An Accident of Stars

by Foz Meadows

  Her pulse was weak and thready. The world of the cavern slipped away, replaced by a glimpse of Zech, her limbs and head bound with bandages, being borne on a stretcher down a steep rock stairwell. The women who carried her were dressed in the garb of priestesses, their faces grave in the predawn light. The vision flickered and changed: a naked Zech lay curled on the ground in a blank white space, with Yasha crouched beside her. Sensing an intrusion, the matriarch whipped her head around, eyes narrowing as she lit on Saffron; yet when she spoke, her voice was uncharacteristically gentle.

  “Go back, girl,” she said. “You’re nearly there.”

  Her lips trembled. “But it hurts. Everything hurts.”

  Yasha smiled. “That’s how you know it’s real.”

  Unable to answer, Saffron closed her eyes. The blackness took her again, but unlike the black of the tunnel, this was a friendly darkness, warm and safe. She swam within it, just as she’d swum in the underground pool, and lost all sense of time and space. I could stay here, she thought, and for the longest moment, it felt as though the choice had been taken from her. But then the stars came out – a trail of gold and silver lights winding their way overhead – and she thought, not yet, and followed them.

  With a sudden crash, Saffron came back to herself, coughing to regain the breath the fall had knocked from her lungs. Fall? She blinked, trying to make sense of what had happened, and rolled onto her back. The dragon stared down at her, its ruined head tilted to one side, as though it were surprised to see that she was still alive. Snorting softly, it lent down and nudged her chest with the tip of its muzzle, blinking with evident satisfaction when she groaned at the contact. And then it turned and walked away, leaving Saffron to watch dazedly as it approached the unmistakable blue exterior of the egg-wall and shouldered its way through a dragon-sized gash, which promptly healed shut behind it.

  At first, Saffron didn’t understand. Was she back beneath the mesa then? Surely not: the ceiling overhead was visible, a soft-coloured stone barely visible in the pale grey light. The sound of rushing water thundered in her ears, and when she looked to the side, she saw a stream gushing forth from the rock beside the egg-wall, flowing out into… what?

 

  Wincing, she rose to her feet and lurched forward, propelled by a nameless urgency. Somewhere deep within herself, she knew she was well beyond the edge of her endurance; that whatever propelled her now was borrowed strength, and wouldn’t last much longer. Staggering beside the stream, her bad foot dragging at the ankle, she didn’t immediately notice when the stone overhead gave way to naked sky, nor did she fully register that the ambient light was no longer cast by crystals. Instead she followed the water, desperately wanting to drink yet fearing to stop.

  And then she rounded a corner, and everything came into focus.

  To her right, the stream became a waterfall, thundering down the mesa’s flank with reckless abandon. Ahead of her was open air, the sky alight with the promise of daybreak, yet still sunless. And to her left was a platform of rock beneath the mesa’s flank, where nine torch-bearing women – six queens, three priestesses – stood facing her in a semicircle. At their feet was a stretcher, and on the stretcher was Zech, unconscious.

  “Mother Sun, have mercy,” one queen whispered. “She’s still alive.”

  But Saffron barely heard her. Stumbling forwards – she could hardly support herself now – she fell to her knees at Zech’s side, staring transfixed at the bandages which covered the other girl’s wounds. And only then, as she reached out to Zech, did she remember that she’d never dropped her crystal – it was still clutched in her right hand, smeared with blood and muck. She’d been holding it for so long that it took a conscious effort to let go, and as her hand spasmed open, the crystal fell onto Zech’s narrow chest. Shuddering, Saffron braced her palms on the stretcher’s edge and slowly keeled forwards, until her forehead was pressed to Zech’s.

  “We made it,” she rasped. “We’re done.”

  And as she spoke, the sun rose above the horizon, its bright rays turning the waterfall into a crashing river of light.

  “The Trial of Queens is complete,” intoned the priestesses. “Zechalia a Kadeja is here declared a Queen of Veksh, and Safi a Ellen, her proxy, is made a Queen’s Equal. Let the dawn bear witness. Ashasa wills it so.”

  “Ashasa wills it so,” the waiting queens echoed.

