Revolutionary Veins

by Rey Balor

  “No,” they answered instead.

  It was an answer the Queen respected, albeit the disappointment managed to spread through the cracks of her smile. She stepped forward and adjusted the cloak around Claymore, pressing a gentle kiss upon the captain’s cheek.

  “Memories are fickle things, my sweet. Should you ever desire to share, I shall postpone all meetings and make ready a chair beside me so that you may.”

  Claymore went to the rest of their duties with the feel of those pink lips still a ghost upon them. The weapons on either side of their hip — the arming-sword and the gun — did not weigh quite so heavy as the touch, and they were amazed the other Aegis did not notice as the shields delivered their reports in passing.

  “The Queen of Stone is prepared for her hunt,” Glaive said.

  The cloak felt both heavy and light. How was such a thing possible?

  Claymore nodded.

  “The Queen of the Pillared Lands plans a feast this time next week. There will need to be extra guards present,” Shishpar said.

  How was a smile such an easy gesture to make?

  Claymore made a note of it.

  “The Queen of the Range has need of more workers. She looks to recruit from the other Queens if they did not offer,” Falchion said.

  Did they get her a gift in return?

  Claymore sighed.

  “The Queen of the Vanguard said nothing at all,” Maul said.

  Vows of honor were as important as the wine that brides shared with their spouses at a wedding. You need them, Claymore. You need them to live. They are our beginning and our connection.

  Claymore answered nothing at all either.

  There was a change in guard in front of the prison tower, but the change passed in a blur of routine. The captain removed their weapon and marched in rhythm with the others before passing along. They did not feel the prayer as they said it; it simply existed in the space between their lips. The familiar path led them down the southwest corridor to the Queen of Stone’s throne room. Whereas the Queen of the Summer Isle’s space was covered in the pale colors and shapes of flowers, the Queen of Stone’s space was dark, filled with sharp edges and a hint of danger.

  It was far from a serene space, and among the pulse of threatening shadows, a tall tree stood proudly. Although its limbs were bare and draped low over the throne itself, the bark appeared jagged enough to cut all those who dared to brush their hand along it.35 The Queen herself matched the aura of the room; she too stood proudly, limbs bending at sharp angles. Short, spiky black hair only served to sharpen her features further. The gold of her crown and blouse did little to lighten the black of her eyes or soften the furrow of her prominent brow, where the fuzz of her eyebrows barely kissed in the middle and tried to form one. She nodded her head in greeting as the shield entered. Never had a Queen appeared more at home in the stone castle of the inner Citadel.

  Claymore swept the room for any signs of unwanted visitors before they gave a nod of their own, as routine permitted. Once more, the routine allowed their mind to drift, and it was with a sharp snap that their thoughts returned to the present. “You are ready for your hunt then, Queen?”

  It was only when the Queen stood that Claymore saw her trousers matched the gold of her blouse and bag and that the bow slung across her back matched the entire outfit. It was very much like looking into the sun; it caused the captain to squint and glance away. All feelings of equity that had come with the gift of their cloak vanished in the woman’s light.

  “I have been waiting for a hunt for the past two full moons. I cannot live my life locked away inside this throne room. Let’s not waste more time, aye?” She let out a whistle and a serving boy came rushing in, gaze low and a flask of water in hand. He passed off the flask and moved forward to Claymore, holding out another. By the way he pursed his lips, they knew he was like the other serving boys — with tongues cut out for various punishments, whether by the Queen’s hand or not. He could not tell her secrets, and as none of the other Queens knew of the Queen of Stone’s trips, it was a wise choice to keep them close.36

  “Will we be using the horses to carry our supplies?”

  “No horses,” she returned immediately.

  They walked through the courtyard in silence.

  Hunts were highly irregular for the Queens, and when they did occur, they were often grand affairs. More often than not, a few of the Queens would band together as they rode out into the woods, basking in a peace with the others that was usually so difficult to come by. For the Queen of Stone, hunts were something else altogether. They were a necessity, not a way of peace. In the woods, she transformed, and rarely did she allow another in on the transformation.

