The Caged Queen

by Kristen Ciccarelli

  She held the parchment in her hand as she paced her rooms, reading the directions to the guesthouse he was staying in, then glancing out through her terrace archway. When the moon’s white halo could be seen just beyond the palace rooftop, Roa opened her doors and stepped out into the hall.

  “My queen?” came the voice of one of her guards, a young man named Sirin with blue eyes; straight teeth; and a tall, lean stature. “What are you doing up so late?”

  “I can’t sleep,” she said, already trotting down the hall. “I want to go for a walk. In the city.”

  She wore an unadorned dress made of gray wool and her sandskarf was pulled up over her head.

  Her guards followed her.

  Guards. Roa hated the very concept of them. They were like armed shadows, following her everywhere, never leaving her alone.

  There was no scrubland equivalent because there was no need for a scrublander to have a guard. It was why Roa hadn’t taken these, from the palace, with her back home. It was why Dax’s guards disarmed themselves and were given their own rooms in the House of Song—because the king knew it was an insult to bring an armed guard into the home of a scrublander. It meant you didn’t trust him.

  “My queen . . .”

  Roa squeezed her hands into fists. Composing herself, she halted, then turned. “Yes, Sirin?”

  “The palace gates are shut and locked at night. You need special permission to open them.”

  Roa raised an eyebrow. “Am I not queen? Do I need permission to come and go as I please?”

  The guards exchanged nervous glances.

  “They’re Safire’s orders,” said the guard beyond Sirin—a man with light brown eyes and graying hair.

  “None of you will go against Safire,” muttered Roa.

  The things Rebekah said in the Assembly were true: Dax did lose half his army by appointing his cousin commandant, because most soldats didn’t trust a young woman with skral blood running through her veins to lead them.

  What most people didn’t know was that every soldat who questioned Safire’s authority was given a choice: fight her or leave. Those Safire fought, she bested. And in besting them, won their admiration.

  The army might be half as large as it once was, but it was twice as loyal.

  As Roa studied all four of her guards now, standing straight in their steel morions with the king’s emblem on their chests, she knew none of them would defy their commandant.

  Well, maybe not none of them . . .

  Roa turned to Sirin, who was watching her. Sirin, Roa had long ago taken note, was a little too attractive for a soldat. It made him bold and flirtatious. Even with Roa.

  If she were honest, Sirin had always made her uncomfortable.

  “What about you?” she said.

  “Me?” Sirin asked, his eyebrows shooting upward.

  “Will you also choose your commandant over your queen?”

  “We have a duty to uphold the rules,” he said.

  “And a duty to keep me safe.”

  Sirin smiled, seeing what she was doing. “That, too.”

  “So if I told you I was going out into the city, you wouldn’t want me to go alone, would you? That would be unsafe.”

  Sirin’s smile widened. “Indeed, it would.”

  “Well, then.” Roa turned back, continuing on.

  “How will you convince them to open the gate?” he called after her.

  Roa slowed. If the soldats at the gate were as loyal to Saf as Roa’s other three guards, she wouldn’t convince them.

  Sirin caught up to her, the scabbard of his sword clinking against the buckles at the top of his boots. “Don’t worry, my queen.” He shot a look back at the other three guards, who appeared anxious as they watched their comrade break the rules. “There’s a guard on duty who owes me a favor.”

  True to his word, Sirin got them through the gate. Roa watched him reach into the pocket of his tunic, pull something out, then show it to the guard in charge. A whispered conversation passed between them as Sirin tucked the object out of sight again.

  Roa didn’t know the nature of the exchange, only that the gazes of both boys slid over her in a way that made her uneasy.

  She suddenly wondered if Sirin had the wrong idea about their trip into the city.

  But Roa needed to see Theo. So she let Sirin think what he liked. After all, she had Essie’s knife sheathed at her calf. If she needed to, she would put him in his place.

