by Janeal Falor
There’s no one behind any of the pillars, and though the room is large, I'm not even breathing hard by the time I return.
Good. I'm still at my best.
The only door is the one I came through, and it’s shut. I should have privacy. Not that I trust it. One never knows where there are peepholes or secret entrances.
I hurry into the pool, the water sluicing across me. It's more perfect than the bathwater, somehow smoother than normal.
While the water waves around me, I wonder about the Mortum Tura. How does the cup choose the next queen? What does it look for in a queen? It can't be by anything good—virtue, kindness, or purity of heart—because I'm an assassin.
Does it matter? Maybe it's all random. I brush it aside. Despite my misgivings, I find myself luxuriating in too many of the items. Not that I know what they’re all for. The smell of roses makes me feel almost carefree.
I take my time scrubbing even though I already feel clean. I even get between my toes, the mole between my big toe and the one next to it on my right foot stubbornly holding on. No other spots mar my body but that one. Daros was careful not to do any lasting damage.
Once I'm done—or rather, once I've gone overboard—I hurriedly rinse in the pool. I get out, dry off, and dress as quickly as possible in the garment left for me. It's a flimsy thing—a thin layer of material which covers me, though it's big. A dress. Something I don’t wear. Another thing I have to remedy.
A faint patter behind me is the only warning I get before a rope digs into my neck and my back smashes against someone behind me. Someone big and strong. It has to be a man, the way he's gripping me. If I wasn't so busy choking, I'd smile. This is what I wanted, only not in the way I expected.
Why this person wants me dead, I'll never know, but he's doing me quite the favor.
My instincts peak to life. Not a lot, but enough to make my reflexes flare. I lean forward, then head-butt the man and connect with his neck. He sputters and jerks backward but instead of letting go, he takes me with him.
My vision flickers. Where are my daggers when I need them?
That decides it. I still deserve to die, but it will be on my terms, not this brute's.
I press his trigger points on his wrist, and immediately, icy air cools my neck with the rope’s release. I duck, jabbing my elbows back as I go. There's an umpf behind me. I somersault forward, then spin to face my opponent.
His face is an unfamiliar mix of pox marks and sheen. He grunts and comes at me head on, rope still in hand. Guilt sluices through me, but he did bring the attack to me.
I spin out of the way at the last moment, hitting his kidney as he passes by. His faint cry brings the sound of footsteps hurrying through the hall toward us.
The look on his face says he knows we'll soon no longer be alone. A meaty hand grabs my arm before I can slip away. I kick him where it will hurt the most before he can dodge out of the way. He lets go with a grunt. It was low of me, but I don't want to be under his thumb when help arrives.
I kick his groaning self into the pool. As he goes in with a splash, others enter the room.
That was not nearly quick enough of them. Where did the assassin come from, and why did he want to take my life? Is he one of Daros's men? Someone I don't know? Did Daros already find me, or is someone else after my life now that I'm the queen, even though it's been a scant time?
“You might want to be faster next time,” I tell the two men and the tall woman staring at me with wide eyes, frozen in their places. And then I leave the way I came.
My hands tremble something fierce.
Why didn't I let him finish me off?
Chapter 4
Guards swarm around me. I can't help but wonder where they were when my life was threatened. The would-be assassin is dragged off by another group of soldiers, all of whom are soaking wet. I want to question him. To find out where he came from. Who he's working for. But I don’t know how to go about it; torturing people for information was always Daros's job.
I have to know, though. Before I realize what I'm doing, I call out, “Bring him here.”
Ranen is immediately by my side. I didn't know he was around. “Your Majesty, let someone else take care of this, and we can inform you of what we find out. It would be beneath you to speak with the prisoner.”
I want to let go. To take back my words. But I don't need another Daros in my life, bossing me around, even if I plan on not being around long. I glare at Ranen. I stood up once; I can do it again.
My jaw wants to clamp shut. Instead, I force out, “That doesn't matter.”
“Your Highness, I must protest. It isn't safe.”
That matters even less. “I will talk to him. Now.”
The tassel on Ranen’s hat dips down as he bows, but the gesture is stiff. Jerky. “Yes, My Lady.”
He motions the guards to bring the prisoner closer. A woman holds one arm while a man holds the other. I ignore him in favor of the would-be assassin. I take in more of him than when he was trying to kill me—his ragged hair, burnt nose, and cool eyes. The eyes of a killer.
Do mine look like that?
I swallow past my tight throat. “Who sent you?”
His cool gaze searches my eyes. He sneers. “You may be the queen, but I don't answer to you.”
I press my knuckles against his temple, middle finger still curled but jutted out. “You can, and you will. If not, I can make you perish.”
He has the audacity to laugh—a cruel, vain sound. He clenches a muscle in his jaw, and then he spits on my face.
Without a thought, I slug him as hard as I can. He grunts, head jerking back. I wipe the spittle off my face, and try not to grimace in disgust as I swipe it across the cloth on his shoulder. It's not the worst I've faced.
Everyone around us is silent. Watching. Waiting.
