by EF Joyce
"You will submit that treaty, Grayna. Take my personal guard if you must, but ensure that it is delivered, no matter the cost," she commanded.
"If he finds out..." Grayna began.
"It won't matter," Elixa argued. "As long as the treaty can escape the city before he learns of it. You and I both know he cannot leave the bounds of the capitol, and once the treaty crosses those boundaries it will be too late for him to stop it. You must do this," she pleaded. "For our people."
"Of course, your majesty. I will not fail you."
"I know," she replied, and sat in heavy silence long after the echo of the closing doors had faded behind him.
Chapter 3
I
Anaka opened her eyes, blinking in the harsh, white light. Her bare feet were sunken into spongy dark soil, the graceful grass fluttering in the listless breeze, tickling her toes. She stood in an open field, green curving hills flowing effortlessly into a serene blue lake to her left, painstakingly formed farmer's huts to her right. Tibre. But why would she dream of Tibre? Perhaps her conscience was getting to her. No, she felt no guilt for handing Tibre to Alaric. Four months Yeraz had been cut off from its breadbasket; it should have ended the war, but Stellan was too stubborn.
She wandered toward the huts, running her fingers through the tall grass, marveling at the reality of her dream. It had to be, since her last memory was of falling asleep in her chambers, yet she'd never had a dream this alive. A sun tanned farmer emerged from a hut as she approached, waving his arms at her and muttering in Tibrin, a language she could recognize from her last journey to this place, only two years prior, though it felt like a lifetime.
"You're our hero, Cyril," she'd said two years ago, buried four grave lengths beneath Tibre's bronze gates, blinking and breathing dirt as they crawled through the ancient tunnel.
"I promised I'd get you in, didn't I?" he'd replied, flashing his own brown smile in the dim lantern light.
"Yes, hip hip for Cyril, now let's get out of this damn tunnel and knock that usurper from his fake throne," one of the men had exclaimed. The other twenty had cheered at that, and Cyril led them up a rickety ladder and through a trap door that had opened up behind a grassy knoll just east of the Bronze Gates themselves, a path through to a province that everyone believed to be impenetrable. A path that Cyril had only known about because he'd spent his youth exploring these very hills, discovering forgotten secrets and hidden things too archaic and inconsequential for adults to notice, understand or search for, and too significant for children to comprehend as more than a boyhood adventure.
Above ground again, Anaka, Cyril and Quinton Balkin, the newest general, had changed into sets of fresh clothes from their satchels, washing the grime from their faces in an icy stream. Tibre had belonged to the empire of Yeraz for nearly two-hundred years, and they were not about to lose it to an over-zealous Tibreian attempting to seize power and shrug off their rule. Even attending to the grim task of reclaiming the province, Anaka had stopped to admire its beauty. Surrounded by mountains and green rolling hills, sliced neatly into patches by the rivers' silvery strands, the place breathed with life everywhere she looked.
Scrubbed clean and dressed up in the traditional gossamer robes of Tibre, the three of them had entered the city from the west, safe and camouflaged already behind the barrier of mountains and the famed Bronze Gate, with Yeraz's army camped just beyond. The civilians had been nervous, jumping from task to task, hyperaware of the army that lay just beyond their gates, the streets deserted save vendors, guards, and those with compelling reasons to leave the cover of their homes.
They'd moved quickly, knowing discovery meant failure. Cyril and Anaka approached the gate on the left, while Quinton took the right. The guard at the base of the ladder had barely opened his mouth to speak when Cyril opened a red smile in his throat. Anaka had leapt onto the ladder, racing upward, quick as a cat. The single man at the top met the end of her dagger, dead before he even knew what was happening. Glancing over the gate, she'd spotted Quinton on the other tower and together they'd raised the Bronze Gate. Her twenty soldiers at the bottom had kept the guards off them long enough for Yeraz's army to shove their way through, slaughtering every guard that stood against them and recovering Tibre for itself. Afterward, the council had voted to keep the tunnel open but secret, in case they ever had need of it again, though this decision had just cost them the province a second time.
