The Last Queen: The Book of Kaels Vol. 1 (The Book of Kaels Series)

by Wendy Wang

  “I am sorry, but Lieutenant Declan is not available.” There it was. Final word. Neala gritted her teeth and tried not to growl out loud.

  “Surely—Captain Gubler, was it? Surely he has better things to do than to play royal nanny.”

  “Nanny? Is that how you see yourself? In need of a nanny? Perhaps I should mention to the Queen her twenty-two-year-old daughter needs a nanny,” Cai said.

  Neala could no longer contain her anger and she grabbed one of the leather pillows and threw it at Cai, hitting him in the face, daring him to do something.

  “I thought you might be reasonable. Clearly I was mistaken.” Cai’s jaw tightened and a cloud crossed his pale, blue eyes. If she wanted, she could read him while his defenses were weak. But she couldn’t tell him not to read her and then turn around and read him, could she? That wouldn’t be fair, would it? No. Neala pressed her lips together and stared at him.

  “I’m not leaving here until you change your mind,” she said.

  “You may be waiting a long time, then.” A grin twitched at the corners of his mouth. “Please, why don’t you make yourself at home. While you wait.”

  “Thank you, I will.” She unbuttoned her coat and opened the flap of her field bag. She pulled out an apple and a leather-bound book. On its cover, the title stamped in gold letters read, Kael Masters: A History of the Art of Tamarik.

  “You brought a book?” Cai’s eyebrows raised.

  “I had planned to read it up on the mountain as I basked in the sun. But I can read it here instead.” She sat back on the leather couch, crossed her legs and opened the inch-thick volume. “I also have a sketch pad and some charcoal, in case I feel like drawing.”

  Cai shook his head. “Fine. You sit there and read your book. It will not bother me one bit. Can I get you anything? Water, tea?”

  “No, I’m fine. Thank you.” She took her apple in hand and bit into it, making as much noise as she could. Her eyes skimmed the first pages and she rocked her foot, letting it knock against the wooden table between the two couches. Cai sighed and went to his desk. He flipped through some papers, stacked others and rearranged his pen and inkwell set. She could see him from the corner of her eye, glancing her way every few minutes. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling and thumbed open the index in the back of her book.

  His heavy, mahogany chair scraped across the wood floor and he propped his feet up on his desk. He smirked. “You know I could have you forcibly removed.”

  “You could try,” she said, leaning in closer to read the tiny print in the index. Her fingertip traveled along the three columns as she scanned for anything that might tell her something about moving paintings.

  “Highness, be reasonable.” Cai’s feet came off the desk and stomped on the floor as he leaned over his desk. He sounded cross.

  “Was it reasonable for you to just assign someone random to me? Without discussing what I might need?” she asked.

  “What you need is someone to keep you safe. Someone who will die for you if it comes to it and…” Cai shook his head. “My brother is not that person.”

  Three words caught her eye—Breath of Life. Her nose almost touched the paper as she tried make out the page number. The ink had smeared a bit and she couldn’t tell if it was 58, 85 or 88. She turned to page 58 first and skimmed the page quickly. No mention of Breath of Life. When she turned to 85, she did the same—still no information appeared. Her finger pressed too hard against the thin pages, and they crinkled as she flipped through. 86. 87. 90., she counted in her head. She checked again but page 88 was still missing. She laid the book on the table, flattening it open as wide as she could. Inside the fold, a single bit of corner remained. Someone had torn out the page and removed most of the evidence of its existence. She slammed the book shut and hopped to her feet, shoving the book back into her satchel.

  “I have to go,” she said. “But we’re not finished with this conversation.”

  “Yes, we are,” he said. She raised her left eyebrow and pursed her lips as she shook her head. He chuckled at her. “You look like you just bit into a sour apple.”

