by J. D. Vaughn
The sun lit up Xiomara’s ivory gown and she seemed to glow in the light. The pearlstone terrace jutted off the palace like the wing of a bird, the great Magda River rushing below it. Filled to bursting with exotic and native plants, the terrace was a cacophony of color and smell. Soft pink starbursts spilled out of a container in one corner, while a tall, grasslike plant waved purple cups from another. Bright orange trumpet-shaped blossoms twisted through the white carved posts where several gardeners bent over their work, pruning, planting, and sweeping. One of them looked vaguely familiar, but Zarif spoke then, and Brindl turned her attention back to the assembled party.
Zarif, Jaden, Tali, and Chey all sat around her on curved benches that circled a mosaic fountain, which gurgled quietly. Only the princess remained standing.
“The Andorian regent, Paulin of the famous Matalin family of warriors, will be our most difficult guest in my estimation,” Zarif told the princess, who nodded as she paced between two fruit trees, her arms crossed over her bodice and one hand perched by her mouth.
“Why will he be more difficult than the Castillian?” Jaden asked, tapping his fingers on the bench. His handsome face looked chiseled into two colors: worry and anger. Jaden had made no bones about his disapproval of the Queen’s Treaty Talks and Brindl could not disagree.
“Paulin is easily offended, a bit short of temper,” Zarif replied.
“And the Castillian?” Xiomara asked, pausing near Zarif’s bench as she paced.
“Lord Yonda is much older, calmer, and staid in his approach. Our only difficulty will be satisfying his enormous appetite. We’d best lay in plenty of meats and sweets for him.”
“The royal bakery and their amazing cakes should be a diversion for him at least,” Tali said, grinning. “Right, Brindl?”
Brindl tried to keep her face neutral, as her copy of Palace Etiquette had instructed. Never give away your feelings, she reminded herself, as a flash of movement caught her eye.
Danger! the voice inside her warned.
“Watch out!” she yelled, as one of the gardeners pulled out a knife and sent it flying in a terrible arc toward the princess.
Tali leapt instantly, pushing Xiomara to the marble floor. The knife embedded itself in Tali’s shoulder and she fell with a groan of pain.
“Chey! Before he escapes!” yelled Jaden, hurtling over the bench to shield Tali and Xiomara, his eyes scanning in all directions for other sources of danger. “Take him alive!”
Chey raced across the terrace, drawing the hammer from his belt.
Zarif fumbled for his crutches, his eyes never leaving the princess, who tried to rise. “Stay down!” he called.
Chey rushed the attacker and pinned him to the balcony, the hammer a menace above his head. “Don’t move!” Chey growled, gripping the man by the front of his tunic.
Jaden barked out a command. “Who sent you? Answer us or die!”
Brindl let the air out of her lungs and realized she had been holding her breath since the knife flew.
The man wrenched himself free from Chey’s grip. “I’ll die, then. But not by your hand,” he yelled, throwing himself over the balcony to the raging river below.
Palace servants should never be more than ten minutes from their post even during their hours of leisure and privacy. At any time they may be pressed into service and must be available in case of emergency or requirement.
—CH. N. TASCA, Palace Etiquette
Later that day, Brindl watched Jaden’s face change from commander to friend as he closed the door and crossed the sitting room to Xiomara. He reached her in a few decisive strides and gathered her hands in his own.
“How do I find you, Princess?”
“Well enough. And how is Tali?”
“Stitched up and recovering. She says it’s a mere scratch compared to her wounds at the Alcazar,” he said, glancing over at Chey with a nod.
“That’s a relief,” Zarif answered, rising from his seat across from Brindl.
“And what did you tell the doctor?” Xiomara asked Jaden, releasing his hands and walking over to her preferred seat, a simple chair near the window.
“A training accident,” Jaden answered.
“Believable,” Chey offered from his post near the garden door.
“What will you say of the gardener?” Brindl asked, unable to control her curiosity any longer.
