The Caged Queen

by Kristen Ciccarelli

  But Roa couldn’t afford to let their condescension distract her. She needed to find a way to lose her guards so she could go in search of the knife.

  “How humiliating this must be for you.”

  Rebekah’s voice startled Roa. And Essie, too—her claws dug into her sister’s shoulder, making her wince. She might not be able to sense her sister’s emotions now, but from the way her weight shifted from claw to claw, Roa knew exactly how Essie felt about the newcomer. Roa stroked her wings, trying to soothe her.

  “Rebekah,” Lirabel answered from Roa’s right. Her normally soft jaw was hard and clenched. “What a lovely dinner.”

  Rebekah stepped up to Roa’s left, dressed in gold. Her kaftan was nearly the exact shade as Dax’s tunic, and her black hair was done up in an elaborate knot work of braids. Tucked into her sash was a dagger, its blade hidden in an embossed silver sheath.

  Roa’s own attire was much simpler in style. In an attempt to blend in and more easily evade her guards, she’d donned a kaftan, choosing a shade of pink that seemed to be in style lately and therefore more likely to be worn by other women in attendance. She wore no jewelry. Nothing that would draw the eye.

  “Rumor is he’s bed every girl in his court,” Rebekah said, ignoring Lirabel as she nodded toward the king—who was half-drunk and flirting with Firgaard’s wealthiest daughters. Jas stood beside him, watching his cup. “There are bets on how many bastards he’s sired.”

  Roa flinched and tried not to look at Lirabel—who hadn’t started showing yet, thank the stars. Essie’s grip on Roa’s shoulder tightened, piercing the skin. She then flew to Lirabel, as if to reassure her.

  “There are even bets on whether or not he’s bedded you.”

  The anger emanating from Lirabel was palpable now. Roa, not wanting to give her friend away, stared straight ahead.

  Most of Firgaard suspected Roa and Dax’s marriage was unconsummated, but there was no proof for or against. Their wedding had happened in a war camp on the eve of a revolt.

  “An unconsummated marriage is a precarious position for any king. A weak king especially.”

  Roa knew this was true. Dax’s reign was a frail one, and he needed more than a consummated marriage. He needed an heir.

  “Your point?” Roa said as Lirabel reached for her hand, squeezing once.

  “He’s a man like any other.” Rebekah leaned in closer. “He won’t wait forever.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Roa saw the commandant moving in. But Rebekah would have to be mad to try to harm the queen here, surrounded by so many witnesses.

  “One day,” Rebekah murmured, “he will grow impatient and take what he needs from you.”

  Roa thought of that day in Amina’s stables. Of the unclaimed kiss she owed him.

  I’ll come to collect when it suits me.

  “And if he can’t,” said Rebekah, at Roa’s shoulder now, “he will dispose of you.”

  Roa glanced up into the girl’s dark brown eyes. They studied each other, and just for a heartbeat, Roa wondered if Rebekah had heard about Sirin’s attack.

  “I’d say she doesn’t have to worry quite yet,” Lirabel interrupted, watching as the king smiled down at a young woman in a bright yellow kaftan. The girl’s ringlets sprang softly outward, haloing her face and shoulders. Dax’s gaze fixed on her like she was the sun and he needed to soak up all her warmth. “The king keeps himself well distracted. Wouldn’t you say, Roa?”

  Roa was surprised at the lack of bitterness in Lirabel’s words. Shouldn’t she be annoyed Dax had forgotten about her and her baby?

  Rebekah didn’t seem to hear. She stared at the king, her gaze almost ravenous. Like a lion watching an unsuspecting deer.

  Suddenly, the sound of drawn steel came from behind them. All three girls whirled, bracing themselves for a threat. From Lirabel’s shoulder, Essie spread her wings in warning.

  A draksor with a thick scar running from the corner of his mouth to his cheekbone stood mere steps from Roa . . . with three shining blades pointed at his throat.

  Two of them belonged to Safire. The third belonged to Celeste.

  “Step away from the queen,” Safire said coolly.

  “This isn’t a battlefield,” Rebekah hissed. “Lower your weapons. Garnet is on my staff.”