Now in her dream, the land was just as she'd remembered it; lush and beautiful, contentment realized into landscape, a reality too soft and forgiving for someone like her, someone who cut everything she touched, someone who plotted to bathe the world in blood. Breathing in the fresh, untainted air of her dream, she felt the worry lift from her, the conflict inside her die, though she knew it would be there, waiting, lurking, and gnawing at her when she woke. In her daylight hours she blamed Stellan for forcing her hand in this with his boundless ambition. But in that clear moment she accepted that she'd done the wrong thing, accepted how right it made her feel, that she was perhaps worse than he was, more ruthless than even he had imagined.
Just as the warm peace of self-understanding washed over, it fluttered away, like a brief refreshing breeze on the hottest of summer days. She awoke in her bed to the sounds of wind rattling her window and Stellan breathing, his eyelids trembling as he chased his own dreams. But her dream had been like none other. She had felt it; she had stood there, in Tibre, her toes in the mud, the sun on her face.
Her dream...had it been real? How was that possible? Such were the queen's powers, to dream and conquer, though in Elixa's dreams she could control reality, bend it to her will, fell armies with a thought. Could Anaka have done the same? As silently as possible, she slipped from the bed, Stellan undisturbed, or perhaps just pretending to be. With him she could never tell.
Had this been what Alaric meant when he'd said she had magic in her four months previous? Anaka hadn't believed him for a second. She'd never had magic, never used it, never known it. Hastily she threw on a set of warm clothes; she needed to get out, needed to think. Outside in the courtyard, the wind whipping her hair in a mini tornado she could finally breathe, finally focus. There was only one obvious answer; she had the queen's power because Elixa's magic came from Stellan, and now Anaka had a piece of him inside her – their baby, the future queen. But could she use that magic? Control it? Practice it without him knowing?
"A little late for a walk, isn't it, Handmaiden?" Anaka jumped as Grayna approached, sitting next to her on the stone bench, facing a garden they couldn't see in the darkness. Normally it would have been impossible for anyone to sneak up on her. She was losing her touch.
"I could ask you the same, Grand General," she replied.
"I do enjoy the gardens at night," he admitted, staring out into the gloom. "A place away from prying eyes and ears." Anaka said nothing, waiting for Grayna to fill the silence. People always seemed to say so much more when they weren't asked. "Do you have all that you've ever wanted, Handmaiden? Is the pretended love of a vain and selfish immortal the one thing you're life has been missing? Or is there something else you desire?"
"I'm not sure what you mean," Anaka said. Stellan was a vain and selfish asshole indeed. But why did the Grand General give a shit who she shared her rooms with? It wasn't as if she'd been stupid enough to fall for him. Oh wait...
"You are the queen's most trusted agent, the army reveres you for your past deeds as a member of the Black Hand, the people worship you as the Holy Mother, and you even have influence over Sebastian. You hold the empire in the palm of your hand. So I ask – what will you do with it?" I will burn it to the ground.
"You overestimate me, Grand General," she said. "I have lost much of the army's respect after General Quinton and mine's...falling out," After I dumped that ugly bastard. "And also after what happened with Tibre." What's your end game? What do you want from me?
"They won't pin that on you forever," Grayna said. "After all, it was
Cyril's loose tongue who gave Eide the tunnels, not yours."
"Yes, but I was the one who brought him there," Anaka said, remembering the grim night when she'd stood at the bottom of the enemy king's tower after scaling the outside walls with Cyril. She'd slit his throat in the moonlight, his blood darkening the grass, soaking into her hands, staining her forever. That was the moment she'd committed her feet to the treacherous path they now walked, Cyril's blood a declaration that there would be no coming back from.
"What do you want, Grand General?" she asked, staring straight ahead at the shadowy garden.
"Want? I want for nothing. Just passing through the garden at night and saw a chance for some company. We have much in common, Handmaiden. We are both killers, and good ones. We both long for peace with Dalga." Speak for yourself; personally I hope Alaric burns this evil city to the ground.