“That he committed suicide out of homesickness,” Zarif answered, without looking at her.
“It’s imperative this secret never leave the room.” Princess Xiomara made brief eye contact with each of them in turn. “Otherwise the Queen will use it as an excuse to keep me hidden during the regents’ visit. She knows I share Jaden’s concerns about the Treaty Talks.”
“Have we learned anything of use about the gardener?” Chey asked.
“Little,” Jaden said, with a heavy sigh. “Initial reports indicate that he was from the Castillian colony of Las Flores, a tropical island in the Azuria Sea. He was a recent gift from Castille for Princess Xiomara’s sixteenth birthday. He was nearly mute with other staff and kept himself isolated.”
“Then the suicide story is believable enough,” Zarif said, “though it is a compelling detail that he was a gift for Xiomara’s sixteenth birthday.…Symbolic of her rise to power now that she is officially Queen-in-Waiting.”
“So you think he was intentionally sent to kill me?” Xiomara asked Zarif, her voice steady, though she gripped the arms of her chair tightly. “Why?”
“The first question is who installed him. Then we can determine why,” Jaden said.
“The obvious answer points to the Castillians,” Zarif answered, but his eyes looked to the ceiling, weighing other options. “Of course, that would be just what the Andorians would like us to believe if they did it.”
“Exactly,” Jaden stated.
“So we do not know which kingdom wants me dead,” Princess Xiomara said, reaching for a lace handkerchief on a side table. Brindl noticed that the princess’s fingers trembled slightly as she picked up the dainty embroidered fabric.
“It could be either,” Zarif said, his usually neutral face betraying worry for once.
“Or both,” Brindl finished, surprising everyone with her words.
“You mean that the two kingdoms might be working as one? It seems unimaginable, given their tumultuous history as enemies,” Zarif said.
“At this point,” Chey asked, “should we rule out any theory?”
“Absolutely not,” Jaden said.
“Then we should also consider,” Brindl glanced at the princess before she finished, “that it could be someone inside Tequende as well.”
“True,” Jaden answered, nodding.
The princess looked pale and immovable as pearlstone. “You called out, Brindl, before any of us knew what was happening. Your warning may well have saved my life. What did you see that we didn’t?”
Brindl replayed the memory in her head. “I think I recognized the gardener. He looked like the same man I saw cleaning the sconces outside this room before the chandelier fell.”
“Are you certain, Brindl?” Zarif asked, his gaze pointed, almost accusatory. “I thought you said you didn’t see that man’s face? I asked the chamberlain, and she insisted that no one had been assigned to clean the sconces that day.”
All eyes were on Brindl now. The attention felt like the sun in her face, glaring hot.
Brindl considered her answer. Was she certain? Yes, but only because her inner voice had been so insistent. “No,” she lied, unable to admit how she knew, lest they think her half-mad.
“But the princess could have died that day as well,” said Chey, glancing at Xiomara. “It seems more than coincidence, does it not?”
Brindl shifted in her chair.
“You came!” Tonio said, offering Brindl a hand up the first rocky patches of the path. His hair looked darker without the usual dusting of flour, and his bright eyes flickered in the fading light.
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�Did you think I wouldn’t?” she asked. It had been a whirlwind of a week since Brindl had last seen him. The palace remained in the dark concerning the assassination attempt on Xiomara, but each day the inner circle burned with intensity because of the secret. Everyone was on edge, ferreting out real and imagined danger. If that wasn’t enough, the chamberlain had been ruthless with her lessons. Thank the Gods Brindl had received Tonio’s invitation. It was a relief to have one thing to look forward to in her week.
“I wasn’t sure you could get away with the regents arriving so soon.”
“It has been relentless, to be sure,” Brindl answered, wishing she could tell him more. In some ways, Tonio seemed as safe as a brother. Still, it would not be her lips to betray Xiomara’s trust.