  Safire ignored her, keeping her gaze on Garnet. “If he’s on your staff, he should know he can’t approach the queen, armed as he is. Don’t you train them?”

  Garnet smiled a tight smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. Lifting his hands, he took a careful step back.

  “I won’t tolerate this kind of barbarism in my home,” Rebekah growled, her attention fixed on the king’s cousin—whom she was starting to circle. “Since when are you a house guard, Safire? Who’s fulfilling the duties of commandant while you harass my guests?”

  Safire let Rebekah circle her, calm as steel, while Roa’s other guards moved in to defend her should she need it.

  “You’ve never been very good at this game, have you?” Rebekah’s voice lowered to a dangerous purr. “Poor Safire. It’s your skral mother’s blood in your veins. It’s why your place will never be among us.”

  Roa hesitated, wanting to defend Safire.

  But Safire could take care of herself. She stared Rebekah down as she said, “What’s the use in being good at a game I have no interest in playing?”

  With everyone focused on the storm brewing between the hostess and the commandant, Roa saw her chance and took it. She slipped on her mask. Dressed in an unremarkable kaftan and without a white hawk on her shoulder, the queen went unidentified as she ducked out of the room.

  Unrelinquished

  It was several days after the Relinquishing when the brokenhearted girl started noticing the bird.

  It was a plain desert hawk, with sandy feathers and brown eyes, and it was there in the window every morning when she woke.

  It liked to watch the girl and often flew from window to window, depending on which room she was in. It perched on rooftops when she helped in the fields or dueled with her weaponry tutors in the gardens. And if she rode with her parents to one of the other Great Houses, the hawk was there, soaring through the sky above.

  Following her.

  The girl might have been alarmed if its presence weren’t so comforting. Or perhaps that’s why she should have been alarmed: because of the hum. It seemed to glow warmest and brightest whenever the hawk was near.

  No, she thought. It can’t be.

  One night, after everyone had gone to sleep, the girl opened the windows and beckoned it in. The bird swooped to her bedside table, perching atop the lantern there. Its claws grappled with the iron handle, trying to keep a steady hold. As if it wasn’t used to the weight and shape of its own body.

  The girl sank down on the bed beside it, studying the beautiful arch of its throat. The sheen of its feathers. The sharpness of its claws.

  It was when their eyes met that a too-familiar voice flooded her mind:

  Hello, sister.

  The girl reeled from the shock of her sister’s voice in her head.

  “You didn’t cross,” said the girl, studying the bird’s feathers.

  And leave you all alone? Her sister’s voice rang through her mind. How could I?

  The girl thought she might be going mad.

  But it wasn’t madness. It was true: her sister’s soul had come back to her.

  Seventeen

  Just like in the dining hall, the corridor ceilings were high, rivaling those of the palace. Tall arched windows let the evening breeze blow through, making Roa shiver.

  The mosaicked tiles clicked beneath her feet as Roa ripped off her mask, tossing it to the floor. Stuffed animal heads lined the hall here; some Roa recognized—a lion, a deer—while others she didn’t—a striped horse, a huge fish with a spiraled horn protruding from its head.

  Someone in this household obviously liked to hunt.

  Her gaze quickly scanned the doors. A message from
Theo had arrived that morning. The knife was in Silva’s private collection, he’d written, behind a scarlet door.

  Just as Roa turned the corner, Lirabel’s voice called out.

  “Where are you going?”

  Roa squeezed her eyes shut, then turned to face her friend, who was already advancing.

  Essie rode on her shoulder, cocking her elegant white head as if to say Don’t look at me. This was her idea.

  “Couldn’t you stay with Dax?” Roa pressed her palms to her eyes. “Like you usually do?”

  Lirabel halted, her forehead pinching. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Roa continued on, turning the corner. “Please go back.”

  Essie launched herself from Lirabel’s shoulder and soared toward Roa.

  Lirabel ran after her.

  But this might be Roa’s only chance. If Lirabel wouldn’t do as she said, she would have to let her come along.

  The moment she turned the corner, Roa halted.