  “Your answer is very sour, sir. Now, are you walking me out, or am I wandering the halls on my own?” She crossed her arms. Cai got to his feet and gestured towards the door, his expression no longer cross but still annoyed. He offered his elbow but she didn’t take it, and she followed him through the labyrinth of hallways. The ceiling flickered as they walked down the grand staircase and Neala stopped to stare at it again.

  “It’s quite something, isn’t it?” Cai said.

  “Indeed, it is,” she said, mesmerized. “Do you know who painted it?”

  “I don’t, but I can find out for you. You mother told me you’re an excellent painter and that art interests you very much,” he said. She scowled at him. “What now?” His wide eyes and the concern in his voice that he had displeased her again struck her as odd.

  “Why are you talking about me to my mother?”

  “Ah—” he stammered. Confusion replaced his usually stern face. “Your mother talks about you and your sister quite frequently. She’s very proud of you.”

  Neala sighed. “To her, we’re both brilliant.”

  “Indeed.” He raised his hand, gesturing for Gordon, who still waited at the bottom of the steps. Gordon rushed to her side and looked to Cai for his orders. “Captain Gubler, please ensure the princess gets home safely.”

  “Yes, sir.” Gordon gave Cai a quick nod. Cai returned the gesture, turned and left without saying another word. Neala almost called after him to taunt him, but the sound of thunder coming from the painting overhead stopped her. There must be something about that ceiling in a book somewhere.

  “So, home then, Highness?” Gordon asked.

  “Yes.” Neala began to walk at her normal, hurried pace. “Let’s see if you and your long legs can keep up.”

  ******

  Neala fumed her way up to the family’s quarters. How dare he? She thought of mentioning it to her mother but Francie’s remarks about Peter made her think twice about it. If Francie knew, her mother definitely did, too. Perhaps Peter’s mother had even discussed it with her own mother.

  She threw open her bedroom door, wanting it to slam against the wall, but instead it slammed into Linka, her personal maid.

  “Your Highness,” the wispy maid said, with a slight curtsy. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

  “How could you have?” Neala snapped and the girl jumped at the sharpness of her voice. She blew out her breath and the anger dissipated. “I’m sorry, Linka. It’s my fault. I didn’t realize you’d be in here this time of day.”

  “I noticed you ripped a pair of your slacks and was going to mend them. May I take your coat?” Linka asked. Neala slipped out of her long, woolen coat and handed it to the girl.

  “Thank you.” Neala headed towards the easel by her desk. If she couldn’t go outside, at least she could paint or draw.

  “Your Highness?” Linka asked, her voice small and high like a child’s.

  “Yes,” Neala said, trying to curb the impatience she felt.

  “There’s something you should see, in your father’s study,” Linka said.

  “My father’s study is off limits, Linka. Did you go in there?” Neala’s voice was sharp again.

  “Nuh-no, ma’am.” The girl shook her head. Her muddy-colored eyes stared at the floor. Her dark hair was braided and pinned around the crown of her head. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen. “It’s just—I was told to send you to your father’s study. That you’d understand what that meant.”

  Neala sighed. “All right. Thank you Linka.” She reached in her satchel and took out her book before handing it over to Linka to put away.

  A few minutes later, she stood in front of the door to her father’s study. She placed her hand flat against the cream and gold enameled door. Before she turned the knob, she glanced both ways to make sure no one was watching her as she entered
. The clear hallway left her to move inside freely.

  The cool, stale air slapped her skin and the spicy smell of the books stung her nose. The room remained almost exactly as he had left it. Two large, leather chairs and an overstuffed, green sofa in front of the blue stone fireplace waited forlornly for the return of their master. How many times had she and Francie played board games on the floor while he read? Too many to count. It was here he’d taught her to play chess, to understand strategy and to never sacrifice her Queen, no matter what. Thinking about that now, she realized he meant more than just the beautifully carved Queen. The chess pieces had been put away the day he died.

  The door shut behind her and she jumped.

  “Hello, Princess.” Peter stepped out of the shadows, a grin stretching his lips. “You in the mood for a hike?”

  “Peter? What—how are you here?” Neala stumbled over her words.