“Mama has been asking about you. She worries that you’re overworked and not getting enough to eat.”
“Doesn’t she think that of everyone?”
“True.” Tonio grinned and pulled Brindl to the edge of the path. The track to the other side of the mountain switched back and forth in steep, jagged stripes. A mule cart sounded below them, the loud bells around the animals’ necks giving fair warning to provide a wide berth.
“Tonio!” a young man called from the back of the cart. “Hop on!”
“We can’t stop the mules, so make a jump for it!” another boy said, laughing.
Brindl and Tonio skipped up to the cart, where half a dozen other young people already sat on stacks of hay.
“Won’t we be too much for the poor animals?” Brindl asked.
“Oh no, it’s a whole team of beasts. And they’re used to heavy pearlstone. Go on, jump in!”
Brindl took a running leap and hoisted herself into the cart, followed by Tonio, while the others cheered them on. After Tonio made the introductions, he pulled the cloth bag off his shoulder and produced sweet treats courtesy of Mama Rossi.
He handed Brindl a small, buttery biscuit. As soon as she bit into it, the flavors melted in her mouth like a sundrop on the tongue. A young groundsman passed around a bottle of fruitshine, which made Brindl’s eyes water with a single swallow and produced a warmth in her stomach that expanded all the way to her fingers and toes.
As the group enjoyed their small feast, two young men began playing a spritely tune on their hand instruments, a song Brindl recognized from festival days in Zipa. The cart continued back and forth up the mountain, allowing views of the palace more beautiful than ever, cast in the amber light of Intiq going to bed. Brindl let her worries slip away and joined in the chorus of the song, content to be exactly where she was.
If time should find you far from here,
Sweet memories may reappear,
Small gifts from days long turned to dust,
But live inside each one of us.
Soon after, they arrived on the other side of the mountain. Brindl hopped down from the cart and stood in wonderment.
So this is Quarry Town.
Built on the edge of the pearlstone quarry itself, the buildings hung over the vast crater like bird nests, one side looking out over the sheer quarry cliff, the other facing the village street and mountains beyond. Though quite narrow, the stacked homes towered several stories high, each one painted its own bold hue: burnt oranges, amber, teals and greens, now muted in the waning light. Brindl tried to imagine the vast views their inhabitants must have of the raw and jagged beauty outside their windows.
How far they must be able to see, like raptors perched high above the world.
“Good eve,” strangers greeted her as they passed. “A perfect night for the Fray.”
A growing throng of villagers poured out of the unique dwellings, all moving toward the giant crater. The Moon Goddess Elia appeared dimly in the sky, preparing to shed her light on the colorful, peculiar village as her brother set in the west. Brindl found it hard to look away from the scene, as if she’d taken a ship over the wide sea to another land, rather than a mule cart to the other side of a mountain.
“Look at the pearlstone paths leading to the quarry,” Tonio said, turning around to Brindl. “See how they reflect each color of the sunset?”
“It’s beautiful,” she answered. “Almost like a painting that can change on its own.”
“Sculptures made of pearlstone are renowned throughout the Far and Nigh Worlds for that very reason,” Tonio said, his face relaxed and content.
He’s happier here than in the bakery, Brindl realized. Perhaps it was merely due to the day off, but Brindl sensed something deeper. Wistful even.
Down, down they went along a path lit with oil torches, spitting and smoking, into the great quarry crater. When they neared the bottom, Brindl understood why the events were held here. A large flat, square area lay in the center, lit by dozens of torch poles. All around them, the walls of the quarry had been carved into receding layers, creating the perfect seating for the large, raucous audience. It reminded Brindl of one of Tonio’s amazing cake designs with its tiers.
Tonio spread the same soft blanket that he’d used for their picnics onto a pearlstone ledge, sharing it with another couple from the cart. Their legs dangled off the edge, almost as if they had climbed the tall limb of a tree.
