by G. A. Aiken
She faced Gemma. “Beatrix?”
Gemma thought deep on that, but it was their father who actually answered for them, shocking them all. Because he hadn’t spoken of the wayward Smythe in some time.
“The only way this is Beatrix is if there’s some deal involved.”
And they knew he was right. Of course, then the question became. . . what deal?
CHAPTER 4
“Do you know what I find disappointing?”
Agathon, the Follower of Her Word, lifted his head from the work before him. He thought his expression was flat. He’d always thought he’d taught himself to have no expression at all. But maybe he had lost that skill after two years with Queen Beatrix. Or maybe she could see right through him as no other royal ever had before. She did seem to have that skill.
“I don’t mean you,” she said after a long sigh. “So you can stop looking so panicked. It’s everyone else. Everyone else disappoints me.”
“How is that, my lady?” he bravely asked. Bravely because he rarely questioned anyone. But the queen seemed to appreciate his questions. Or maybe she was just lonely and desperate for someone to show interest in her words.
Then again . . . he didn’t think she was capable of being lonely. She seemed to have no real desire or need for another soul.
“Because,” she replied while staring out the window, “all they need to do is play their roles and yet they do not cooperate. Forcing me to do things I find rather distasteful . . . but necessary.”
He was surprised. He didn’t think she found anything distasteful. Except clutter. She didn’t like clutter.
Agathon opened his mouth to ask more questions but the study door slammed open and the king stormed in.
Dropping his head low, Agathon started toward the door, keeping his back to the walls and slinking along, desperate to leave as quickly as he could manage, but Beatrix stopped him with two words.
“No. Stay.” Slowly the queen turned and looked at her husband of two years. It was, perhaps, the strangest relationship Agathon had ever seen and he’d been the Keeper of His Word for the Old King himself. A man with many wives and concubines and offspring. Most dead since the day of his final breath.
King Marius, the Wielder of Hate, towered over his tiny wife, his face full of rage. It was rumored that their first night together had been a nightmare for the queen but Agathon truly doubted that story. He wasn’t even sure the queen had ever had carnal knowledge of any man or woman. The queen seemed to have no interest. And although that had never stopped the Old King or any of his sons before, King Marius seemed . . . wary of his bride. Not that Agathon blamed the man. Agathon greatly doubted the king would risk the cock he so greatly loved just so he could say he’d thrust it between his wife’s thighs.
Of course, wary was the safest stance for anyone when dealing with Queen Beatrix.
“Yes, my king?” she replied with no hint of emotion. No fear. No panic. No interest. No anything. Nothing more than . . . politeness?
“What have you done?” he demanded. “What have you done?”
The bellow would have any other member of the kingdom running for their life. Not that it would do any good. When the king bellowed like that, his blade always followed, tearing through a gut or lopping off a head.
But with Beatrix, the king simply bellowed and waited, his hands balled into tight, angry fists.
And yet, even though her hair blew back a bit from his explosion, the queen did not flinch. She never flinched. Agathon was beginning to believe she was incapable of flinching.
“First,” she said calmly, “I’d ask that you explain to me what you’re talking about.”
The king began to pace around the bedroom while Agathon pushed himself into a corner to avoid the king’s wrath.
“You’re having monks killed? Nuns? Mages? Witches?” the king finally demanded. “Monasteries and churches burned? Their treasures stolen?”
Agathon couldn’t help but gawk at the queen. Could she have been so reckless? So crazed? She was bold, it was true. Especially when it came to waging war. And the king, out of fear, gave her more leeway than any king had ever given his queen. But to toy with the gods in such a manner? To kill their earthly representatives?
Beatrix said nothing until the king again faced her and yelled, “Well? Answer me!”
The queen studied her husband for several long moments, but it wasn’t to craft an answer. She never did that. She was boldly direct. To the point of recklessness, in Agathon’s opinion.
No. Beatrix was analyzing.
“I never did any of that,” she finally informed the king.
His eyebrows went up in surprise. “You didn’t?”
“No. Would it have benefited us, if I had?”
“No!”
“Just checking.”
The king began to pace again. “If not you then . . . your sister?”
The queen suddenly laughed. It was such a surprising sound, coming from her, of all beings, that both Agathon and the king froze and looked at her. Almost as if they were wary deer that had just heard a branch crack in the forest.
“My sister?” the queen said, still laughing. She waved her hand. “That’s a good one.” Her laughter died away. “No. Not Keeley. Never Keeley. If she knows about any of this, I’m sure she’s running around attempting to fix it.”
“Disgusted by such an affront to the gods?” the king asked.
“More like appalled by the harm to all the innocent people,” she said with an eye roll of annoyance. “My sister, always attempting to save the world.
“Of course,” the queen continued, “if it wasn’t us and it wasn’t Keeley . . . who was it?”
The angry redness that had covered the king’s face drained, leaving him looking pale and afraid.
“Oh, gods,” he groaned.
“What?” She looked back and forth between the king and Agathon. “The twins?” she suggested. “They must need gold and silver for their pathetic little army. I heard they’re losing men every day.”