  “Does it matter?”

  “Did Linka let you in here?” Her tone sounded sharp in her ears and her cheeks burned. This was a sacred space. Not to be invaded by a questionable young man, no matter how attractive. “She shouldn’t have done that. I’ll have to tell the head housekeeper.”

  “Hmm—you want me to go?” He jerked his thumb towards the door.

  “No,” she said. “But I do want to know how you got in here.”

  “There are tunnels that run all under the city. Including the palace. Come.” He held out his hand and waggled his fingers. “I’ll show you exactly how I got in and exactly how you’ll get out.”

  She stared at it for a moment, hesitating, her sister’s words ringing through her head. “Peter?”

  “Yes, Princess.”

  “Is it true?”

  He laughed. “Is what true?” How could she say this without sounding like a busybody? She bit the inside of her cheek and rocked on her heels. “If there’s something you want to know about me, just ask.”

  “It’s probably just gossip, but my sister told me that you have a child. Out of wedlock. I just wanted to know if it’s true.” Neala stared at the bookshelf in the corner. It looked strange in the shadows of the room. Was it pushed out from the wall? Was that how Peter got into the palace?

  “Does it matter?”

  “Maybe,” she said softly.

  A rumble started in the back of his throat and his lips pressed into a displeased line. “I figured someone would say something to you eventually.” He ran his fingers through his wavy, dark hair. “Yes. I have daughter. She’s seven. Her name is Y’Ana.”

  “Oh.” Neala’s neck started to sweat despite the coolness of the room. “What about the mother?”

  His eyes narrowed and a shadow crossed his face. “What about her?”

  “You didn’t marry her.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “But you loved her. Enough to have a child with her.”

  He laughed, but there was no warmth or humor in it. “You’re the daughter of a Queen. I’m the son of a governor. Since when do we get to marry who we love?”

  A breathy, nervous chuckle escaped her lips and her face felt as if her cheeks had caught fire. “Never. I guess.”

  “You and I can still be friends though, can’t we?”

  “Of course.” The words stuck in her throat and she coughed.

  “Besides, your mother would never approve me to be one of the lucky suitors, would she?”

  “I don’t know. She might. I can always make a case,” Neala said. Peter reached out and stroked his thumb across her cheek and a feathery shiver traced its way down her spine.

  “Maybe I will.” His brilliant, blue eyes glittered and she knew, even without reading him, that it was probably a lie.

  Silence filled up the space between them, until she couldn’t breathe. She glanced back at the door. But before she could escape, he took a step forward and put the toes of his boots over hers. “Do you want to go up into the hills? It’s warm today.”

  “It’s probably not a good idea.” Her hand drifted to the back of her neck. Why was she so hot?

  “No. Probably not.” He nudged her arm. “But when have you ever let that stop you?”

  She chuckled and then sighed. “You’re going to be all sorts of trouble, aren’t you?”

  “Nope,” he said, but he nodded his head and grinned his reckless grin, making her heart skip a beat.

  “Fine.” She shrugged as nonchalantly as she could manage. “Maybe we’ll find some crocus.”

  “Maybe.” He didn’t offer his hand or his elbow as he turned and motioned for her to follow.

  Four

  For the next seven weeks, Peter sent Neala notes through her maid with the time and place to meet him outside the tunnels. They would hike up in the hills, exploring almost all the way to the boundaries of the fold around Tamarik. Sometimes they returned to the old castle and sat in front of the paintings, talking about what it would be like to pass through them. To escape to the other side. There was only one thing that kept them from this final exploration — how would they get back with all the borders closed to other realms? Neala thought about the painting, how it was made, constantly wondering if she could recreate it. If she could find a way to make a painting of Tamarik to carry with them, she could bring them back safely.

  This morning, she had wanted to see Cariuel Falls. The snow had melted except for the very top of the mountain, which meant the current would be strong and the falls would be more than an icy trickle.

