by Linn Tesli
“My queen,” the man mumbled through his untamed, grey-speckled beard, which covered most of his face and neck. “I am Captain Urii. I am in charge of the fishermen who trade between the Merri Docks of Ûnda and the Blanchess Bay in Êvina. Yesterday, Mermians attacked my ship on our way to Blanchess Bay. The people under the ocean stole our haul.” The captain shifted his weight, his ocean-blue eyes flicking about the room, never settling in one place.
As Archenon reached further into the captain’s mind, he saw a jumble of thoughts.
The captain opened and closed his mouth a number of times. “I, I don’t. I mean, you should … it’s not right.”
Archenon squirmed in his seat with anticipation. Deciding to lend the captain a hand, he whispered in his mind.
Urii puffed himself up. Then he spat the words Archenon had planted. “You must reimburse us for what the Mermians stole!”
“Why?” Rhonja asked, her voice indifferent. To Archenon’s delight, this angered the captain even more.
“If you don’t, I’ll tell all my men and everyone I meet that the ocean has become hostile territory. I’ll have people know that Your Majesty does not care for the well-being of her hard-working traders.”
The captain was no different than most people, driven by selfishness and greed. No more than a common, mischievous trader who cared for nothing but his own comfort. Captain Urii believed that the regents restricted the traders for no good reason.
However, it was an excuse the captain not only told others, but which he also repeated to himself. What he really sought was the earnings he might make from larger hauls. His position with the traders and as a captain would serve Archenon’s plan perfectly.
Daring a glance at Rhonja, Archenon thought he caught a glimpse of resentment on Her Majesty’s face. The captain had undoubtedly struck a chord when he threatened her reputation.
Rhonja folded her hands in her lap. “I will have words with the Queen of Water to have her convey your complaints to the Mermians. As for what you have lost, I am sure it was worth a great deal to your fleet. If you'll tell Pyralis what has been taken, he will make sure to compensate you for its worth. Farewell.”
As she spoke the words, they were not the ones reaching the captain’s mind. Archenon had seen, clear as day, the lies in the man’s head. The attack had not been unprovoked. Urii’s fleet had ventured outside the legal bounds for setting nets—beyond the cliffs of Nayaneiri—the home of the Wy-alfen-Nayaneth, the Water Elves. It was indeed a big haul, but the Mermians had had the right to claim back what had come from their territory.
Archenon carefully distorted the words from his queen to convey a different message to the man.
She turns you away. She calls you a liar. She says the Mermians were within their full rights to act as they did. In fact, she thinks the Mermians have the only claim on the open waters. She’s not the queen you thought she was, and you'll not keep quiet on this matter outside these halls.
He planted these thoughts deep—into the very depths of the captain’s subconscious. The whispers clung to Captain Urii’s mind as he received reimbursement from Pyralis, which he would forever be oblivious to. As he left, the captain felt nothing but anger and quietly vowed vengeance.
Archenon smirked behind folded hands. It had taken him over a year since the death of his mother, but he was now in control of the minds of a lord from Caradrea, a renowned blacksmith from Lycobris, an Earthling witch from Sonûdor, and now the captain from the Merri Docks in Ùnda.
Delightfully pulling their strings at his will, Archenon had slowly begun spinning the wheels in their minds. His puppets spread horrific rumors about their kings and queens.
He watched with glee as misconceptions about power struggles and conspiracies were promulgated, accepted by many as truth. Factions formed, made up of people opposed to the monarchs, and word that the time had come to free themselves from the High Queen of Aradria spread like wildfire.
It took some time, but Archenon was patient. Lycobris was the first of the lands to rebel, almost five years after the death of Ithriel. Archenon observed the proceedings through the eyes of Thontox, the leader of the guild of blacksmiths in Lycobris. Thontox was well-respected among people of all classes. Every Vulkan guard—the Vaexennas—wore Thontox’s mark of a dragon upon their armor.
As Archenon watched from a distance through the mind of the blacksmith, Thontox stood in front of his king, stretching his heavyset arms wide in anticipation. “She won’t deal with us, Your Highness. We need more supplies, but the price of the merchandise from Êvina has soared”
“I am sure it’s not as bad as you claim.” Vaedex, the king of Lycobris, leaned forward in his throne of carved stone, which mirrored the outside volcanic landscape in its decoration. Rise and falls in the design mimicked the Vulkan wastelands. Wave-cut erosions decorated the base, while dips and curves wound along the armrests like calderas.
Vaedex’s posture revealed the heavy weight of time on his broad shoulders. A golden crown forced his dark hair to lie straight, so it reached just between his shoulder blades.
Thontox clenched his fists. “The people need weapons and food, sire. They have to be able to hunt and defend themselves. I am not imagining anything. It is you who are blind if you'll not act on this. Do you not see that the High Queen has become power hungry?”
Distaste and then doubt flashed in the king’s eyes, but he held his ground. There was no swaying him to oppose his lifelong ally, the Drothnûil Êvina—his friend, Rhonja.
“Lycobris has no reason to start a conflict with Êvina. We're not at war and don't wish to be,” Vaedex said.
The blacksmith spat at the king’s feet. “Perhaps we ought to be.”
