The Queen and the Dagger (A Book of Theo novella)

by Melanie Ansley

  “South as you can go.” The muskrat watched the refilling and grunted in reproach when Lukkas stopped before the brim.

  “You mean as far as the sea?” Indigo tore herself away from secretly eyeing the guest’s blade. From what she’d heard, no one could cross and re-cross Urzok lands so unscathed. Though she’d only seen an Urzok once, she knew their reputation. Two-legged, furless animals that called themselves Man. They didn’t believe in the rituals or sanctity of Aktu, and rumor spoke of the farms they built: prisons where they caged and bred captives for food and clothing, the way some in the south farmed corn or wheat. Alvareth, Indigo knew, had always advocated a policy of avoidance. Push north and east, deeper into the steppes and away from the Urzoks, who seemed more interested in the rich pastureland to the south anyhow, as that was more fertile ground for their farms.

  “The sea! Now there’s beauty that’ll bring tears to the eyes,” the muskrat said with genuine wistfulness.

  “And have the Urzoks taken that over as well?” the queen asked, sipping at her barley beer.

  “They have their ships.”

  “Ships?” Indigo sounded out the unfamiliar word.

  The muskrat cupped his paws. “Wood. Planked together, like so. It can float out on the water. Carry hundreds of them at once.”

  “But … are there lands beyond the sea?” Being landlocked on the steppes made the sea a thing of myth. Anything beyond it was incomprehensible, as remote as the moon.

  “But of course there are, Princess,” the muskrat said, as if addressing the dim witted. “I’ve seen them.”

  Indigo could tell everyone else was just as incredulous.

  “So if they can tame the sea, why would the Urzoks push this far north?” Kalmara challenged.

  “Because they’re Urzoks. That’s what they do.” The guest slurped noisily at a bowl of stew, pulling at his whiskers to remove a stray slice of onion. “Mark me, it’s not a question of if they come this far, it’s when.”

  “You are a gloomy guest to have at the Rites,” Kalmara remarked.

  The muskrat laughed, tossing out some snide remark. As the conversation turned to the details of the Run and who had distinguished themselves the most, Indigo looked back at the blade and its gold inlay.

  And that’s when she noticed it: the design was unlike any she’d seen. Designs had repeating shapes in a predictable order, but this was more like a circle of scratchings, marching in a straight line across the hilt.

  She reached for it.

  A hairy paw gripped her wrist with the strength of a wolf’s jaws. She yelped despite herself.

  “Careful, lass,” the muskrat growled, his voice low. “Touching sharp objects gets you cut.”

  “Is that an Urzok knife?” She found herself whispering, even though it was the muskrat who had trespassed.

  The guest grinned, revealing sharp teeth. “It’s much more ancient than the Urzoks, lass. More ancient than any of us.”

  “It’s Aktu’s language, isn’t it?” She knew the punishment for possessing such things. It was the only offense worse than murder: blasphemy against Aktu by using her language could bring divine punishment on an entire clan. Would he dare harm her here, surrounded by family, in the middle of her queendom?

  He regarded her for a moment, eyes hard. “I hear you’re clever with the sword. Here’s a lesson for you, lass. Always know who you’re fighting. You don’t want to stab a straw target only to find you’ve stuck a bull, you know my meaning?”

  She hesitated, but something dark and savage in his murky eyes made her nod.

  His stern expression dissolved into a smile with no warmth. “Now be a good lass and pass the barley bread.”

  * * *

  Later, after the feasting had ended and the dancers and bonfires were winding down, Kalmara entered the royal warren. She gave Azel and Indigo distracted smiles before turning to Delamar and Lukkas. “My queen, may we speak?”

  They shared a look before the queen nodded to her husband. “I will see you in the morning.”

  Indigo thought her father hesitated before he kissed the queen and left. Indigo went to follow, knowing there’d be games and candied gooseberries back at the celebrations, but her mother gestured with one paw. “Stay, Bobo. You should learn how the queen and her advisor work together.”

  Kalmara smiled. “Why trouble your youngest with such boring matters, my queen sister? Azel will have myself or Borla as advisor when the time comes. I’m sure Indigo would prefer to join the festivities.”