When her gaze rested on Agathon, he could only shake his head.
“Then who?”
“Cyrus,” the king replied before he dropped into a chair, resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.
“Cyrus the Honored? The one who didn’t kill any of the Old King’s wives? Or any of his half brothers? The one that half your father’s army left with as soon as the old bastard died? He’s killing your precious monks and priests? Destroying their temples?”
The king leaned back in the chair until his head could rest on the wall behind him.
“My precious brother earned his name because he followed a strict code of honor. He never wavered from it. Everything he did was in the name of his one god. Or, as he called it, his one true god.”
“Who only worships one god?”
“My brother. Some cult his mother belonged to. She infected him with that stupidity. But her son took the teachings many steps further. He has a strong code, but living under that code, he made my father look like a soft, fluffy bunny.”
The queen glanced at Agathon and he gave a small nod, letting her know that her husband’s words were true. Agathon had attempted to flee with Cyrus’s army when the Old King died but he’d been unable to get out of the castle. He believed he could pretend to worship any god Cyrus wanted him to, and Cyrus wasn’t actively attempting to kill the Old King’s direct bloodline . . . unlike Marius. Besides, Agathon had had no other choices. The twins were as volatile as Marius, and traveling on his own would only make Agathon a ready victim for any thieves on the road.
But now that the restraint of the Old King had been lifted from Cyrus, Agathon wondered if something truly terrible had been unleashed in Marius’s half brother.
“All this time,” the king continued, “when we didn’t hear much from my brother, I thought maybe he’d found another territory to focus on. Now I think maybe he’s preparing to come after the crown. We’re going to hav
e to worry about him and your sister.”
Instead of appearing worried, though, the queen smiled. And, gods love him, the king looked as Agathon felt. Panicked.
Because of that smile.
It wasn’t something she did. She had a fake smile she used on the royals who visited but it was only to placate those who provided soldiers and gold. Her true smile, she kept to herself. But on those very rare occasions when she did unleash it, the recipient was unsettled.
And both Agathon and the king . . . they were unsettled.
They both leaned away from her as she raised her forefinger and waved it with that smile on her face.
“This is perfect.”
“How?” the king asked. “How is this perfect?”
“First, we send out troops under your seal, inviting all monks, priests, nuns, witches, whatever, to our castle and grounds for their protection.”
“Uhhhh, my lady . . .” Agathon regretfully interrupted.
But Beatrix only had to look at him once and roll her eyes, before she amended, “Fine. Send it under my seal if it will make them feel safer.”
“You have a seal?” the king asked.
“Of course I have a seal.”
“I never gave you a seal.”
“Can I finish?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “We bring them here, we give them all sanctuary. Now, my sister has probably already started this process because I’m sure she’s just soooo upset about the killings.”
The king frowned at her flippant tone.
“Is . . . is she going to slaughter them all once she has them in her clutches or something?”
“Oh, no! She’ll absolutely give them protection. Trust me, I know my sister. She is very upset about all this.”
“But you don’t care.”
“I don’t care at all.”
“Then why are we doing it?”
“Because this puts religious orders and their gods in our debt. Make sure you get as many war monk orders as you can, Agathon.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“You know what else?” she asked the king.
“Other than that you’re incredibly disturbing?”
“Yes, other than that.”
“What?”
“My sister, warrior for good that she is, can’t stay away from a fight. If Cyrus is killing innocents, Keeley won’t stop until she destroys him.”
“Cyrus will destroy her first.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Beatrix said with a laugh. “That’s the beauty. It doesn’t matter if she kills him, he kills her, or they kill each other. When it’s all over . . .” She shrugged. “We destroy what’s left and take the crown. We take it all.”
“You mean I destroy what’s left and take the crown. I take it all. Right?”
There was that smile again. And it spread across her face like leprosy across an infected body.
“Absolutely.”
The queen turned away from them and walked to the window she’d been staring out when the king first stormed in.
“Get to work, Agathon,” Beatrix tossed over her shoulder, her gaze once again focused outside; her mind furiously working on her future plans. “There’s much to be done and so little time. Dear Cyrus the Honored seems to have a calling from his god.”
CHAPTER 5
Her head was dragged up from the ground while blood poured onto the cobblestones. She was grabbed by both arms and lifted to her knees. She was too weak to fight. Too weak to speak. Too weak even to cry. Carried to the stake to join her already burning brothers. Flames surrounded her; her screams joined the others. And her loyal gods were no longer by her side. Her betrayal too great. They would never forgive her; never accept her into their halls.
Forever she would be known as the Great Betrayer and there was nothing she would be able to do about it. Except scream while she burned . . .
But one of the soldiers grabbed her, pulled her from the flames. He shook her.
“Gemma!” he screamed at her. “Gemma!” She punched at him. She would burn with her brothers. She would not be a slave to those who would kill those loyal to their gods.
“Gemma!” he called again, continuing to shake her.
She decided to fight him, even though she was covered in flames and blood and stank of betrayal.
