Four Dead Queens

by Astrid Scholte

  Queen of Quadara.

  She rather liked the sound of that.

  * * *

  —

  SEVENTEEN-YEAR-OLD AREBELLA CARLONA had discovered she was next in line for the Torian throne when she was ten. To most children, this would’ve brought excitement. Dreams of feasts, flowing dresses, gleaming jewels and handsome suitors. But Arebella had learned another, if not more important, detail. She would never inherit the throne.

  The cruelest twist of fate, for such a gift to be dangled in front of her but snatched away before she could reach it. And all because of her birth mother, Queen Marguerite.

  Arebella had always known she was adopted, but had been told her mother had passed to the quadrant without borders in childbirth. She’d been raised by a teacher who had longed for children but never found the right time or man. Arebella didn’t have anything in common with her older adoptive mother, but she appreciated the freedom granted to her, and that her mother never asked too many questions. When her mother died from heart failure when Arebella was fourteen, she wore a black veil for a month—the standard amount of time in Toria to pay respect to the dead. She rarely thought about her now. She doubted her mother even knew the truth of her heritage.

  Luckily, there was a boy who did. A cunning and opportunistic young man.

  When Arebella had learned the truth from this boy, she lamented the power that should’ve been hers. While she pouted and cried, he began scheming. He was good at that. In time, he helped Arebella realize her fate was in her own hands. She could go after the throne, if she desired it.

  And she did. She wanted Toria as her own.

  Arebella was obsessed with control. While she couldn’t often regulate her own thoughts, she could regulate Toria. She wanted to make the rules. Change the laws. And she wanted the throne that was her birthright. She wouldn’t allow her birth mother, who’d sent her away, to dictate her life.

  But her plan didn’t begin with the idea of assassinating the queens. Even a ten-year-old Arebella wasn’t as diabolical as that. Instead, she used her curiosity, like any good Torian, to gather information. She sent out the boy to ask questions of anyone who could provide the right answers. It was imperative no one knew she was the source of the questions. Then no one would see her coming.

  All Arebella had to do was be in the center of change. The center of the storm.

  She was a bright girl. Too bright, if you asked her tutor. She had an unquenchable thirst for knowledge, more than any Torian child. Once Arebella started asking questions, and received answers, she wouldn’t stop. Know everything, and you shall know all—a popular saying in Toria. And Arebella wanted to know all.

  How do the queens inherit the throne?

  How much control do the queens have over their quadrant?

  What can the queens change?

  What can’t they change?

  What influence do the queens have over another queen’s quadrant?

  She didn’t know how to stop asking. A question filled her head as soon as the last one exited.

  For four years, she merely acquired information. When her adoptive mother died and she inherited what little money the old woman had saved, she began her ascension to the throne. She knew her presence alone would not inspire a revolution. Instead, she would need to make powerful allies. The boy helped connect her with others who wanted to bring down the Torian queen. The proprietors of the Jetée.

  Arebella attended each monthly meeting, their angry words adding fuel to an ember flickering inside her. She was outraged by the squalor they lived in when the queens resided in such grandeur. When Queen Marguerite announced on the Queenly Reports that she planned to demolish the Jetée, Arebella knew she had to intervene. These were Torians, after all—her people. People she should be ruling.

  Soon Arebella’s voice was the loudest in the revolt.

  Arebella learned that Queenly Law dictated what could and couldn’t be shared between the quadrants, and those who lived and worked on the Jetée wanted to share everything. They wanted Eonist technology; they wanted the freshest Archian crops and the latest Ludist fashions and toys. But the queens would not allow that.

  During these monthly meetings at the Jetée, Arebella’s focus widened past Toria’s borders and to the other quadrants. She realized it would not be enough to rule one quadrant.

  But the information she’d gathered from the Jetée was limited, and biased. Arebella used what remained of her inheritance to hire a former palace handmaiden as a tutor. The woman didn’t know of Arebella’s true heritage. No one else did.

  After a few lessons, Arebella asked the one question she desired the answer to the most: “Has there ever been only one queen of Quadara?” She had grown tired of hearing about the Quadrant Wars of long ago.

  Her tutor stopped and looked at her. “No, Arebella. We’ve only had, and only will have, four rulers. One for each quadrant. In the early years of Quadara, there was one king, but the nation is most successful, and peaceful, when there are four queens. You know this.”

  Arebella had shifted agitatedly in her chair. “Yes,” she replied, her dark brows lowering over her serious hazel eyes. “But has there ever been a time when there wasn’t anyone to inherit the throne?”

  Her tutor had laughed, annoying Arebella further. “No. Since the inception of Queenly Law, we’ve always had four rulers. Ensuring the royal bloodline is of utmost importance to the queens.”

  Arebella had pouted. “Could there be a time when there are less than four queens?”

  Her tutor didn’t pause to consider why Arebella would ask such a thing, for she was used to her pupil’s relentless questions, so she answered truthfully. “I suppose, if something happened to a queen before she had a child and if all her female relatives had passed to the quadrant without borders, then that quadrant would be without a queen.”