  “Oh, thank fuck,” Saffron whispered.

  Then she passed out.

  * * *

  When Saffron woke again, it was to the sound of distant arguing. Though unable to make out more than a handful of words, the general tenor was unmistakable – as were the voices involved. Mesthani and Yasha. She opened her eyes to look.

  She was lying in bed opposite an open, glassless window; the view beyond was nothing but sky, while the warm light streaming through it was suggestive of late afternoon. Every cell of her body ached. Sluggishly, she turned her head, and was just in time to see Mesthani shooing an aggravated Yasha away from the room, an encounter which culminated in the former firmly shutting the door in the latter’s face. Not quite smiling at the sight, Saffron looked the other way and found she wasn’t alone. Zech was beside her, fast asleep in a different bed. Her bandages were gone, her injuries healed. Her new scars, though, were a sight to behold: the one arm Saffron could see was ribboned with cuts, but as it had been with the dragon, the worst injury was to her face, a triple clawmark that stopped just short of her eye.

  Yet something was off about it. Frowning, Saffron sat up a little, trying to put her finger on the dissonance.

  “They’re inverted,” Mesthani said, startling her.

  Saffron jumped, then instantly regretted it – the sudden motion set her head spinning. Frowning, Mesthani poured some liquid from a glass pitcher into a fat ceramic mug, which she handed to Saffron.

  “Drink this. It’s mixed with herbs, to replenish what the healing cost.”

  Her thirst returned with a vengeance. Saffron downed the lot in seconds. The taste was sweetly astringent, like wasabi blended with orange peel. The first cup gone, she let Mesthani pour her a second, third and fourth serving, all of which she gulped down with indecent speed. Only with a fifth and final cup safely in hand did she feel sufficiently capable of speech.

  “What do you mean, inverted?”

  Mesthani nodded at Zech. “Her scars are the inverse of yours. Where you are marked on the left, Zechalia is marked on the right, and vice versa. A consequence of the proxy magic.”

  Unconsciously, Saffron raised a hand to her face, probing the right side. Sure enough, three raised scars stood out against the stubble of her hair, each one only slightly thinner than a finger’s width.

  “Show me,” she ordered.

  Her face expressionless, Mesthani handed Saffron a small bronze mirror. Though slightly blurred, her reflection was still clear enough to make out the extent of the damage: not only did the scars extend from eye to skull-base, but the top of her right ear was missing, a good thumbswidth of cartilage sheared raggedly away. She touched what remained of it, and wondered, with a certain bleak humour, why she wasn’t more outraged. Perhaps it’s hard to miss an ear when you’ve already lost two fingers. Or then again, it might have been sheer relief that the dragon-battle had spared her eye, which would have been a far more grievous hurt. As it was, the pointed scar-tips had missed it only by millimetres: the first bisected her eyebrow, the second clipped its outer edge, and the third ran right alongside the eye itself.

  She reached inwards, trying to find the shock and anxiety she surely ought to be feeling. After all, her injuries were signs of yet more trauma she’d somehow have to explain back home, and a permanent disfigurement into the bargain. If her vanity had been troubled by her missing fingers, then how much more alarming was a ruined ear and a trio of facial scars, to say nothing of the numerous ugly cuts to the rest of her body? But despite her probing, all she found was a sense of relief that she’d lived to be scarred at
all, coupled with surprise when she remembered that Viya, too, had taken a similar injury back on the Envas road. Was that merely a coincidence, or something altogether more magical? It felt presumptuous to doubt the existence of fate at this point, but by the same token, it also felt unbearably egotistical to imagine that she mattered on such a grand scale. As if in answer to this dilemma, she suddenly recalled a word she’d learned in last year’s English course – syzygy, which meant a kind of poetic repetition – and felt absurdly pleased that such an obscure term now had personal relevance. Maybe the universe has a sense of humour, after all.