Why don't they do something more to protect me? To honor me? Not that I deserve it, but I am their sovereign now.
I jab my fingers behind the prisoner’s collarbone and force him to the ground. “Who sent you?”
He winces but clamps his mouth shut.
I grit my teeth, pushing harder. Still, he doesn't reply.
“You've done enough questioning, Your Majesty,” Ranen barks out.
I release the prisoner, wishing I hadn't stooped to Daros's level. What's more, I wish others weren’t here to see it. My face burns at the thought that I'm anything like him—a cruel, unfeeling person. But I am.
Nothing could be plainer.
“Take him to the dungeons,” Ranen says.
The guards lift the prisoner off the ground and drag him away. Now it's Ranen, the servant who showed me the baths, and me.
Ranen glares at me. I glance at the ground. Heat burns within me. I want to tell him off, but what if his rebuttals are anything like Daros's?
I can handle it. Besides, I doubt Ranen has the stomach for real torture. I lift my chin.
“What will happen to him now?” I put bite behind my words.
“Your Majesty, I must insist you not trouble yourself with such things. It's unbecoming, and I won't put up with it.” He waves a finger at me, like I'm an errant child.
I bristle. He won't put up with it? What about what I want?
But then I remember what brought me here. He might not be punishing me like Daros would, but that doesn't mean I have the right to voice my thoughts.
That is, until I spot the servant. I turn my attention to her, not caring about Ranen. “How did the prisoner slip past you?”
“I don't know, Your Highness.” Her gaze is focused on the ground. “I will take whatever punishment you see fit for letting him through.”
I contemplate what to do. “What about the two men who entered with you? Did they notice him enter?”
“They saw nothing either. They are now with the guards, taking the prisoner to the dungeons. But I promise you we had nothing to do with it. We would give our lives for you. Otherwise we wouldn't be here. Perhaps he used a se
cret entrance. There are many hidden tunnels throughout the palace.”
Ranen glares at her. “I see,” I say. And I do. More than I would like. I've gone after others’ lives many times, after all.
It seems I'll have to watch myself closely if I value my life. Which I don't. Do I?
“We should call for more guards to protect her,” the servant says to Ranen.
“Very well. Run and fetch someone.” His tone is clipped.
“I would, but I have to help Her Majesty get into proper attire and fix her hair, so she is fit to be seen.”
Seeing how I'm in a dress, it's not possible. I've carried off dresses before, though, so I can do it again until I decide what to do with my life if I have to.
Ranen flares his nostrils the tiniest bit, but I catch on. He's upset. Because he has to leave my side? Because my life was threatened? Or because he doesn’t want me to be alone with the servant? What is he worried about?
“Very well.” He storms off.
I don't bother telling the servant I don't need a guard. It's true, but there's no point.
“Now, let's get your dress on properly and your hair fixed,” the servant says.
Letting numbness creep over me, I follow her back to my rooms. The vanity now holds lots of combs, brushes, and vials. I sit in the chair in front of the mirror, grateful I can see the servant in it.
One thing I know—I don't trust either her or Ranen.
I avoid looking my image in the eye as the tall woman does my hair up, digging pins into my scalp. Somehow she manages to put my hair up, despite it being so short.
My dark-brown hair, the color of many others in this country, is thick. My face is round, but not with fat. Not like all of the Kurah class—those rich enough to glut themselves. No, my cheeks are sunken in. My lips are full but pale, and the eyes I can no longer avoid…
Haunted.
Their blue depths are startling with their loss of humanity.
I look away, unable to bear the sight.
Once finished with my hair, my servant helps me into a gown that's the silkiest thing I've ever touched—so smooth and sleek. But far too beautiful. Plus, she has to pin it many times to get it to fit on me.
She paints my face with what feels like a heavy hand, but I don’t want to look in the mirror again to find out. There’s only so much I can take.
“There,” she says. “You're ready for the day. You'll spend most of it with Ranen.”
I force myself not to cringe.
“If you'll excuse me, Your Majesty, I must see to a few things.” She curtsies. “Ranen will be here with your bodyguards soon, if they aren't already.”
She leaves the room, and I allow myself to relax the slightest bit. I miss my old room, back at Daros's. Didn’t think that would be true, but it is.
Pushing the thought aside, I move to where I stashed my blades and pouch earlier. I don't know what I was thinking, going without them.
Well, perhaps I do. Perhaps I wanted the opportunity to lose my life. A queen is never safe.
I grab them now, though. Without them, I was naked. I need my blades more than I need food. I even rip a hole in one of my pockets, to accommodate one of them. They’re probably meant for embroidery, but this is a better purpose. It doesn't matter if the dress is destroyed. There are much more important things than frivolous clothes.
Chapter 5
The thought of wanting to preserve my life still haunts me as the day wears on. I've nibbled on some food—nothing much but enough to alleviate my hunger pains—and Ranen is jabbering on over topics I couldn't care less about while we sit in an unfamiliar room.
The room has more landscapes of Valcora on the walls, a clock, no windows, and two bodyguards posted on either side of the door, both women. More are waiting outside, a mixture of genders. There's a long table surrounded by chairs, but the only two seats occupied are mine and—across from me—Ranen’s. And he’s still talking.