Gemma wrapped her right arm around his throat and swung her body onto his back. She wrapped her legs around his waist and placed her left arm against her right so he couldn’t break her hold. Then she tightened her grip. If she took only one more enemy with her, it would be this one. She would take this one to honor the god she had deserted. He would be her sacrifice. It might not get her into Morthwyl’s hallowed halls but at least she could wander the valleys of his hells with her head held high.
The soldier no longer called her name, too busy gasping for air and desperately attempting to drag her arms off his neck.
But then Gemma was growing, expanding.
Gods! Morthwyl was making her a giant! She grew and grew, reaching amazing heights! Standing tall!
Then she saw . . . antlers? Why did she see antlers? Did she have antlers? Did she have antlers instead of a face? Would Morthwyl have done something so cruel?
No! No! She didn’t want antlers for a face!
She immediately slapped her hands to her face, rubbing her fingers over the flesh, ready to rip off any antlers she might feel where skin should be. But she felt nothing but human flesh. As she continued her examination, the world beneath her shook and jerked and Gemma went flying. Away from the flames. Away from the persecution. Away from the evil soldiers and her burning brothers and into a wall that didn’t move.
Gemma awoke and instantly knew she lay slumped on the battlements of her sister’s castle.
Shocked and still reeling from the dream that was beginning to feel like a premonition, she looked around and saw Quinn standing a few feet away from her in his natural form. Not just as a centaur but a centaur ready to defend his kind to the death. She could see fangs, claws on his hands, and a rack of antlers that crowned the top of his head.
She could also see marks on his throat where she’d attempted to kill him.
Shifting and shaking her off had been his only option.
He moved closer to her, hooves clomping against stone.
“Rough night?” he asked.
Gemma let out a breath, and that’s when she realized that a tear was slowly streaking down her cheek. She wiped it with a finger and replied, “You could say.”
He jerked the head that carried an antler rack as easily as she wore a helmet. “Come on. Let’s talk.”
* * *
Quinn shifted back to his human form and opened the battlement door, waiting for Gemma to get off the ground and walk through. He didn’t help her. Not because he was angry at her. He wasn’t. But because he didn’t think touching her was what she needed at the moment. He’d known her about two years now and she had never liked being coddled. By anyone. Not her siblings. Not her parents. Not the many pets that ran free around the castle.
Gemma Smythe had her own space and she let you know when you could enter it and when you couldn’t. Right now, she didn’t seem to want anyone too close.
She passed him silently and he followed her down the narrow staircase to the fourth floor. From there they cut through the hall to the regular staircase, which led them down to the first floor and deep into the castle to the kitchens. She sat at the big wooden table where the head cook did all the butchering and baking and yelling. The woman was feared by many because, when annoyed, she tended to throw her cleaver. She hadn’t hit anyone yet, though, so Quinn didn’t understand why everyone was so testy about it all.
He motioned for Gemma to sit down at the table and then got out the wine and meat pies the head cook kept hidden for him.
Quinn placed them on the table and sat on the bench beside Gemma. He didn’t sit too close but he didn’t sit on the other side since the table was wide and he didn’t want to yell
across the room.
“I’m sorry,” Gemma said softly. She had her eyes shut tight and began to rub her forehead with her hands. “I don’t know if that was a dream or a premonition.”
“A premonition?”
“I was being burned at the stake.” She dropped her hands, opened her eyes wide. “Me and my entire order. And do you know whose fault it was?”
“Whoever is killing all the monks?”
“My fault.”
“Gemma, that’s insane.”
“Is it?”
Quinn took a bite out of one of the meat pies. That was to stifle his desire to call her an idiot.
When he was done chewing, he instead said, “You and your sister both do this, you know?”
“Do what?”
“Take responsibility that’s not yours. When Marius wiped out your entire town, even though it was no fault of hers, Keeley still felt it was her responsibility to fix the situation. When you broke my nose, you didn’t take responsibility for that. But the destruction of your order—which may or may not have actually happened—that responsibility you line up for.”
“I had a premonition.”
“A premonition or a dream?”
“Could be either.”
“But probably only one.”
“Why are you arguing with me about this?” She dismissed him with a wave and grabbed a pie. “You don’t even believe in anything magickal.”
“I have hooves, woman. I am magick.” He pointed at her uneaten pies. “You going to eat those?”
“I am.”
“All of them?”
Gemma pushed one over to him.
“I wouldn’t worry,” Quinn told her between bites and sips of wine. “Your sister is moving on this like all these people are loyal only to her.”
“I know. I know.”
“She’s offering them all sanctuary. They’ll be protected here.”
“I know.”
“And your sister would never let you burn.”
She glanced up at him, her frown deep, juice and crumbs from the pies around her mouth. He realized it was an expression of confusion. And Quinn suddenly understood her confusion. She didn’t understand why he thought she was concerned about being burned at the stake. Because she wasn’t concerned. She’d burn for her brothers. Just as she’d burn for her family. Her concern was that she wouldn’t burn with them.