  The pair entered the woodlands in that same silence, and Claymore alone bore witness to the process.

  The Queen moved from the too-bright rays of sunlight to the form of a goddess as she climbed a tree, pulling her bow out only when she reached a sturdy enough branch to sit upon. Claymore was not quite as graceful as they climbed, and as they took a seat amongst the branches, they felt as if the bark would snap beneath their weight. They were a skilled warrior on the ground, but in the air, the only skilled warriors were the birds whose nests they disturbed. The Queen of Stone did not smile at the captain’s clumsy, heavy movements; she did not seem to notice the Aegis was there at all.

  Patience was the only thing each of the five Queens could agree was essential to rule, and they carried it in them at all times. It did not reveal itself the same way for each of them, but Claymore could see it revealing itself in the Queen now. The sun drifted across the sky, and the pair simply waited. The bare woods did not reject their presence, and for that, both members of the party were grateful — the Queen, for the kill it would grant her, and the Aegis, for the quicker time it would allow this hunt to take.

  “My lady,” Claymore began, but the Queen quickly hushed her before the thought could be completed. Below them, a deer had wandered into view.

  “You, above all, should know what a gift Death is. We should each be able to hold it in our hands, but that choice was taken from us long ago. I’m reclaiming it.” Her voice was as low as a conspirator’s whisper as she loaded an arrow into her bow and pulled the string back. She did not hold it, but she let it fly, finding its mark in seconds. The deer let out a sound as the arrow sapped its life from it, and the sound sent a shiver down Claymore’s spine. It reminded them why Death was worshipped. “It’s easy to forget such things when the perfume of the Citadel weighs your thoughts down.”

  She leaped from the tree, landing with a soft thud and rolling to her feet once more. Claymore stumbled behind, making the sign of the star across their chest and saying a quick prayer. “Hand of devotion, spirit of Death, take our offering and give us one in return.”

  The Queen repeated it as she began following the dying deer. Specks of blood were visible on the ground, and her focus remained on the trail. “I have a prayer for you as well, shield,” she said, moving quickly after her prize. “You’ll forgive me for the inquiry, but I’ve heard disturbing rumors. I don’t like hearing disturbing news, especially from whispers amongst those who serve me. Is it true? Machina roams again?”

  It surprised the shield more to hear the Queen did not know the wolfling’s name than she had heard of the release at all. “It is not my place to say, my lady.” This was neither lie nor truth but floated in the middle of the two, teasing each and never choosing a side to land.

  “You belong to Death, not a Queen. What one does, the rest should know and judge.”

  Claymore remained silent, much to the frustration of the woman. As the pair reached the dying deer, she did not slow her steps as she approached and delivered the final strike. Her frustration made itself known in the way she worked on the animal with the cruel curve of her knife. It was not the practiced skill she had become known for but filled with a surprising impatience. The strokes of the weapon left small hatch marks in the bloodied meat, and her
brows furrowed as she kept her gaze down toward it.

  “Do you know the story of Machina?” the Queen continued, unabated. “She betrayed the Citadel once, many years prior. It’s said she was a great, engineering genius, building structures worthy of those who lived in them, but she is a woman never satisfied. If it’s true she has been released from her captivity, the rest of us should prepare for another betrayal.”

  The captain stood strong against the thinly concealed accusations. “How long do we hold someone accountable for past betrayals? Surely, it cannot be for the rest of their existence.” No emotions flickered across their features, and no sign of remorse appeared in their tone. “Death did not take her; therefore, Death has determined her worthy of whatever fate awaits her. I cannot say any more than that, my lady.”

  Sheathing her knife once more, the Queen stood to her feet and wrapped some of the meat before slipping it into her bag. It would be an offering to the kitchen girls, if rumors could be believed. Claymore was finally beginning to understand the fickle nature of rumors. They only knew that the Queen was ready as her feet found the familiar path to return home. Routine burned in her as brightly as it did Claymore.