  Kalmara had always coddled her, excusing her from onerous chores. And Indigo often took advantage of it.

  Her mother turned to her. “Your choice, daughter.”

  Indigo hesitated. She’d never been asked to join any meetings before. Something told her it would disappoint her mother if she refused, so she took a seat to her mother’s left. Azel joined her.

  The queen smiled approval. “Speak, sister.”

  “We should rid ourselves of this hairy rat as soon as possible. Tonight.”

  Indigo thought about the short blade. Had Kalmara found out?

  The queen frowned. “It’s bad luck to turn guests away during the Spring Rites.”

  Kalmara wrinkled her nose. “Even so, he is a potential danger. There’s talk of a powerful omatje who escaped the Purges, who is trying to flee to the north.”

  Indigo felt a nervous jolt.

  The queen shook her head. “Impossible. Omatjes have been wiped out.”

  Indigo thought of the sword, of the scratchings on it. Had she truly been sitting next to an omatje? The thought was both thrilling and terrifying.

  “We can’t take the risk,” Kalmara argued. “The law demands death.”

  “It is an even worse omen to shed blood during the Rites,” the queen mused. She turned to Azel. “What is your opinion, daughter?”

  “How do we know he is the omatje they speak of?”

  “Because of his short blade,” Indigo blurted. Delamar, Kalmara, and Azel all turned to look at her in surprise. “He has a dagger with the Forbidden Language on it. I saw it. At the feast.”

  Kalmara’s usual indulgent smile turned cool. “Why didn’t you mention this?”

  Indigo had no good reply. Why hadn’t she spoken earlier? Had she been too curious about the dagger and its exquisite crafting? Part of her, she realized, had been hoping to be able to examine the blade again.

  “That doesn’t mean he’s an omatje,” the queen pointed out. “He may have found the weapon and kept it, not knowing. I wouldn’t even know how to recognize an omatje, would you?”

  “Ones who know Aktu’s Forbidden Language are skilled at deception,” Kalmara said. “If we shelter him, who knows what wrath we’ll bring upon ourselves?”

  “And if we turn him away?” The queen cocked one ear. “A dangerous omatje would likely retaliate if we refuse him basic hospitality. If we allow him to stay the night he will be on his way in the morning, and we will not have offended Aktu by refusing a guest during Spring Rites.”

  “This is a mistake, sister,” Kalmara warned.

  “Duly noted.” The queen’s tone ended the discussion.

  Kalmara swiveled her ears and bowed. “I have heard you, my queen.” She turned and left, letting the door covering slap shut behind her.

  The queen sighed, turning to Azel. “Always listen to your advisor, daughter, but make up your own mind. If you are too easily swayed, you will become the grass underfoot instead of the wind that shapes it.”

  * * *

  The morning after Azel’s patterning, the queendom buzzed with news of the omatje’s disappearance.

  He had fled, before Kalmara’s guards could catch and kill him. Rumors leaped from ear to ear about his dark arts and the taboo script they’d found on the insides of his discarded clothing. But none of those rumors were true. The only truth was that the queen and Kalmara spent the morning locked in heated argument, the queen furious that Kalmara had disobeyed her by secretly launchi
ng a pre-dawn raid on the muskrat. Borla, Dorju, and Indigo had taken turns trying to eavesdrop through a hole in the warren, until Azel found them and ordered them back to their respective lessons.

  Though the festivities continued that night, a dark cloud descended over the queen and Kalmara. Each refused to speak to the other despite Lukkas’s attempts to melt the tension. The queen was short even with Indigo, which stung her more than a slap.

  The celebratory mood destroyed, the queen retired early, while Kalmara left as soon as decorum allowed. Indigo regretted mentioning the blade, realizing it had caused a rift between her mother and aunt. Where was the muskrat now, she wondered? And what was the story behind that dagger?

  After the last dumplings had been eaten and the bonfires had all been buried beneath blankets of ash, Indigo still couldn’t sleep. The gentle snores of her twin sisters usually didn’t bother her, as she had grown accustomed to their rhythms. She knew it wasn’t the barley ale either, for her head didn’t feel heavy—simply unable to slide into rest. She kept thinking about the muskrat. And that blade.