Archenon left Thontox’s mind. As he visited each of his puppets, he was pleased to discover that the stories were the same throughout Aradria. The people had grown restless from tales of injustice, merchandise was lost, and traders demanded too much from their regents. Across Aradria, the regents would not act, other than to inform the High Queen of the situation.
The throne room of Êvina grew quieter, and those who visited were more often from within the borders of the Land of Spirit. Archenon found he was not enjoying Rhonja’s pain as much as he thought he would, however. He had grown accustomed to witnessing the look of worry written in her very being.
The change in the High Queen unsettled Archenon more than anything else. His aim had been to punish her, but his heart still wished to offer her comfort. Whenever these thoughts crept up, however, a prickling sensation shifted through his veins, chilling his bones. There was no turning back. The deed was done, and what was to transpire would run its course with sure inevitability.
5
The Fall
Ten years later
- Archenon -
“Are you not speaking to me anymore, Archenon?” Rhonja stared at him. Her shimmering silver lashes rose and fell slowly. Despite its size, the massive library felt strangely claustrophobic in her presence.
“I am. What would you like us to talk about?”
A brick of a book landed on the table beside him.
“This.” She smiled expectantly.
He looked down at the original Book of Creation. Sighing, he fell back in his chair, shaking his head in violent protest. “I am not reading the Tale of Creation again.”
“I don't wish for you to read it. I would like for us to talk about what it all means. Everything hangs in the balance. It is paramount that you understand.”
The door sprang open.
“Your Majesty,” Pyralis called as he entered the library. “I have grave news. The King of Fire is under attack.”
Rhonja opened her mouth to reply, but fell to the floor. Her hands reached for her neck, and her glittering skin turned the color of a brook at dusk.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Archenon fell to his knees beside her. He carefully placed her head on his lap. Eventually, her breathing steadied, and her skin regained its
color.
“Water,” she gasped.
He lifted her into the nearest chair and went to fetch a pitcher of water and a crystal glass. Filling the glass halfway to the brim, he set the pitcher down on the table and offered Rhonja the drink. She pushed his hand aside. Seizing the pitcher, she poured the entire contents down her face. The water sizzled, turning to steam as it hit her skin.
“More,” she croaked. Archenon handed her the glass as Pyralis fetched another pitcher. She drank, slowly returning to her more normal self.
Pyralis slumped his shoulders. “He’s gone now, isn’t he?”
“Yes, I believe King Vaedex is dead. I could feel him burn.” Rhonja whimpered, her voice hoarse. She shook, and tears streamed down her cheeks.
Archenon allowed her to weep on his shoulder. This was far beyond what he had imagined when he had set his plan in motion. He wanted nothing more than to take it all back. But his plan had spiraled out of control. The seed had sprouted, and the roots had grown too deep to be easily pulled up. The minds of those he had controlled were corrupted beyond his ability to change what he had started.
This would only be the first death of a regent.
The people’s demand for independence, along with the news of King Vaedex’s demise, reached the High Queen not long before Georganna, the Queen of Earth, was tied to a pyre and burned alive by her own kin.
Archenon watched with dismay as Rhonja’s usual radiant glow dimmed, and her skin turned the color of a frosted lake mid-winter. He didn't think she had ever truly known pain before, apart from through the spirits of others. It was little comfort to know that at least now she knew what true loss felt like.
With each new tragedy, Archenon offered her comfort. She accepted it, and he held her tight. But there was not much time for a High Queen to wallow in her own misfortune, so he would stroke her hair and wipe her tears only until she regained her vigor enough to carry on with her never-ending duties.
6
Heartless
- Archenon -
He awoke from a heart-wrenching scream, about a half-moon after Queen Georganna’s passing. Archenon cringed beneath the sheets in his bed. Horrifying warning signals shrilled at the back of his mind. He jumped up, threw on a pair of shorts, and rushed to Rhonja’s chambers.
The door was wide open. He stopped in the threshold at the sight of her fragile body.
Rhonja leaned heavily against the window frame. The strength in her had faded to exhaustion, and her skin looked paper-thin. She struggled to stay on her feet. She slipped, but managed to hang onto the windowsill by her elbows.
Instinct made Archenon run to her, and he offered her his shoulders for support. With her arms wrapped around him, he carefully led Rhonja over to her bed before letting her sink down on the mattress. He sat carefully next to her. The soft ringlets of her hair ran through his fingers, and Archenon absently caressed her cheek with damp lips before catching himself. His gaze flickered.
A faint smile touched Rhonja’s lips. “Archenon. My dear, dear Archenon, I am glad it is you. Please, don’t feel bad. You had no idea of the darkness that would possess you. I blame myself.” Her cool fingers brushed against his own, finally landing on top of his hand at her side.
He bit down his words, but he had to know. “What happened?”
She inhaled sharply. “I believe the King of Air has lost his life. It felt as though I was out of breath, and I screamed with the effort of catching it back.”
Archenon despaired. He had wanted Rhonja to feel the pain and suffering of loss in her heart, not this physical torture. It made no sense.