  They were both silent on the journey back to the Citadel, holding tight to things unsaid.

  Chapter 11: The Wilds

  “It is not the strongest of the species that earns Death’s respect,

  nor the most intelligent,

  but the one most responsive to change.”

  Death’s Lament, 24.18

  ARISTA:

  Illias had no money on him.37 When Tapster came to his door demanding payment for the night he spent in the inn, he could give the old man nothing else outside of a blank expression and an offering of his fur cloak — a symbol of status, one of his greatest prides — which only earned a scoff and a curse.

  He was left chagrined, having taken from the old man something he could not repay. In turn, he offered a day’s work, which would only serve to delay his departure for the Citadel. The tiny village was not half so bad as he imagined, and although there was matching structure in every building he looked at and in every person he passed, and although it was tamed, it was enough. All he had ever wanted was enough.

  Work was something he was accustomed to. It was only a day that he was to spend lending a hand, but it became routine in only an hour. He could already feel the familiar action of preparing new shelters add to the callouses on his palms — every strike of ax on wood and every collection of material at a site reminded him that he was crafting new homes. A few strangers paused to stare, unfamiliar with the wild length of his hair or the markings on his skin, but their stares soon drifted back to their own work. Oddities were commonplace in a town located at the crossroads, and they had neither the time nor energy to focus on him. After only an hour, the people grew accustomed to him as well.

  It was in this way that he started making an acquaintance out of them all. It was not for his benefit that he did it, but they knew things about the Queens that he could only guess. There was a reluctance in the air to discuss anything of importance with the Erie-folk, and whenever he sought to press the matter, there Tapster seemed to be, ready to remind him that he was to work and not socialize.

  “The old man said you would be out here,” a voice called, and Hops came into view, smiling that soft smile of his. He carried firewood for the inn’s hearth, and Illias paused his own work, ax in hand, to greet him. “Did you need a break? He won’t ask you, but there’s a well at the center of town for water if you’re thirsty. You have to maintain your strength, after all.”

  Wiping his brow with the back of his hand, Illias only shrugged. “This is something I’m used to.”

  “Yes, I heard about the situation with the money. Is it true? You have nothing?”

  Immediately, the insult prodded Illias’s free hand to curl tightly into a fist and his cheeks to flush red with defiance. If relaxation had managed to settle into his bones at the man’s arrival, it was gone just as quickly. “Depends on your definition of nothing. I’ve got my hands, the clothes on the back, a good weapon, and—” Olena. She was out there somewhere, still strong and still wild, and he felt that more deeply than any insult. “Have you never wondered what having something entails?

  “It’s having enough – enough to trade with, enough to live off of, enough to support my family. Not more, not less. It’s not being surrounded by tall walls, trapping me in a place that hates and mistrusts everything I stand for. It’s laying beside my mate beneath the stars because I chose to be there. It’s living, pure and true. You might think I’m uncivilized for not wanting money or whatever else people in the Citadel strive for, and you might think I’m simple for it, but I’ve never been happier than when I’m making my own decisions, for better or for worse, about my own life. So tell me again I have nothing, and I’ll prove you wrong a hundred times over.”

  With a huff of breath, he fell silent, turning abruptly back to his work. The song of the ax rang out loudly, and the silence between the two men was pressing. His ears still burned, and his thoughts buzzed loudly. He expected to turn his back and see the chained-folk gone, and he would have rejoiced at it. Distantly, he was aware he would need some form of assistance for surviving a place like the Citadel, but it was far enough away that he could ignore it altogether.

  “That sounds…wonderful, Roam. Truly, it does. I hadn’t meant to insult you.” Hops ran a hand through his hair, struggling with his words in a way Illias never had. “I hadn’t meant anything by it — but you’ll need money in the Citadel if you’re to survive. I don’t have much, but I have some saved up. You can take it. Whatever your reasons are, they must be important to travel to a place you so clearly despise.”