None of it seems to have anything to do with being queen. More like bossing me around. Stuff about how to sit, what utensils to use when eating, and how to give a proper curtsy. He says I’m to let him take care of the nitty-gritty, boring things, while I focus on putting up a good front.
I think on my almost-death and why I didn't let myself die. Instinct, I guess. Nothing else can account for it.
If only if I didn't have a death wish, then I would still be on the streets alone instead of listening to this moron prattle on. Of course, I'd be cold and hungry, but I'd also be by myself.
He's saying something about dancing now. Knives forbid he makes me practice. If he tries, I’ll pull out the daggers I stashed on my person. I won't be going anywhere without them again. I shouldn't have gone without them in the first place, I know better than that. But then, it's hard to care when all you want is to no longer be around.
Maybe if I can find out who wanted me dead, I'll feel free to die. It's a hard question. I don't know who to suspect, so I suspect everyone.
A group of frilly and refined girls enters the room. Some sulk, others glare, and two are expressionless.
Some are familiar. Why?
I place one then. A blur of a memory, but it's enough. These are the girls I burst through when I made my dive for the Mortum Tura.
What are they doing here? Could any of them have something to do with the assassination attempt? I doubt they are all innocent. No one is without mistakes. I learned that while bloodying my hands, if nothing else.
“You'll need to thank each one of them,” Ranen says.
“Who are they, and why do they need to be thanked?” Daros taught me not to be grateful for anything. Ever.
“They are those who trained to become queen. Those who went the proper way about it.” His tone holds a blade of reprimand.
Like I care about proper ways of things, except the upkeep of lifesaving tools. “Why didn't they drink it before me, then?”
“Because you shoved your way in.” His blunt manner would take me aback if I wasn't used to it from Daros. I thought as queen I would have less of that, but perhaps things are different than I expected.
Another question finds its way to my lips. “Why didn't they take it in the weeks before I came?”
“Because, Your Majesty”—more like nitwit, by his tone—“they weren't prepared until this day.”
Apparently, neither was I. “Why do I need to thank them?”
“For their service, of course.” His voice implies that any idiot could figure that out.
It doesn't make sense to me, but I'm used to following orders.
As the women come nearer, they don't look all that happy to see me. If they went the proper way to becoming queen, and I came along and took it, they have a right to be angry.
As each one comes forward, I thank them, though I still have no idea what I'm thanking them for.
It’s the last girl’s turn, and her eyes flare like she wants to take me out this very moment.
I'd like to see her try.
She's short and well rounded. They all are chubby. Must have been well fed, getting trained to become queen. She has a dainty mole above her lip and to the right. I bet she thinks it's beautiful and becoming. Who knows? It may even be fake.
“These women will become your ladies in waiting,” Ranen says.
“My what?”
He clenches his jaw. “Your ladies in waiting. They will attend you at functions. Keep you company. Run errands for you. Things of that nature.”
“I see.” I don't really. Those are things I either don't need or can do myself. Why would I have someone else do them for me? “Why them?”
He gives an exasperated sigh. “Because they trained the right way. Not to possibly become queen, but also to serve her, should the chance arise before they die or become royalty themselves.”
Does that mean I saved some of their lives? They didn’t get the chance to drink. Never tasted the sweet bitterness of the Mortum Tura. Then again, maybe I stopped the next
girl who was going to drink it from becoming queen.
No wonder some are glaring daggers at me. I hope the few who didn’t want to die, who unlike me, are thankful, though. “And this is how it's always done?” I ask.
“It is.” An unspoken and you will respect it hangs in the air.
It's all a bunch of hooey. Still, I hurry and thank them to get Ranen off my back. Anything to get rid of him faster. The women don't seem to care about my thank yous, though. I'd be better off not opening my mouth at all.
“I will leave you now so you can get to know your ladies-in-waiting, but don't forget what I have taught you so far. You will have more lessons tomorrow, but now I have better things to do.”
More lessons? How long am I going to have to sit and listen to their petty concerns? I should have picked a different way of death. Or just let the man kill me.
Ranen leaves the room, and all that's left are these thirteen girls and women who look as if being in my presence is torture. They know nothing about pain.
Most look to be about my age or a little older. Some are middle-aged, and one woman appears grandmotherly. They all look prim and proper, despite being angry at my presence.
The girl with the mole asks, “Why did you drink from the cup?”
I narrow my eyes at her. “What is your name?”
“Jem,” she says with a curtsy, then spits out, “Your Majesty.”
“Well, Jem”—I say her name as sarcastically as I can; if she can be rude, I can certainly dish it back—“why did you want to drink from the cup?”
She scoffs. “As if you have to ask.”
“Exactly my point.” Which is all they're getting from me on the subject. There's no way I'm telling them more.
“I heard you staved off an attacker,” says the grandmotherly woman. Why she wanted to be queen is beyond me. She has so many wrinkles, her time as the ruler would be short—if she made it in the first place. Now I suppose she won’t know. It's just as well for her.