“Why does the Fray not take place during the day?” Brindl asked Tonio.
“There are no days off in the quarry.”
“Much like Zipa, then,” Brindl answered, “where the salt comes first. Here the pearlstone.”
“And bread is made each day as well, though it is far easier to lift,” Tonio joked.
Brindl had never been in one place with so many people, and all of them Earth Guilders, too. How hardworking and earnest they appeared. Brindl was proud to be a part of these people, for they truly made the realm move forward with their faces marred by dust and dirt, their hands a landscape of calluses. Quarry women, with hair covered by colorful fabrics, weaved through the crowd collecting donations in large baskets. When one passed under their feet, Tonio stopped her and offered several coins as well as a loaf of Mama Rossi’s bread.
“This is how Quarry Town takes care of its sick and elderly. People give all they can each month at the Fray,” he said, pointing to an area where Brindl now noticed a large stash of corn, coffee, yucca, and an assortment of salted meats and fish.
“They know how to take care of one another here,” Brindl said.
A quartet of musicians walked through the crowd and across the arena in random patterns, filling the pit with traditional Tequendian folk music. The instruments themselves—two handheld string guitars, a sea horn, and a gourd filled with pebbles and grains—were painted in bright colors, much like the houses of the village. A skinny dog with ears too large for its face followed the band wherever they went, a hollowed-out gourd strapped to his side. As the band moved through the crowd, the people’s faces lit up around them. When they ventured closer, Brindl watched people call the pup over to give it a scratch behind the ears and drop a few coins in the gourd.
Before long, an old man walked to the center of the square. The crowd hushed as the music stopped. Even though he was quite elderly, the man still looked enormous compared to the miners back home. Twice their size easily, thought Brindl, and well past his sixtieth harvest.
The old man held up his hands and began. “As always, there will be two matches tonight. Each match has two parts. The first will last fifteen minutes. The second, if it happens, for five. Honor over strength.”
“Honor over strength!” the entire crowd answered, and their words seemed to echo out of the canyon of rock.
“Honor rules demand a clean fight,” continued the old man. “Wins shall be determined by knockout, submission, or fan vote. First match, Fury versus the Goat!”
The crowd roared again as the old man walked off the arena grounds.
Tonio leaned toward Brindl. “The men who fight are enormous, you’ll see.”
“Men? No women?”
“Women would not make good fighters, I think,” Tonio answered.
> Tali would certainly argue against that point! Brindl thought, but she held her tongue. “So does fan vote mean the audience can decide a fight?” she asked.
Tonio nodded. “Hopefully you’ll get to witness one; it’s something to see!”
A horn sounded and two men strode out of the shadows into the flickering light of the quarry floor. They were of different sizes, one noticeably bigger than the other, though the shorter, balder man looked wide as a cart. The bigger one, Fury, as Tonio called him, entered the arena with a terrible scowl on his face. Then he lifted his chin, cupped his hands around his mouth, and gave a haunting howl. The crowd, fired up with his encouragement, suddenly leapt to their feet, pumping their arms in the air and howling back. Fury obviously knew how to work a crowd into a frenzy.
Fury gave one last howl, then turned to his opponent. The shorter, wider fighter, known as the Goat, wasted no time and charged the bigger man as soon as they faced each other. Unlike Fury, the Goat never acknowledged the crowd, his face a mask of singular determination. A crisp, almost elegant punch sliced into Fury’s face, cracking the confidence in it.
The Goat followed each punch with another, so sharp and with such power that Fury was pushed a step at a time toward the ring of torches. Fury tried to swing back, but the Goat easily dodged him, then ended the match with one final blow of his fist. Fury fell in a heap, his feet at an odd angle to the rest of his body. He did not rise for many seconds and the crowd waited breathlessly. Brindl wondered if he might be dead, but just then he tossed his head from side to side and moaned. The crowd erupted in cheers and the Goat lifted both his hands in victory, his chin high and eyes bright.