  Together, Roa and her guard took the dark and desolate streets to one of the city’s seedier guesthouses. It gleamed white as alabaster in the light of the rising moon, starkly contrasted against the black sky. Roa stopped at the back door—where Theo had told her to enter—pulling her sandskarf farther over her head to keep her face in shadow.

  “Wait here,” she told Sirin.

  “And if someone recognizes you?” He shook his head. “I’ll come with you.”

  She lifted her hand, warning him back. “No,” she said. “You won’t.”

  His eyes flashed in the darkness. But it was so fast, and the smile that replaced it so easy, Roa thought she might have mistaken it, so she let it go.

  “I won’t be long.” Opening the door, she stepped through. It led straight into a narrow hallway smelling of roasted meat and spices. She heard the crash of pots and pans. Cooks in smeared aprons held steaming platters of food above their heads and cursed as they pushed past her into the main floor of the guesthouse.

  Go past the kitchens to the stairway, Theo told her in his message. My room is on the second floor.

  Roa found the creaking steps and took them. Then found the door to Theo’s room.

  He opened on the second knock.

  His hair was damp and loose around his shoulders, as if he’d just bathed. He wore simple cotton trousers and a shirt, which Roa knew he’d sleep in.

  She knew it, because she’d slept next to him once. The night before she rode off to fight in Dax’s revolt.

  Or rather, he’d slept. Roa had lain there, wide-awake, thinking about what they’d done.

  “Roa.” He drew her into a hug. Roa breathed in the soapy smell of him and soaked up the warmth of him, remembering that night.

  Sometimes she wondered if she’d yielded out of guilt. As if she’d known, even then, that she wasn’t coming back to him.

  “I can’t stay long,” she said, finally pulling away and pushing her sandskarf back to fall around her shoulders. “There’s a guard out front, and I don’t quite trust him.”

  Theo frowned, but nodded, ushering her into the room. The walls were saffron yellow and the bed took up nearly two-thirds of the space. In the corner, a low-lying crimson sofa in need of reupholstering was pressed up against the wall.

  On the bedside table a slender vase held a single white highland rose.

  “How did the Assembly go?” Theo asked, sitting on the arm of the dilapidated sofa.

  Roa sank into the cushions and told him everything, ending with Dax’s proclamation about the Relinquishing.

  “Is that supposed to be a peace offering?” Theo rolled his eyes. “Why can’t he just do as he promised and lift the sanctions?”

  “Because he’s a weak king,” she said, thinking of the way Dax buckled so easily under the pressure his council exerted. “And he doesn’t care. But don’t you see? This is your chance. The gates will be open from now until the Relinquishing. Scrublanders are free to pass into the city, unchecked, as a show of Dax’s hospitality. And on the longest night of the year—six days from now—everyone will be wearing masks for the festival.”

  Theo went quiet, staring at her, his lips parting in surprise.

  “It’s the perfect opportunity,” she said.

  The words snapped him out of his reverie. He lowered himself down from the sofa’s arm to the cushions. “You’ve changed your mind, then? You’ll help me?”

  Roa looked down into her lap, nodding. “On one condition.”

  He lifted his hands, palms up, lik
e an offering. “I’ll do anything for you, Roa. You know I will. Just name it.”

  Roa breathed in deep and said: “You can’t harm him.”

  Theo blinked at her. Before he could counter, Roa pressed on.

  “With enough armed men and a well-executed plan, we can take the palace and force him to abdicate the throne.”

  “Abdicate,” Theo murmured. “And then what? You send him into exile and rule alone? If he’s alive, he’ll always be a danger to you.”

  Roa shrugged. “That’s a risk we’ll have to take.”

  “It’s not a risk I’m willing to take,” said Theo sharply. “I want you on that throne. For a long time.”

  She drew Essie’s knife out of its sheath and ran her thumb along the hilt’s inscription. “I barely have enough support in Firgaard as it is. If I were to kill him, I’ll lose any support I might have. And more importantly: I’ll be guilty of regicide. That’s a death sentence.”

  Most importantly: Roa wasn’t a murderer.