"And we both carry much influence in certain political circles. I've been a general for many years, as my father was before me, and his father. We've each held positions on the council. Each and every Handmaiden falls for Sebastian. How could they not? He's powerful, beautiful, godlike. Sometimes he's responsive to them, sometimes not.
"But regardless of any of that, they all die with their queens. When Elixa's time is up, so yours will be also. It does not matter what he says to you, what promises he makes, what sweet nothings he whispers in your ear at night. When the time comes, he'll stick that knife in you just the same. It has always been so, but does not have to always be. Enjoy the remainder of your evening, Handmaiden." The Grand General rose and vanished into the night, leaving Anaka alone with the cold wind and wilting flowers, goose bumps prickling her arms, remembering the night she had seen Helena die.
She'd been following Stellan after Elixa's ceremony, clutching a slender knife in her tiny hands. Not that it would be of much use against an immortal, but she had certainly meant to try. Stellan and the former Handmaiden had been walking out together, alone, to Seadragon Cliff, the tallest cliff on palace grounds. The moon had been high and the wind loud. She had followed, a gangly nine-year-old creeping through bushes, quiet as a forest creature. Elixa had become queen that day, the queen Helena served now dead. They'd paused atop the cliff, two silhouettes in the moonlight, like secret lovers in a clandestine meeting. She'd been close enough to see, but not hear with the wind roaring in her frozen ears.
They spoke muted words and silvery tears flashed on Helena's high cheekbones. The former Handmaiden had turned to look out over the icy sea, as if she were taking in the view, head held high, and Stellan had wrapped his arms around her from behind. The knife had gleamed wickedly in the moonlight as he reached across her, slitting her throat with the quickest of motions. He released her and Helena had fallen, silent as a shadow into the sea.
Only that day she had learned the fate of the queens – bonded forever to the Sphere, prisoners of their father's magic. Now she'd learned her own destiny. Serve. Obey. And then die quietly – scenic view included.
Reminding her of Helena's death was no coincidence. Grayna had been warning her of her future if she dared to stand with Stellan, but against what? A rebellion? A coup? What was Grayna planning? Of course he wouldn't have simply told her. Words like that were dangerous. As a loyal and faithful servant to the Empire, Ilahi and Queen of Dreams, she once would have played his game, pretended that she was interested in his rebellion only to turn over the information to her masters. But times had changed and so had she. Anaka would answer to no master, would follow no one's rule.
Being with Stellan had been like dancing on a knife edge. She'd always known what kind of man he was, that he could murder her at any second in a fit of rage, or coldly and deliberately, for his own reasons. He'd done it before to others, plenty of times. Sleeping with death had been a sort of thrill that she couldn't get enough of. Perhaps part of her had wanted to die, and after the life she'd lived, who could blame her? And what did she have to look forward to? More killing for the queen, more following orders, only to be rewarded with a slit throat, lifeless body falling soundlessly over the tallest cliff? No, she had chosen a new destiny for herself and her child. Neither would be slaves to Yeraz or its harsh masters.
II
Anaka returned to her rooms, windswept and bone-chilled, dark memories burning hot in her mind. She could warn Stellan the Grand General was planning something, but why bother? Let the Grayna plan, and without her help. She had her own plans. The heavy oak door to her bedroom swung silently inward as she crept into the room, revealing Stellan sitting upright in her bed, absent mindedly smoothing wrinkles from the sheets.
"Where were you?" he demanded, half furious, half afraid. But of what?
"In the gardens," she responded, nearly sighing with audible relief that he hadn't realized she'd borrowed their unborn daughter's power and used it to dream, unless of course he had and was choosing to let her believe she possessed a secret. That would be just like him. The Handmaiden would need to tread carefully. "I couldn't sleep."
He held his hand out to her in an unspoken gesture; come to me. And she did. His fingers danced across her skin as she curled against him, inhaling the lightning and wind scent of him, wishing his touch disgusted her when it did just the opposite; at once igniting and calming her. Even knowing what she must do, that she would destroy him in every way possible, she could not turn away from him.