  Slowly, she set the mirror down, and belatedly noticed that someone had taken the liberty of tattooing her left wrist while she slept. Saffron blinked. The design was simple enough: two entwined snakes biting each other’s tails, one red, one gold, and both delineated by a sharp black outline. Together, they made a continuous loop that encircled her wrist like a bracelet, their sinuous forms stylised in a way that reminded her simultaneously of Celtic knotwork and Aztec glyphs. The ink was vibrant and unmissable: bloodred crimson, sunbright gold, seal’s-eye black. The snakeheads faced in opposite directions on the top of her wrist; she stared at them, then turned her hand around and showed the design to Mesthani.

  “What is this?”

  “It marks you as a successful proxy,” she said. “Your rights in Veksh are now effectively equal to that of a queen, and as you bear a queen’s marks visibly, there was a need to distinguish your status. So.” She tapped the tattoo. “This means you may sit on and speak to the Council, though you cannot vote; you have a senior priestess’s right to wear your hair long, though should you choose to do so, you must offer weekly blood-penance to Ashasa’s fire; all Ashasa’s temples save the House of Knives and the Great Temple’s inner sanctum are open to you; you may carry a bladed staff freely; and, should the need arise, you may call on any trueborn daughter of Veksh for aid, and expect it to be granted.” She paused. “It was more expedient to bestow the mark while you slept, so that the healing might void your pain.”

  “Oh,” said Saffron. What else could she possibly say?

  Mesthani smiled gently. “It’s a lot to take in, I’m sure. But for now, you ought to rest. The trial is a draining ordeal.”

  Saffron licked her lips. “What happened down there, with the scale and the, the scions…” she fought the urge to use the English word, dragons, instead, “…All the queens do that?”

  By way of answer, Mesthani pulled aside the collar of her robe, revealing a massive scar that plunged across her clavicle to disappear under her left armpit. “We do not speak of the trial,” she said softly. “And especially not of the scions. Ashasa’s secrets are hers to keep. But yes. We have all fought, as you did. As both of you did,” she amended, glancing at Zech.

  “And what happens next?” Saffron asked.

  “Next?” Mesthani smoothed her robe, the scar once more concealed. “Next I’d imagine the pair of you will address the Council on Yasha’s behalf, and after that, who knows? But for now, Safi a Ellen–” and here she brushed a thumb to Saffron’s cheek, “–you should rest. The healers have done well, but flesh still has its limits, and you exceeded yours hours ago.”

  Saffron opened her mouth to protest – she needed to know what was happening; wanted to ask if Trishka was fully recovered yet, where Gwen and Matu and the Shavaktiin were, what the Council thought of Zech joining their ranks – but all that came out was a yawn. Of their own accord, her eyelids fluttered closed again, and after that, there was nothing but peace and silence.

  Nineteen

  Queen’s Gambit

  Viya woke suddenly, jolted out of yet more dreams of the Envas road. She remembered that Hawy was dead; that secondmother Rixevet now led her family mahu’kadet; that Kadu was here, a member of the rebellion. For a moment, grief threatened to swamp her, but Viya refused it. The promised meeting with Amenet was still to come; she couldn’t afford distractions. Today, I am the Cuivexa, and the Cuivexa must show no weakness before her enemies. Not that she was among enemies here; but it wasn’t lost on Viya that if Amenet ore Amenet ki Rahei were to become her ally in truth, then sooner or later the question of marriage would have to be raised – specifically, the question of who would succeed Vex Leoden once his reign was overthrown.

  A glance at the window told her that dawn had long since passed, and yet she’d been left to slugabed. She frowned. Why hadn’t Pix woken her? She sat up with a lurch. The courtier’s absence could mean only one of two things: either Pix had never intended to let Viya meet with Amenet – which would imply that Kadu had somehow been duped into complicity – or else the meeting had been unaccountably postponed. Ignoring the fullness of her bladder, Viya considered the latter option. The only reason they hadn’t met the previous night was the need to wait for news from Veksh. But what if no news had come? Perhaps Oyako hadn’t been able to reach the other Shavaktiin. Or maybe it was the opposite case, that the dreamseer’s news of Yasha had thrown their plans in turmoil.