  Arebella had leaned forward in her chair. This is getting interesting, she’d thought. “Then what?”

  Her tutor had looked through her for a moment, as though she weren’t sure of the answer, for there had never been such an awful occurrence. “The other queens would fill in for that quadrant, I believe, until a suitable queen is found.”

  “The queens will inherit the power of the dead queen? They’ll take over her quadrant?”

  “Yes.” Her tutor’s expression had faltered then. “But don’t worry, that’s very unlikely to happen.”

  Arebella had been quiet for the remainder of the lesson, not listening to another word her tutor had said. The only thought running through her usually busy mind was that if all the queens were to die, the remaining queen would inherit their power and would rule all the quadrants. That queen could change not only Toria, but the entire nation, for the better. The queen could tear down the walls that separated the quadrants and prevented Quadarians from traveling and sharing resources as they pleased. Torians would then have access to all Eonist technologies and medicines to advance their cities and ensure another plague outbreak would not occur. They could visit Ludia for vacation and revel in the unlimited entertainment on offer. They could travel to Archia and eat produce fresh from the trees—not weeks-old apples imported from the lush isle.

  Quadara would truly be a united nation. If it had only one queen.

  And that queen could be her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Keralie

  I smelled the smoke before I saw it.

  Mackiel had always praised my timing. I knew when to approach my target, when to begin the con, when to retrieve the prize and when to get out. A gift, he’d said, not something that could be taught.

  Sure, you could teach someone to be more observant. Quicker. Quieter. But you couldn’t teach the art of timing. Ever since I’d stolen Varin’s comm case, my timing couldn’t have been more off.

  The drifting smoke reminded me of the time after Mackiel’s paren
ts had died, when he wouldn’t leave his bedroom for weeks, and the power was cut due to unpaid bills. To stay warm, we pulled up moldy floorboards and burned them in the center of the auction house. Mackiel eventually took charge of his father’s business, but the smoke lingered in the walls like an unwelcome memory for nearly a year.

  The heady scent of smoke inside the palace was all wrong. As far as I’d seen, no windows opened to the outside world aside from Queen Iris’s garden. Certainly no chimneys.

  The palace was encased in a glass dome, and someone had lit a match within it. There would be no escape. I should never have left Varin’s side.

  I expected some kind of siren to go off, a warning, but nothing happened. I followed the scent down the hallway, all the while knowing exactly where it would lead.

  Queen Corra’s rooms.

  Flames licked up the curtains of the internal bedroom window. Queen Corra’s terrified face was pressed against it, her gloved hand banging on the glass.

  A silhouette, surrounded by red flames.

  Palace guards and staff had surrounded the entrance to Queen Corra’s rooms, attempting to aid the doomed queen.

  “Stand back!” a palace guard yelled to the audience gathered around him. He threw a chair at the glass. It rebounded, leaving the surface unscathed.

  I ducked down to the floor to the vent in the wall I’d entered earlier and quickly unscrewed the latch, not caring if anyone saw. But the metal was too hot to touch, and my dermasuit fell apart when I placed my palms on the surface. A column of smoke swirled through the shaft toward me, a storm barely contained.

  I gagged, standing upright, my lungs fighting against me. I couldn’t go in there.

  Too late. Always too late.

  Someone rushed by, not noticing—or caring—I wasn’t one of them, their focus solely on saving their queen. They carried buckets of water, but hung back, unable to subdue the flames through the glass.

  My father’s bloodied face flashed behind my lids. I couldn’t do nothing. No, not this time.

  “Give it here!” I said, grabbing a metal bucket from a slack-jawed staff member. She squeaked in protest as I tossed the water down the hallway. I gave her a look. “The water’s no use if we can’t break the glass.”

  And although I didn’t want to—I didn’t want to see—I stepped up to the window. Queen Corra’s red-rimmed eyes were streaming rivers of tears, whether from the smoke or terror, I couldn’t tell.

  I swung the bucket as hard as I could. It hit the glass, reverberating across the window, down through my arms and into my chest.

  A scratch left behind, nothing more. The glass must’ve been reinforced.

  I took another swing.

  Other staff members followed suit, dumping the water and slamming their buckets into the window. Again and again.

  Queen Corra’s hand clutched something below the hollow of her throat. Her eyes locked with mine. A moment passed between us. She knew this was the end. Her time was up.

  My next swing nearly snapped my wrist. My bucket cluttered to the floor. Queen Corra’s hand pressed against the hot glass, seeking comfort. I forced myself not to turn away, but I couldn’t help the visions on the comm chips from washing over me, providing the details I didn’t want to remember.

  A heated flicker. Light. Burning flames. Coughing. Screaming. Tears. Skin bubbling and blistering. Crying. Begging. Brown skin covered in ash like dirt covering a grave.

  The assassin watching as Queen Corra burned down to cinders.

  Only this wasn’t the comm chips; this was happening right now.

  I glanced around wildly. The assassin was here, making sure Queen Corra’s life was snuffed out. But where?