  She sighed, realizing sleep was not going to revisit her, and debated walking to Azel’s warren. She’d be waking her sister, but it wouldn’t be the first time. Since she was a little kit, she’d sneak to Azel’s whenever she had a nightmare or turned restless. The crown princess was not allowed to sleep with her other siblings and had her own warren, but she never told on her youngest sister.

  Indigo slipped her arm out from underneath Borla’s and rose in the dark. She pulled on a pair of boots, threw a cape over herself, and stepped out into the dry night air.

  The steppe, so warm and sun baked during the day, turned windswept and chilling come night. The moon was low, preparing to give way to the sun. She breathed the cold, pre-dawn air before beginning the familiar tread toward her sister’s warren.

  The royal warrens were arranged in a circle around the queen’s, with the eldest daughter’s to her direct east—the direction of light and new life, the heir who would see a new day. The queen’s husband lived to the south of the queen, to show that he and his servants were below her. The west was the direction of the setting sun, of endings, and was where all the other royal children and relatives were housed. The north, the direction of the ancestors, was kept for the prayer house and the Holy One, as only Aktu was above a queen.

  As Indigo walked between the royal warrens, her breath formed clouds in the cold that blew back against her. She smiled at the memories the quadrangle brought. This had been her spring playground for as long as she could remember. The landscape might change as they moved camps with the seasons, but this quadrangle, always formed by its familiar dwellings, remained constant.

  As she approached her mother’s warren, she slowed. Where were the usual guards who kept watch? They must have left to relieve themselves. But why hadn’t they taken turns?

  She stopped. The entry flap to her mother’s warren was unstaked. In Indigo’s warren, they always kept the flap open a crack to allow fresh air through, but Delamar guarded her privacy religiously.

  Something prickled at the base of her neck.

  “Mama?” Indigo called, softly. She pushed the hanging aside and stepped in.

  The first thing she noticed was the silence. It wasn’t the silence of sleep. For sleep, Indigo knew, was a noisy affair, everyone prone to their own medley of breaths, snores, and restless shifting. This silence was oppressive and assaulted her with the scent of metal left in the rain.

  Indigo moved further into the warren, letting her eyes adjust to the gloom. Her mother’s blanket had slipped to the ground from her pallet of grass and lay like a puddle near one outstretched arm.

  “Mama?” Indigo whispered, creeping forward. She reached down to feel for the blanket and froze.

  Her paws closed not on wool but wet, cooling liquid. It soaked into her fur, crawled beneath her nails.

  Blood.

  She knew from the scent, from the feel, that it could only be blood. She grabbed Delamar by the shoulders, felt the limpness in the body even before she brought her mother’s face close to hers. Her stomach twisted as her mother’s head rolled limp—horribly limp—onto the bed.

  She didn’t know she was screaming until the guards came rushing, the dawn light pouring in with them. She didn’t know she was crying, for all she saw was her mother’s slack face staring back at her, the blood that had turned the queen’s bed into a crimson cradle, and the dagger—slick and wet—that lay discarded in one corner, gold script circling its hilt like a snake around its prey.

  Chapter 4

  Indigo stared at what was left of the carcass. A bloody mess spilled from the mangled fur where the wolf’s throat had been, and flies swarmed around the open mouth and darkened tongue.

  She forced herself not to think of her mother’s throat, the gash in it, or of Azel, who had been similarly killed that same night. The murder of Alvareth’s queen and heir meant Kalmara was made temporary queen regent. Indigo, fourth in line, was named crown princess. And now, ten seasons later, she was standing over a dead wolf, looking for proof of Pacification.

  Next to her, Dorju used the edge of her bow to lift one of the wolf’s forelegs, which was noticeably crooked. She looked over at Indigo, questioning.

  Indigo nodded. “It’s the same one.” It felt odd to see the lifeless body of the she-wolf that only a week ago had threatened her on the Run. Wolves ate rabbits. It was a rare rabbit that could boast of killing a wolf, even indirectly. But she didn’t feel like boasting.

  “Eating their own kind,” Borla said in disgust. “If that’s not proof they’re Pacified, I don’t know what is.”