  After a long pause, he said more softly: “What if I could get you the support you need? Someone who could protect you?”

  She lowered the knife in her lap. “What?”

  He leaned back into the cushions, linking his arms behind his head. “I have a meeting tomorrow with someone sympathetic to our cause.”

  “Who?”

  “A powerful enemy of Dax’s. They wouldn’t give me their name. I think they’re afraid I’ll inform on them to the king. Once I determine if they can truly help us, I’ll send for you, and we can decide how to proceed.”

  Roa rose from the sofa, sheathing Essie’s knife. Her hands trembled. For several heartbeats, Theo’s gaze followed her back and forth as she paced.

  “You can do this, Roa.”

  Could she? Plot against the one she’d fought beside mere weeks ago?

  “You gave up everything for him, and he’s thrown it in your face. You said it yourself: Dax is not the king you thought he was. He has no interest in lifting the sanctions. Under his rule, people—and not just scrublanders—will continue to suffer.”

  Roa stopped pacing and pressed her hands to her face. She already knew these things.

  More quietly, Theo said: “He’s the reason she’s dead, Roa.”

  Roa dropped her hands, clenching her fists as she stared him down. “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?” he asked from the sofa.

  “Talk like I don’t know exactly why she’s dead.”

  “Ever since you left to fight a war at his side, you’ve forgotten those of us you left behind. Why not her too?”

  Anger flickered like lightning through Roa. How dare he say that.

  “You could have come with me!” She strode back to the sofa, standing over him now. “It could have been you fighting at my side!”

  Theo rose to his feet, tipping the scales, glaring down at her. “And watch the one I love give herself to the man I hate? No, Roa. Refusing to go with you was the best decision I ever made.” He looked away as he said it, his mouth thinning into a sharp line, his eyes shining with regret. “It should have been Dax who died that day, not Essie.”

  “You don’t think I know that? I think it every time I look at him!”

  He turned his face sharply back to hers, his eyes dark. “Then this is your chance to make things right—for Essie and for scrublanders.”

  It was Roa’s turn to look away.

  “You can save her,” he said. “Don’t you think that if the situation was reversed, she would do whatever it took to save you?”

  Roa bit down hard on her lip.

  “Yes,” she whispered. Of course she would.

  Roa wished Essie were here to tell her what she should do.

  But Essie wasn’t here. And Theo was right—about all of it. Dax was a weak king, easily manipulated by his council. He didn’t care about keeping his promises or alleviating their people’s suffering. He was a king who took what he wanted and didn’t care who he hurt.

  By refusing to act, by refusing to do what was necessary, she was no better.

  Roa—who hadn’t seen her sister in days, who could feel the hum fading away within her—needed to make a choice. She was losing her sister. If she didn’t act, and act swiftly, Essie would soon be gone for good.

  Roa couldn’t let that happen.

  This was her chance to be the queen her people needed. To be the sister Essie needed.

  Dax was a dangerous king. Dax was the reason her sister was dead.

  The exchange of souls would be just.

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll find the Skyweaver’s knife and do what needs to be done.”

  Theo tilted her face so that their gazes met. “And I’ll get you the support and protection you need. I won’t let you come to any harm—I swear it.” He cupped her face in his hands, peering down at her. “I’ll send for you after my meeting tomorrow and we can make a plan.”

  She nodded. The ache of her sister’s absence was sharper than ever. The empty space where Essie should be grew bigger every day, threatening to swallow Roa.

  If I fail, she thought, I hope it does swallow me.

  Theo moved to the bedside table, jolting Roa out of her dark thoughts. Sliding the white rose out of the vase there, he snapped off the stem and came back to her.

  “What are you doing?” she asked as he tucked it behind her ear.

  “Treating you as you should be treated,” he said, running the backs of his fingers down her cheek.

  This is not what you came for, Roa told herself.

  She stepped back, putting space between them.

  Theo’s hand hovered in midair for a moment, then clenched as he brought it back down to his side. “Your mind plots against your husband, yet your body remains loyal to him.”