  There were too many people in all different kinds of clothes—from different quadrants. It didn’t matter that Queen Corra was Eonist; their faces all held the same horror, a queen dying in front of their eyes.

  No one stood out. No one watched in glee.

  But the inspector watched on, his long fingers at his comm line. Whoever he was notifying would be too late.

  I stumbled back from the glass, my dermasuit suddenly too tight.

  I was an imposter.

  I’d stolen from a doomed queen. I’d been in her room only yesterday. I could’ve left a note, warning her about her future death. I could’ve done the right thing.

  Varin and I had been selfish. We should’ve told the guards the details of the comm chips as soon as we entered the palace, regardless of our lack of evidence. Like Varin had suggested.

  No. It was me who was selfish. I only cared about HIDRA. For my father. For myself. For redemption.

  “Let me out. Let me out!” Queen Corra cried, her fists pounding against the glass. But I wouldn’t meet her gaze. I couldn’t watch a moment more.

  I couldn’t watch her die. Not again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Arebella

  He was here.

  The thought sent a flurry of excitement through Arebella’s veins even though she knew it wasn’t the moment she’d been waiting for—for he wouldn’t be the one to deliver the news.

  Arebella’s staff had informed her that he awaited her arrival in the main reception room. As she flew down the stairs, her questioning mind began to imagine why he was here and what he had to say.

  There were many options—many different paths her plan could take. And he was a part of that plan. An integral part. She understood most people focused on what was in front of them, but Arebella thought of the past, present and future—all at once. It was often exhausting.

  She’d first met him when he visited the house with his mother. His mother used to visit every few years. Arebella thought the woman was simply a friend of her mother’s. She enjoyed the woman’s company as she told her tales of her kind and intelligent mother, who had supposedly died in childbirth. On one particular visit, she’d dragged her son along. He was initially sullen and rude, refusing to play with ten-year-old Arebella.

  When Arebella had called him an ignorant Jetée rat, an insult she’d heard her adoptive mother once use, he’d snapped and said, “At least I know where I’m from.”

  Arebella had been struck silent, her mind whirling through the possibilities of what he’d meant. She changed tactics then, deciding to befriend the boy rather than antagonize him. It took a few months, but eventually he told her.

  Arebella was the daughter of Queen Marguerite.

  He’d learned the truth while he was practicing sneaking through people’s belongings and had found a letter from the queen herself hidden in one of his mother’s locked drawers. The letter spoke of Queen Marguerite’s daughter, named Arebella, who needed a home outside the palace and a parent who would never know of Arebella’s claim to the throne.

  While Arebella had thrown a fit, furious her mother had hidden the truth from her, he suggested she do something about it.

  “Dream bigger,” he’d said. “Want more. Don’t ask. Take it.”

  Back then, he was all arms and legs with a hawklike stare. He took in everything, especially Arebella. In the years since, he’d grown into a charming young man, sharply dressed and immaculately presented. Arebella found herself longing for his visits, not only to discuss their plans to destroy Queen Marguerite’s rule, but to see his face and hear his melodic voice. But his reputation proceeded him. She promised herself she’d guard her heart, yet as they’d grown closer and their friendship shifted toward the physical, she forgot that promise she’d made to herself. Her heart was no longer hers.

  Before every meeting, she pictured what she would wear, what he would wear, and what they’d say. She mostly guessed correctly how people would respond, for she ran through countless possibilities, and one was bound to be correct. But not him. He always left her guessing. And that made it interesting.

  Often, she wondered if he felt the same way
about her. She thought he must, for why would he stick by her side and risk his life to enact their plans if he didn’t care deeply? If his affection was only a game?

  As she neared the main reception room, she wondered if today was the day he’d profess his love for her. Was that why he couldn’t wait till the queens were all dead before seeing her again?

  When she entered the room, she placed her hands within the folds of her skirt to hide her shaking. Most people saw trembling as a sign of weakness, but Arebella shook out of anticipation.

  She no longer cared why he was here. She wanted news. Any news.

  He had his back to her, but he wasn’t facing the fire. His body was angled away from the flames. This was different. He always waited, his face open and receptive. Already this was more interesting than she’d imagined.

  “Tell me,” she said, unable to keep her voice from sounding shrill. “Is it done?”

  “Not yet.” He didn’t turn around. “But I believe you will be summoned to the palace any day now.”

  She rubbed a hand across her mouth. “Excellent, then everything is going to plan.” Why was he here? They’d agreed not to see each other until she was in the palace.

  “Not everything, darlin’,” he said, finally turning to face her.

  Arebella gasped. “What happened to your hands?” They were blistered and blackened. Burnt. Now she understood his distance from the flames, though he still needed warmth in the chilly room. Since Arebella’s adoptive mother had died, and left little wealth behind, she needed to conserve money. Soon those worries would be behind her and she could enjoy the constant warmth of the palace, conducted from the sun’s rays that hit the golden dome. She would wear her favorite dress even in the middle of winter, the one with the short sleeves and the deep-cut—

  “The plan hasn’t been derailed,” Mackiel said, bringing her back to the room. “But I need your help.”