  “Are you sure?” Indigo asked.

  Dorju hunkered down and pointed at the throat.

  Borla nodded. “The wolves have no enemies here. And you see the way the neck has been ripped? It’s a wolf’s doing. They killed and ate her because she was slowing down the pack.”

  Indigo grimaced. To kill one’s own kind was against the laws of Aktu. To eat them was even worse. The wolves of Blackmoon would never do such a thing. But an unliving wolf, one who had been Pacified by the Urzoks? That was an entirely different matter. Indigo imagined the Pacification sweeping through her family, her friends. A sickening coldness settled in her belly.

  “I’m going to bury her,” Indigo said, untying her sword from her back and setting it aside.

  Dorju looked surprised, but Borla nodded. “You want help?”

  Indigo shook her head. “I owe her this.”

  Dorju squinted up at the morning sun, then made a sign at her twin, who said, “Dorju’s right, you better hurry. Another morning’s heat on her and your nose will fall off your face.” Borla walked around the body, examining the ground. “The trail’s half washed away, what with the rains last night.”

  “Do you think Kalmara will accept this as proof?” Indigo asked, gesturing at the wolf.

  Borla shook her head. “What’s to say they didn’t kill her over some disagreement and the carrion ate her?” She paused, then voiced the thought that had plagued Indigo the last three days they had been tracking the wolves. “What are you going to do if we can’t find proof?”

  She knew Borla also sensed a trap. Kalmara was demanding evidence that the Run would never be possible. If they couldn’t prove it, Kalmara would simply remain regent and force her to do the Run next year. But if they did prove it, and Alvareth’s traditional rite of passage couldn’t continue, what would replace it? How would Indigo be recognized as being of age and gain the throne?

  “The queendoms will come up with an alternative.”

  “Kalmara will do her best to make that alternative near impossible.” Again Borla voiced Indigo’s worry. “Alvareth is by far the most influential queendom. If she says you have to build a warren out of sunlight, there’ll be few who will argue.”

  “There are other initiates involved, remember. They wouldn’t let her do that.” She tested the dirt with one foot. Spring h
ad softened the surface, but not the ground soil. It would be hard digging. “You should see if you can find the rest of them. I’ll catch up to you.”

  Borla frowned. “And leave you alone?”

  Indigo knew Borla was simply looking out for her, a habit from being the elder sister, but the offer of chaperoning still grated. “I’ll be fine. Go.”

  “The tracks head southwest, from what I can tell. Perhaps they’re headed for Raven Toe.”

  Borla was probably right. Raven Toe was where the Alva River met the Borak, forming a lush three-pronged delta where bison, long-horned deer, and horses gathered at dusk to drink. A perfect hunting ground for a pack of rogue wolves.

  “I’ll meet you at the delta, if not before,” Indigo said. Her sisters hugged her and then disappeared into the surrounding scrub, letting the usual sounds of the steppes enclose her with the she-wolf’s corpse.

  * * *

  The dream was always the same.

  Her mother was walking towards her out of a dark cave that curved into the ground like a bottomless throat. She looked as beautiful as ever and wore her crimson queen’s mantle. Indigo stared, relief flooding her. Her mother was alive. She was here.

  “My little one,” her mother said, holding out her arms. Indigo leaned into her, breathing in the comforting warmth, the scent of sage, smoke, and wild heather. Delamar wrapped her in the mantle, sheltering them both, and Indigo felt as if she were a small kit again, when her mother occasionally allowed her into her bed during the dry lightning storms of summer that lashed the brittle air. Her mother would tell her stories until she fell asleep: stories of Jasper the Trickster, or the cunning West Wind, who wooed his bride by chasing clouds across the sun’s face, and so convinced her he was the more powerful.

  “My little one,” her mother said again, “you must go back. You can’t stay.”

  “But you’re here.” That was, for now, all Indigo cared about. She wouldn’t think of Azel. It hurt too much. As long as she had her mother, that was enough. She wouldn’t ask for anything else ever again.

  “Aktu’s land is not for you. Not yet,” her mother whispered. “I’ve seen what lies ahead for you: you must find the omatje.”