the partition door behind me, blocking him from view. I took a steadying breath.

  “How can I assist you, Ms. Corrington?” a woman asked.

  That voice . . . A voice I’d heard on many Torian announcements. On New Year’s Day. On Quadrant Day. The voice declaring the end of the Jetée. The voice I thought I’d never hear again.

  I turned to face the throne. There sat a woman with pale skin, brown eyes and an ornate crown upon her graying auburn hair.

  I stumbled in shock, my knee crashing into the marble floor.

  “Queen Marguerite!” I gasped, righting myself. “It’s you!”

  Alive! How?

  “That is the general idea of court. You come to speak with your queen.” Concern lit her brown eyes. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, of course.” I pulled myself to my feet.

  I shook my head slowly. How was she not dead?

  Her brow knitted. “You look faint. Shall I call the doctor?”

  Now that I was at the dais, I could see the other thrones. Next to Queen Marguerite sat a dark-skinned woman in a gold dermasuit, her braided black hair twisted high above her head.

  Queen Corra.

  On the other side sat a younger girl, closer to my age. She wore a lurid pink-and-orange-striped gown reminiscent of my stolen Ludist dress. Her black hair was short and spiky around her bejeweled crown.

  Queen Stessa.

  And beside her sat a small pale woman with the fairest hair I’d ever seen. A scowl on her face contrasted her pixie-like features. She glanced briefly at me, as though she detected my gaze. Her eyes were bright green.

  Queen Iris.

  My mouth popped open. I nearly fell to the floor again.

  Alive. All of them.

  Queen Marguerite looked alarmed. “Shall I get you a chair?”

  Not possible. Not possible.

  I had seen Queen Marguerite die. I’d seen them all die. I’d watched the life leach from their eyes as though I’d taken it with my own hands. And yet I was certain these women were not imposters. They were the rightful queens of the quadrants.

  Which meant what? I’d been fooled? The comm chips were a lie? Another of Mackiel’s games?

  No. Varin had seen the memories as well. Which could only mean that . . . that what I’d seen wasn’t a recording of their murders.

  I’d seen the plan to murder the queens.

  * * *

  —

  MY STEPS BACK to the palace processing room were buoyant, as though I wasn’t quite touching the floor. Alive. The queens were alive.

  “Is everything okay?” Varin asked, rushing toward me as soon as I entered the room. “You were gone for around half an hour. I thought something had happened. Did they believe you? They had to believe you, with all the queens dead and you knowing exactly how they died—but I couldn’t see anything. I couldn’t see how they reacted. What did they say? Will they grant us a reward? Who was upon the throne?”

  It was the most I’d heard him say perhaps the whole time I’d been with him. His eyes were wide, his cheeks dark, his brows pinched together, and his slicked-back hair stuck up in odd directions as though he’d been running a hand through it. And while it had only felt like minutes since I spoke with Marguerite, the processing room’s clock confirmed half an hour had passed. It must’ve been the shock, distorting my perception of time.

  “They’re alive,” I whispered.

  He leaned in, as though he’d misheard me. “The queens?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yes, the queens. Queen Marguerite was on the throne; she was the one I spoke to.”

  “How? You saw the chips twice, and I saw the rerecording.” A muscle flicked in his neck. “I know what I saw.” I didn’t know why he was getting defensive.

  “Comm chips record memories, right?”

  “Yes, the recorder pulls images from your mind as you recall them.”

  “But what if the person had thought about the details of the murders over and over, until it became a part of them, like a memory?”

  He nodded slowly. “It’s possible that could be recorded onto comm chips.”

  “Don’t you see?” I fisted a handful of his Torian vest. “The chips weren’t recordings of their deaths, but a plan for their deaths. None of it has happened!”

  Something like relief washed over him; his shoulders straightened a little. “Did you tell Queen Marguerite about what we’ve seen?”

  I shook my head. “Why would I? She’s alive! They all are. I only told her about Mackiel and how he runs the black market.”

  “But—” Varin studied me as though he didn’t understand my reaction, or perhaps he knew to expect the worst from me. “Are you going to tell her what we’ve seen? Tell anyone?”

  “Tell them I’ve seen the queens murdered, including all the grisly details?” I shook my head again. “The palace would sooner lock me up for treason than believe me—I stole the evidence, remember?” I spread my hands wide. “Our proof was that the queens were dead, but they’re not. And without the chips as evidence, I’m a criminal talking about slaying the queens.”

  “But that means the assassin has yet to carry out their plans.” He pursed his lips.

  A promise of a deal is not a deal done. While I wanted to be rid of Mackiel, his lessons had gotten me this far.

  “We need more information before we can cut a deal with the palace,” I said. “They’ll hardly reward us for evidence of murders that haven’t happened. And if we go back and
tell them and then the assassin strikes, we’ll be implicated. It’s only our word that we’re not involved. And what reason do they have to trust us?” I twisted my dipper bracelet around on my wrist. “I’m not saying anything until I’m certain I won’t be arrested because of it.”

  “I’ll tell them,” he said. “I’m not a criminal.”

  Then I’d lose any bargaining power. “You can’t.”

  “Why not? I’m not going to let the queens die.” Now was not the time for Varin to grow a backbone.

  I let out a frustrated breath and rubbed the back of my neck. “Please. Give me some time to find more information.”

  “You don’t have to do this by yourself,” he said quietly. “You’re not alone in this anymore. We can trust the palace. We can trust the guards. If we tell them what we know, we can help find the assassin with them, and we can use our knowledge to prove we’re on their side.” He pressed his lips together. “You’re not guilty until proven innocent, Keralie. We’re here to help, remember?”

  Except I was a criminal.

  “I’ll make sure nothing happens to you,” he said. “I’ll vouch for you.”

  My chest warmed. Even with Mackiel at my back, I’d never felt safe. I studied Varin’s sincere expression, but it was clear this wasn’t a game to him.

  “It’s the right thing to do,” he added.

  He seemed to believe there was some good left in me, that I wasn’t beyond saving. But I’d always been willing to take what I wanted from others, regardless of the consequences, and with no guilt. And there was Varin, his expression unguarded, his voice hopeful. He was looking at me as though I was someone else. Someone I wished to be. Someone worthy of my parents’ love.

  “All right,” I said. “We’ll tell the authorities. And hope they don’t throw me in jail.”

  He gave me a small smile. “They won’t.”

  I’d have to work out what to do about HIDRA later.

  “Come on,” he said. We joined the queue leading toward the processing room exit.