  Illias nodded his head slowly, although he remained facing away from the other individual. His curled fist loosened, and he was calm once more. Such reactions made him feel like a child again, but every word the chained-folk said felt like a hidden insult. They rarely proclaimed what they meant, and it made Illias suspicious in a way he never had been before. “If I can’t make my own way, I don’t deserve this life. You don’t owe me a damn thing, Hops.”

  “Then earn it, same as you’ve earned your stay,” the blond insisted. “You’re a good hunter, I imagine. We’re in the busy season, which means the kitchen girls don’t have the time to capture the necessary meats to keep our guests happy. I’ll pay you for them, making sure we both profit. Besides that, I think the girls would like you. They’ll say you’re too skinny and give you sweets, and they’ll ask a thousand questions in return for them. Might do each of you good.”

  Illias’s work was near complete, but he could sense Tapster watching them from a distance. If the older man had no trust in Illias to finish a task, he at least carried trust in Hops to enforce it. After a moment of watching, he wandered off, and Illias allowed himself a pause to finally look toward Hops. In the blue of his eyes, worry gleamed through, and it was not a worry that Illias accepted lightly. He accepted it all the same and nodded toward the pile of logs the blond still held.

  “If that’s the case, I’ll need to stay here more than a night. Let me take care of whatever it is you’re working on, so I’ll have some way to give back for it.” He was aware that every day spent in this village was a day taken from negotiations with the Queens, but he had chosen this place as his rest stop for a reason, hadn’t he? This was the village he was born in, the one forces had gathered near, and despite the fact he saw nothing but calm in the area, there had to be something bringing him here.

  First, Red’s Night, and now, our birthplace?

  Another night could hardly hurt.

  “I have space on the floor, if it makes it simpler for you. You wouldn’t have to pay.” For a reason Illias didn’t understand, Hops avoided his gaze as he continued. “I’m not supposed to offer, but Tapster is well off enough without taking from you too, Illias — Roam. It’s more for my own peace of mind than anything, I promise.
”

  The offer surprised Illias, but there was no malice and no mockery to it. Hops was simply…good. In a gesture of friendship — the strangest friendship, found in a place even stranger to those of the wild lands — he clasped his hand on the blond’s shoulder and gave it a soft squeeze. “You’re a good man, Hops, and it looks like our fates are tied together after all.”

  SPICA:

  Boom — the sound echoed through the trees at dawn, causing the inhabitants still slumbering to stir. The silence that followed hung thickly around them for a moment before it was heard again.

  Boom — that time, it was louder, closer, and it did not stop. It continued in time to a beat far too close to the pulsing thrum of a heart, and there was no sleeping through such a sound. It was meant to strike fear, and as individuals emerged from their dwellings, they saw the source of it. Olena Rivers stood beside a prisoner, and the most respected individuals in their group stood around her. It was easy to see the war drums they hit and hear the faint echoes of their songs. They were not happy songs of victory; they spoke of darker truths.

  As the crowd gathered around captor and prisoner, they were eerily silent, and even the drums stopped ringing. It was a rare occurrence to have a trial, and they moved forward as close as they could, peering around one another to catch a glimpse. If Olena stood before them with such a prize, then surely, there would have to be a story just as captivating to go along with it. The corners of Olena’s lips tipped upward in a victorious grin as Ranger shifted uncomfortably under the weight of the silence.

  “Did someone stop the beats? I was really enjoying them.” Ranger made certain to speak quiet enough that only Olena could hear. She may have been capricious, but her self-preservation was as strong as Olena had ever seen. “Are we going to share a dance, with all this singing? I’m better at it than you might think. Certain Queens like their people filled to the brim with all sorts of talents. I can’t tell you the number of times it’s come in handy. I mean, I could, but—”