  She looked away, down to the carpet beneath her feet.

  “I should go,” she said. “Before my guard comes looking for me.”

  Before turning for the door, though, she remembered the letter from Asha. She’d meant to ask about the shipment Torwin was tracking.

  “Do you remember the name of the wealthy Firgaardian who bought the Skyweaver’s knife?”

  He tilted his head at her. “His name is Baron Silva.”

  Roa’s blood hummed in her veins. She’d been right.

  “I’m having dinner at his home tomorrow night,” she said.

  Theo’s eyes widened. “What?”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Only that he’s the wealthiest man in Firgaard.”

  “Barring the king,” Roa corrected him.

  “Barring no one,” he said.

  Roa shot him a look.

  “His daughter, Rebekah, is Silva’s only child. He dotes on her. He even purchased her place on the king’s council.”

  Roa shook her head. “That’s not possible. Councillors are voted on.”

  Theo snorted and shook his head. “Elections are held every three years, but you have to pay a fee if you want a vote.”

  Roa hadn’t known that.

  “A girl from Sky, Selina, is employed in his household. From what she says, Rebekah has half of Firgaard in her pocket,” Theo said. “She sounds like a force to be reckoned with.”

  “Are you certain Silva has the knife in his possession?”

  Theo nodded. “Selina confirmed it arrived several days ago.”

  Again, Roa remembered Asha’s letter, still lying under that bed in Amina’s house. If the Skyweaver’s knife arrived, then Torwin failed to intercept it.

  Worry gnawed at Roa. Perhaps Torwin and Asha were in trouble.

  Or perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps it wasn’t the Skyweaver’s knife he was tracking at all.

  She would investigate tomorrow.

  “Did Selina happen to say where it’s kept?” she asked Theo.

  He followed her to the door. “I’ll ask. If she knows, I’ll send a message to the palace first thing tomorrow. Roa?”

  She turned to face him, already
thinking of the task that lay ahead of her. He planted his hands on the lintel, leaning over her.

  “Maybe I should walk you back. These streets are unfriendly.”

  “Thank you,” Roa said, pulling her sandskarf up over her head, careful not to damage the rose Theo tucked behind her ear. “But I led a revolt without you there to protect me. I think I’ll manage.”

  Essie’s Story

  Once there was a girl who loved the sky almost as much as she loved her sister.

  She climbed rooftops and cliff faces and acacia trees, just to be nearer to it. She knew the name of every type of cloud and the story behind every star. She envied the birds their wings, wanting to know what it felt like to soar through that vast expanse of blue.

  One night, she lay on the highest roof of the House of Song, spread out beneath the diamond-studded sky with her friends. They’d spent the morning climbing the highland cliffs and throwing themselves into the blue-green waters of the quarry. The girl threw herself harder and farther and higher than the rest. But no matter how hard or high or far she flung herself, she always fell.

  Her sister watched with worried eyes. Her sister hated being up high. She much preferred her feet on the ground.

  Now the girl lifted her eyes to the stars and said, “Do you think anyone we know is up there?”

  “Don’t be morbid,” said her sister, fingers deftly plaiting her hair.

  Unlike her sister, whose hair was cropped short to her head, Essie kept her hair long enough to braid. It was the easiest way to tell the two apart.

  The hum of their bond glowed warmly between them, brighter than any star. And at the edge of her vision, the girl saw their friend—the shy son of the king who spent his summers in their house—wander to the edge of the roof.

  “It’s not morbid,” she whispered, thinking of the Skyweaver spinning the souls of the dead into stars. Thinking of her own soul, bound so tightly to her sister’s. “It’s beautiful.” She turned her gaze on the two brightest stars in the south sky. The twin stars. “That’s going to be us one day—you and me.”

  Suddenly, a sharp snap broke the silence. She shot up at the sound, her braid coming undone, her curls spiraling free. As one, they looked to the son of the king: arms out, body frozen, struggling to regain his balance as more and more cracks spread through the clay shingles at his feet.