  Neala trudged up the path, rolling her eyes as Peter ranted.

  “I hate them.” Peter dragged a stick beside him in the dirt. He stopped for a moment and threw it into the flowing water of the nearby stream.

  “Uh-huh, so you’ve said.” Neala held a branch back from the path and he passed her. The gurgling sound of the water filled in the spaces between his angry complaints and the heavy sound of his boots in the leaf-litter. She was glad they weren’t there to hunt because he would have frightened away every animal within a fifty-yard radius.

  “How dare they attack us like that!”

  “Well, they have been threatening to declare war, Peter. They gave my mother a deadline and she chose to ignore it so they kept their word. Can’t fault them for that,” she said.

  “Of course I can fault them.”

  “You know, hating them makes no sense to me. We’re all Kaels. Maybe instead of being so angry you should try to see their side of it.”

  “Their side? Who cares about their side?” Peter asked.

  “I care,” Neala said.

  “So you think they should be allowed to rule themselves?”

  “Yes, I do, if it will keep the peace. We can still cooperate with each other, even if they’re self-governed,” Neala said.

  Peter laughed and shook his head. “Oh, Princess. You are so naive.”

  “I take offense to that. Don’t you see—you identify as Ethavian because that’s where you were born, but your strongest affinity is Fire. That means that part of you is Nydian. They’re threatening war as well. Are you going to hate them, too? “

  “It’s never that simple, Princess.” He picked up another stone, tossed in the air and caught it.

  “It is exactly that simple. If we go to war with them, would you want to cull your affinity for Fire? Cut if from you and cast it back to the gods? Do you hate the Nydians that much?” she said.

  “No. Of course not.” He threw the stone and it plunked into the water with a loud splash. “And anyway, culling can make you crazy.”

  “Yes, it can,” she said softly.

  His gaze shifted from the raging water to her. “I knew a girl who was culled. Just like you, she had the five.”

  “My mother changed the law—why are people still being culled?”

  “Your mother changed the law in Tamarik.” His eyes darkened. “In the other realms, she left it to the discretion of the governors. Evidently, they weren’t as keen to change the law as she was.”

  “Oh, Peter.” She reached for
his arm but he turned away. “I didn’t know.”

  “Of course you didn’t know. You’re tied up so tightly in your little cocoon here, worried about nothing other than who you’re going to marry.”

  “That’s not fair.” Neala scowled at him.

  “You’re right.” He grimaced as if he’d tasted something bad. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, Princess,” he said, but he didn’t sound sorry to her.

  “You know, my mother just wanted people to see that the Book of Kaels has been misinterpreted.”

  “If that’s true, she should have made the law stand in all the realms. Not just this one.”

  Neala crossed her arms, hugging them tightly to her body. “What happened to your friend?”

  “What do you think happened? She—she’s never been the same.”

  “I’m so sorry. My mother says the reason the culled go mad is because the gods curse them for throwing away their gifts.” She squatted down next to the edge of the river and let the frigid water run through her fingers.

  Peter laughed, but the sound of it sent a chill over Neala’s skin. “You say that like she had a choice. She didn’t throw away anything. It was taken from her.”

  Neala ducked her head, not wanting to look at him. “I wish there were something I could say to make it better.” She felt his hand on her shoulder, and he gave a gentle squeeze.

  “I appreciate that. Maybe one day soon, I’ll take you up on that offer,” he said.

  “I mean it. Whatever I can do to help.” Neala pushed herself to her feet and brushed off her backside to loosen any debris clinging to her pants.

  Peter brushed his thumb across her cheek and smiled, but it never touched the sadness in his eyes. “Thank you, Princess. You are a true friend. Come on. We should get going if we’re going to make it to the falls by noon.”

  Neala’s heart skipped a beat at his touch and she nodded. They walked the rest of the way without saying much. The conversation kept playing in her head and she wondered how she could still like him, even though they saw things so differently sometimes. Did his handsomeness really compensate for their differences? What did that say about her?