  There was the scarlet door.

  It wasn’t a Firgaardian door. The patterns were less geometric, more playful. Roa reached out to touch the looping, arching vines painted on the wood, then grabbed the handle.

  Locked.

  Roa swallowed a growl. She’d forgotten that draksors loved to lock things.

  “Maybe I’d spend less time with Dax,” said Lirabel, coming around the corner now, “if you didn’t shut me out all the time.”

  “I shut you out?”

  “Yes,” said Lirabel, thrusting out her chin. “Ever since you became queen, it’s as if I don’t exist. As if you have a thousand better things to do than spend time with me!”

  Wasn’t it the opposite?

  Roa hushed her, glancing down the hall. “What are you saying? That I think I’m better than you . . . because I’m queen?”

  Lirabel shook her head, her gaze fiery. “You’ve always thought you were better than me.”

  Roa stared at her. That wasn’t true at all.

  Her shock quickly dissolved into anger.

  At least I never slept with a boy you loved, she nearly said, stopping herself just in time. Because it was petty. And nonsensical—Roa didn’t love Dax.

  “If anyone is shutting anyone out, it’s you,” said Roa, thinking of the pregnancy Lirabel hadn’t told her about. Thinking about whose bed she’d been sharing as of late. “If anyone thinks you’re less than, Lirabel, it’s you. It always has been.”

  Lirabel opened her mouth to argue, but Roa wasn’t finished.

  “Ever since my parents took you in, you’ve seen yourself the way you think other people see you: as someone to be pitied. That’s not what you are. And even if others see you that way, they’re wrong. Don’t believe them.”

  Before Lirabel could respond, a shadow fell across them.

  Both friends looked up. Right into the blue eyes of the commandant. She was dressed in dark purple tonight, the color of the midnight sky.

  “Safire.” Panic spiked through Roa. “What are you doing here?”

  Safire wrinkled her nose, as if she smelled something rotten. “Evading Bekah and her ghastly party.” Her eyes narrowed slightly as she looked from Roa to Lirabel. “And whatever it is you’re doing seems a lot more interesting.” She crossed her arms. “What are you doing?”

  Roa looked to Lirabel. As if Lirabel could save her.

  “Trying to pick this lock?” Lirabel guessed, catching Roa’s eye.

  Safire tilted her head.

  “Can you help us?”

  Safire opened her mouth to ask another question, when sudden footsteps echoed from down the corridor. Roa and Lirabel straightened. Safire glanced around the corner. “Two servants, heading this way.”

  Roa motioned to the lock in the door, following Lirabel’s lead. “All the more reason to act quickly. Can you pick it?”

  Saf studied her, as if trying to decide whether she should help or not.

  The footsteps—and voices now—drew closer.

  Maybe it was the idea of scorning Rebekah. Or maybe Safire really did trust Roa. Whatever her reason, Safire slipped something from her boot. Crouching down in front of the door, she slid a pick into the lock, the look on her face one of pure concentration.

  The voices grew louder as Saf’s pick ground furiously against the wards.

  Hurry! thought Roa.

  Suddenly, there was a soft click!

  The door swung in.

  A dark stairwell yawned upward before them. Safire grabbed Roa and yanked her inside. Lirabel followed, silently shutting the door just as the servants turned the corner.

  Roa, Lirabel, and Saf stood shoulder to shoulder, their backs pressed up against the door, holding their collective breath as the servants’ conversation drifted through the wood.

  “That’s a lie,” came a girl’s voice.

  “I saw them,” came a boy’s lower voice. “A girl with a scarred face riding a one-eyed black dragon.”

  The girl scoffed. “It was your imagination.”

  “Listen, I know what I saw,” the boy went on. “And if I were the baron, I’d invite her in for tea. I hear the sight of her scar can strike a person dead. I’d like to know if that’s true.”

  “She’s a criminal, you halfwit. There’s a fancy price on her head. I bet the only reason he’s here is to lure her in. Bait the trap, so to speak.”

  Roa’s hands started to sweat. She wiped them on her kaftan. Beside her, Safire—normally a portrait of calm restraint—looked like her heart had fallen out of her chest.