Anaka had made her decision and there was no going back now. Given the chance, she'd have done it all over, no matter how she would miss him. Besides, Grayna had been right. A knife to the throat was the only happily ever after he'd ever give her.
"I don't understand," Ronan said, his voice hushed as he leaned over the desk of his great-great-great grandfather, his deep green eyes mirroring Anaka's own worries.
"It's a fairly simple request," she whispered in return. Even locked in the office of the Black Hand, they were not safe from unwanted listeners. Anaka's cool, slanted eyes followed her apprentice as he paced over the Lyverian carpet; Hakkon's most prized possession. During his bloody reign as Black Hand, he'd kept that carpet immaculate, away from the chairs and the door, a work of art spread across the tiled floor. No one had ever been allowed to touch it, much less step on it, excepting one special moment when those soft violet and maroon fibers had been tainted with her dirty blood.
Warm with pride, she'd strode into his office, having just scaled the Queen's Tower, tallest in the palace, sneaking through the topmost window and making her way to the bottom again without being noticed, slipping through the shadows like a shade. Stretching out her sore limbs, she'd sauntered across the wood floor and eased herself into the worn leather chair, facing his grand desk that had been hand-carved by his great-great-grandfather.
Anaka had run her hands over the chair's smooth leather arms, unable to keep the smile from her adolescent face. Hakkon would be proud of her. He may even reward her with one of the Nine Daggers that lined the wall, forged by the Master's own hands. Rumor had it that he presented one to any apprentice who proved worthy. Six of the Nine remained, one awaiting her ownership, she knew.
Hakkon had frowned at her from across the massive, beaten desk, folding his hands together and staring her down. He'd been a dark man, a hard man with a foreboding set of eyebrows that perpetually crumpled with disapproval. From him she had learned the strength of silence, and several minutes passed before he spoke, the chirps and hisses of night creatures floating through the open window.
"You really think you're something special, don't you?" he'd asked, his eyes flickering with disdain, as if she were a stain on his prized carpet. Hakkon had stood then, having been a muscular man of impressive height, he intimidated most. But not her. He'd unbuckled his decorative sword, setting it carefully on the desk, so that the gold chain did not hang over the edge. He'd draped his coat neatly across the back of his chair, and then reached for his staff, that smooth, glossy wood. Anaka had picked it up once, when he hadn't been watching, just to feel its massive weight in he
r hands. It had felt like power.
He'd raised the staff and swung. Her face had burst open in a storm of fiery agony, blood filling her mouth. She'd spat a tooth out on his carpet, noting the clash between its whiteness and the dark colors of the Lyverian fibers. No blood allowed on this carpet; she'd almost laughed. He'd hit her again and again, his swings growing more furious and desperate with each one, as if he were begging her for something just out of her power to give.
Hakkon had beaten her before, plenty of times. An assassin must know the meaning of pain. He'd whipped her and cut her and broken her. But this was different. Don't scream; don't scream. Her ribs had broken with a pop, her vision swimming with shadows. Blood trickled from her face in crimson rivulets. Don't. Scream.
Hakkon had flung that beautiful staff across his office and it rolled soundlessly across the rug. Face down against the floor, Anaka had watched her tears soak into the dark fabric, not daring to make a sound. She'd long ago stopped asking herself what she'd done to deserve this. He just liked hurting her.
"Do you still think you're special? You are nothing, little girl. I'll never know why the queen orders me to waste my precious time training a worthless girl-child, a Wakati slave at that, but I'm counting the seconds until you fail, until the life goes out of you and I'll finally be rid of your worthless weight," he'd spat.
Anaka hadn't changed a thing. The carpet still stretched across the pale floor, Ronan tromping across it in his boots whenever he had the chance, still spiting his father four years in the grave. The daggers still clung to wall, only five left now since she had stolen his best one at age thirteen. She'd never seen her master so angry as the day he'd discovered it missing, but he'd never found her out, up until the moment she'd killed him with it anyway.