“What is happening to you?” Archenon asked. With the monarchs dying, he now feared for Rhonja’s life as well. Despite everything, she was all he had left. Though she was guarded well, she was in no condition to defend her self.
“I want you to stop inviting strangers into your halls,” he said.
“I cannot change what is to come. Besides, it is the circle of life, is it not? All who live must eventually meet their end.” She gazed longingly into his eyes.
Realization hit him like a punch in the gut. Everything hung in the balance. The monarchs were all connected to each other. Tears burst from his eyes.
“But, there’s so much—” The words stopped in his throat.
Rhonja put a finger to his lips and made a hushing sound. “I am so sorry.” She blinked back a single tear, which shone in the corner of her eye. It fell heavily onto the pillow as she uttered her very last words.
“Vannja, the Queen of Water, rests at the bottom of the ocean. It is time for me to go.” She took one more breath before her body slowly faded away, dissolving into shimmering tendrils of light. Archenon’s hands patted the mattress frantically, searching for her. In the end, Rhonja was nothing more than shiny specks of dust hanging in the air. Then she vanished, leaving no visible trace of her existence.
And so it was that Rhonja, High Queen of Aradria, the Drothnûil Êvina, passed from life.
The world rolled away from Archenon.
A stab of guilt shot through him like a giant icicle had pierced his abdomen. His knees hit the cold marble as he collapsed onto the floor. One arm grabbed hold of the bed sheets and pulled them with him. A silent scream escaped his lips as agonizing grief crushed Archenon’s heart.
His other hand rushed to his chest. His fingers dug into his flesh as warmth enveloped his skin. Bone crushed and tiny splinters pierced his palm, red torrents pouring down his arm. His body trembled while he waited patiently for judgement.
Death never came. Incredulously, Archenon stared down at the still-beating heart in his hand. For some reason, his spirit lingered, despite the gaping hole in his chest.
The words of his dead mother whispered through his mind: “you're coal-black.” The spell he had cast to save his mother had backfired, and this was his prize. He was undead. Not a Night Mara, like his mother had become, but something else entirely.
He arose, heart in hand, to leave the former High Queen’s chambers. As he walked, the flesh on his chest reformed, leaving nothing but a scar reminiscent of the sun.
His feet carried him aimlessly through the night. As morning came, Archenon found his way to the throne room.
Tucking his heart away in the bedsheets he still carried, Archenon entered the Great Hall. People were already gathering, and the Èblazons lined the walls.
Head held high, Archenon walked purposefully toward the staircase. He observed the royal throne with fresh eyes.
The seat and back bore large cushions, which were covered with boysenberry-colored velvet and intricately patterned embroidery in yarn of gold. He studied the throne, as it offered him a new purpose. The back rose as high as a fully grown Elven male. It was fit for an Elven monarch. It symbolized power above all else.
The Èblazons gave space to let him ascend the half-moon staircase. Without a monarch, they had no allegiance until someone else claimed the throne.
At the top of the stairs, Archenon turned and announced the truth. “The regents are all dead. The High Queen of Aradria is no more.” His voice boomed through the hall, and Archenon straightened, before sitting himself on the throne of Êvina.
The Èblazons turned toward him in unison. They knelt and bowed. As they turned their heads upward, their complexions were now that of the night sky.
As alliances shifted and the world changed, Êvina acquired a new regent.
II
EVERINE’S BOOK
Two hundred years later
7
Reborn
- Everine -
A strained voice resounded through the still night air, adding to the shrill screams.
“Push! Come on, push!” Sereana encouraged. A three-legged pot stood over a small fire behind her. The dank smell of sweat mixed with sweet herbs suffused the stone house.
Everine watched from her seat by the bed as the Siren wrung yet another rag into a washbasin. The water was already tinged red. The Sirens orig
inated from Ûnda, but more and more of their kind were sold to Êvinians. Everine was thankful for Sereana’s presence in her home, even though she knew it had to be hard for the Siren to escape her master’s scrutiny.
Sereana emptied the basin into the drainage by the far wall before refilling it with water from a barrel as she fought desperately to prolong Aurora’s life. Gathering clean rags and fresh blankets, Sereana scurried back and forth through the dimly lit room. Her pale hair gleamed with a blue tint and silent tears streaked her blotched face as she focused all her efforts into saving Aurora’s firstborn child.
Sereana’s eyes fell on Everine. “I don’t expect your sister will make it through the night.”
Everine’s hair had slipped from her usually well-tended coif. It was damp and frizzy, and tiny curls framed her clammy face.
“Is there nothing we can do?” The words fell like stones from her lips. Everine knew the truth even before she had finished speaking. The loss of blood was too severe. She clutched Aurora’s hand as her sister let out another desperate scream. “You’re almost there, honey,” Everine said.
Sereana briefly touched Everine’s shoulder before returning to the task at hand. She peeked down between Aurora’s legs.
“The baby is crowning.” Sereana smiled. “Come on, darling, you can do this.” It was time. Diving down, she reached out to accept the baby into the world.
The veins on Aurora’s arms strained against her fair skin as she gripped onto the blood-soaked sheets. Another long minute passed as Aurora heaved for breath. With a final surge of energy, she howled, pushing one last time.