  They were speaking about Asha, Safire’s cousin, as well as Kozu—the First Dragon.

  If Asha were captured, she’d be sent straight to finish out the death sentence she’d only narrowly escaped.

  “What is she thinking?” murmured Saf. “She shouldn’t be anywhere near here.”

  Roa thought of Asha’s letter, still lying beneath Dax’s bed in the dragon queen’s abode. Roa had meant to tell him. She would have told him, if she hadn’t overheard his conversation with Lirabel that day. Between her fury at Dax and Essie’s second disappearance, and then her own guard attacking her . . .

  Guilt pricked Roa. She’d been so preoccupied, she hadn’t given much thought to Torwin or why he hadn’t returned to Asha.

  Now she did think of him. Or more specifically, of the price on his head. A price only marginally less than the one on Asha’s. It was the reason the pair were supposed to stay far away from Firgaard. Because if either of them fell into the wrong hands . . .

  Roa shook off the thought. She was here now. She needed to get the knife. Once she had it, she would make sure Torwin and Asha were safe.

  “Come on,” said Roa, starting up the steps. “Before someone notices we’re missing.”

  Together, they climbed. The red light of dusk slashed across the stone steps, piercing through the window slats. At the top of the staircase stood a simple doorway with a strange symbol carved into the lintel.

  The door was ajar, letting dusty-rose light out into the stairwell. Safire pushed it open and Essie flew to perch at the top of the door, a silver-eyed sentinel keeping watch as the three girls stepped inside.

  The windows were flung wide, letting in a fresh breeze, and the sweet scent of cedar and roses wafted in from the gardens. Glass cases lined the walls and continued on into the next room and the next. Inside each case were jewels and fabrics, figurines and weapons. Artifacts taken from the four corners of the world.

  “What are we looking for?”

  “A knife,” said Roa. “The Skyweaver’s knife.”

  Lirabel shot her a skeptical look.

  Roa couldn’t blame her. She’d been skeptical, too.

  They searched the cases. Lirabel stood across from Roa now, on the other side of a gods and monsters board, preserved beneath glass. The playing pieces differed from her father’s, but Roa could still identify the caged queen and the frail king, the skyweaver and the dragon and the corrupted spirit. All of the pieces were carve
d out of acacia wood, and a slate of brass was fixed to the side of the case, engraved with the rules of the game.

  Suddenly, from the next room over, Safire said, “I think I found something.”

  Both friends followed the commandant’s voice until they saw her, shoulders hunched and eyes squinting as she leaned in toward a case whose corners were decorated with gold filigree.

  The case was small, maybe the size of two handbreadths on all sides, and its glass unmarked by dust or fingerprints. On the wooden pedestal that held it up to chest height, a gold plate was fastened.

  Engraved into the plate wasn’t a description, though. It was a story.

  One about the Skyweaver.

  Roa’s heart pounded in her chest. This was it. The place for the knife that could save her sister.

  There was just one problem.

  The case was empty.

  Skyweaver

  Once there was a god who traded her name for a loom, her heart for a spindle, and her face for a knife.

  They call her Skyweaver, but that isn’t her true name. They say she dwells in the seam between worlds, where only the death marked can find her.

  Skyweaver used to be good at many things, but now she’s good at only one: all day and all night, she spins souls into stars and weaves them into the sky.

  “What are souls,” she whispers, “but stars waiting to be born?”

  Her loom answers: rattle-clack. Shhhhh. Rattle-clack.

  “What are souls,” she says again, “but worms inside a chrysalis, waiting to become?”

  Sometimes that’s how Skyweaver feels—like she’s waiting to become. Sometimes she looks around her weaving room and thinks, This isn’t enough.

  Her shuttle falls silent then. Her loom goes still. She looks down at the blade in her hand, glowing like the moon. In its silver reflection, a faceless girl stares back at her. A faceless girl whose true name she can’t remember.

  “No matter,” she whispers.

  Lifting the knife, Skyweaver cuts the old threads and begins her work anew.

  Eighteen

  Roa stared through the glass.

  Why would the case be empty?