  Either way, she had some catching up to do. Pix and Kadu might not go so far as to purposefully keep her ignorant, but letting her sleep while events unfolded without her input was a different thing entirely, especially with Hawy gone. Of all her parents, Viya had always considered Kadu to be the gentlest and most considerate – noble attributes, to be sure, but she’d been away from him for long enough and under such dangerous circumstances that his concern for her was perilously close to manifesting as protectiveness, or worse still, pity. At dinner the previous evening, his manner more than his words had betrayed his desire to keep Viya safe – not only for her own sake, but because she alone of all the mahu’kedet’s children had called Hawy bloodmother. That made her special in his eyes, but if that specialness came at the expense of the respect she was owed as Cuivexa – and at a time when she badly needed her rank to show – then she would have no choice but to refuse it. Her heart twisted. For the time being, at least.

  Rising quickly, she made her ablutions, straightened her clothes, checked that the braids Pix had bound for her the previous night were still intact (they were), and hurried downstairs, hunting for the others. After several fruitless minutes, she finally thought to check outside, and was surprised to find not only Pix, but Kadu, Dom and Oyako standing aimlessly on the front drive. All four looked up as she approached, but it was Pix that Viya addressed, and Pix who answered.

  “Well? Have we heard from Veksh? What’s happened?”

  “Something rather unexpected.” The courtier pursed her lips. “Zechalia has undertaken the Trial of Queens with Safi as her proxy. I’m not quite clear on the details, but evidently it was the only way to gain audience with the Council. And…” She hesitated. “It appears that Zechalia is… is Kadeja’s daughter.”

  Viya’s mouth hung open. “What?”

  Oyako cut in. “At dawn, I spoke to Kikra–” the other Shavaktiin dreamseer “–and all he could say was that both girls had lived, though whether their attempt had succeeded or failed, he didn’t yet know. Since then, I’ve contacted him every hour for details, but each time, he only says the same thing: that the girls are healing, that Zechalia is acknowledged as a child of the Vex’Mara’s blood, and that not even Yasha has been permitted to see them.”

  Kadeja’s daughter. The revelation boiled in her bones. It was Ke and Na at work, it had to be – what else could explain how Viya had been taken in hand by the child of one she fled? The gods themselves had offered Zech as apology for Kadeja’s actions – and if that were true, then it was Viya, not Leoden, whose plans and alliances were supported by heaven. There shall be a pact with Veksh. We are two different peoples. We always were. But now, perhaps, we can be allies.

  And if Zech had sat the Trial of Queens… thanks to Kadeja’s angry lectures, Viya had some idea of the significance of the test, but not what it entailed. Given the Vex’Mara’s taste for violence, she could all too easily imagine that Zech and Safi had been subjected to some suitably blo
ody barbarian ritual. Even so, and as much as she disliked the spittle-skinned old bat, Yasha’s exclusion from the matter could hardly bode well for their plans. But if Zech is made a queen, then Yasha doesn’t matter. She’s been circumvented.

  Too many thoughts. Her pulse quickened, as did her breathing. Realising she’d been silent for too long, Viya spoke.

  “What does it mean?”

  Kadu glanced worriedly at Pix. “We were just discussing that very matter,” he said.

  And you didn’t think to wake me? Viya thought angrily, masking her irritation with some considerable effort. “And?”

  “At best guess, it could be one of two things,” said Pix. “Either they passed, and the Council is stalling for time because they didn’t expect it and don’t want to deal with Yasha, or they failed, and for some reason the Council is split on what should happen next. If I were a betting woman,” she added darkly, “I’d lay coin on the latter. Trying to understand Vekshi politics is like wrestling an armful of oiled snakes – grab all you want, but either the truth will slither away, or you’ll end up thoroughly bitten.” She snorted for good measure.

  “Don’t be too sure,” countered Dom. “Not about the snake part, I mean, but about their having failed.”

  “Why?” asked Viya.

  Dom smiled sharply. “If they’d failed, they’d be dead.”

  Viya shivered. Zech, a queen. “Whatever the case,” she said, “we still need to meet with Amenet, and we still need something to tell her.”

  “We’re due for an audience in just over an hour,” Pix said. “I’ve held out as long as I could, but the longer we wait, the weaker our position looks. I was about to come and wake you,” she added, almost sheepishly, “but after yesterday, I thought you could use the rest.”