by Jill M Beene
Artem swore it would have been when Samiris was arrested for horse-thieving. Samiris decided it would have been when the fancy plume of Artem’s helmet got stuck in the low-hanging branches of a tree and she would have been the one to cut him loose. It was a world of their own making and they spent hours there, deciding that they would have eventually married, moved into the estate at Faro, and had children.
“Two boys and two girls,” Artem said.
Samiris blushed, then elbowed him roughly in the side. “Greedy. Two boys, and that’s plenty. Girls are far too much trouble.”
Although she was tired, she didn’t want to sleep. Sleep somehow seemed redundant to her, considering. The Questioning was at noon tomorrow. The hours of her life had once felt endless in the presumptuous haze of youth. Now, they were no more than a few rocks rattling in the bottom of a jar.
“Keep making the real world better,” she finally whispered, tears tracking down her cheeks. “Instead of trying to protect people from the world, change the world so people no longer need protection.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Samiris didn’t wear the shell dress that Gia laid out for her. She was bathed; Aster had braided her hair up off her face in a single, simple length. Samiris reached for the dress, held the shimmering thing in her hands, let the lengths of fabric slide through her fingers with a merry tinkling sound.
“Send it to Tamrah,” Samiris finally said. “It’s too pretty to burn, and I’ll not dress up for my own execution.”
The rightness of the decision settled in her gut like a comforting weight. Samiris dressed quickly in her breeches, tunic and old leather boots, strapping her axes to her back like she had done thousands of times before.
Samiris wanted to show that her time in Teymara had broadened her horizons, but it had not fundamentally changed her. And if she were being honest with herself, she wanted to make the court feel uncomfortable one last time. She would not parade before them in a dress to make them feel better.
It was quiet when she reached the throne room. She stood on top of the dais as she had been instructed, then a slight pull in her stomach told her it was time. Everyone was dressed in blacks and greys- funeral shades as bleak as the winter sky outside the windows.
Samiris could hear her own footsteps above the beating of her heart. Her eyes flicked from the Empress Dowager, who looked mournful, to the Crown Prince, who blew his nose into a hanky, to Artem’s face, harsh and beautiful in his pain. His eyes met hers. Artem gave her a soft, watery smile and she smiled back. She hoped he would remember the world they had invented together. She hoped he would work hard to bring that world to life without her.
She paused. A beam of golden light enveloped Samiris and the faces of those watching were shrouded in darkness. Samiris crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her chin. She had been told what was coming. A mystical sound, like the ringing of a thousand shimmering chimes, echoed in the room.
“Samiris Vanover Orellana, do you love?”
The voice was feminine. It was at once enraging and perfect, fathomless and familiar, old and young. It sounded like the howling of the wind, and of the ocean’s inexorable tide. It felt familiar, somehow.
“Yes, I do,” Samiris said, her eyes on Artem’s outline.
The light that encompassed her burned brighter, like the sun cresting the mountains at dawn. Samiris could see less of the crowd around her now. She was singled out, alone.
The flawless voice said, “Samiris Vanover Orellana, who do you love?”
There were murmurs of surprise all around her, and Samiris knew that many had thought she would be dead by now, that they never would hear the second question.
Samiris grinned recklessly. This was the part she hadn’t told anyone. But why follow the rules if the rules were going to get her killed, anyway? If she was going to die here, she damned well wouldn’t die a liar.
She lifted her chin. “I love Artem Elysius Trego, Duke of Malon and Captain of the Royal Guard.”
Gasps, all around her, like little gusts of wind. At least she had told the truth. At least she would die with a smile on her face, albeit a trembling one.
The beam of light grew brighter and brighter. Samiris wondered how much it would hurt, whether she would be able to refrain from screaming. Every other lady before her had cried out, but she was not them. She was not a Northern lady, a flower planted in rich soil whose upturned face had only seen gentle sunlight. No, she was of the darkest part of the woods, the part that has been battered again and again by rain and shadows but still stands...
“Samiris Vanover Orellana, will you marry your love?”
Samiris jerked as if struck by lightning, her heart pounding. She hadn’t prepared an answer for this, the third question that no one had ever heard. So what came out wasn’t well-thought or planned.
She snorted. “If he asks me properly.”
The magical thread snapped.
The blindfold was pulled from everyone’s eyes. The crowd stood blinking, as if they had just emerged from a dark room into blinding sunlight. Things that had been hidden were revealed; realities that had been twisted were released. The story that they had all believed was false; like fog lifting, the truth was unveiled...
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Teymara, fifteen years ago….
Evanora was beautiful, but her true gift was her crafty mind. She knew her father, the fae king, was beginning to be suspicious of her affinity for the land of men. She knew that he grew impatient at her long absences, her incessant questions, her persistent interest in the human’s culture. Evanora knew he was thinking of closing the fae borders once and for all, to keep her from them.
“Humans are flighty beasts,” he would say, looking down the impressive length of his nose. “I don’t know what you expect to gain from visiting their lands. There is nothing for you in their world. Focus on your studies, Evanora.”
Her studies… the endless staring at the stars and planets, trying to divine meaning from the slow-changing cosmos. Evanora was a stark comparison to the great examples of fae studiousness, those few fae scholars who had sat so still for so long while studying the skies that they turned to polished stone where they sat, their faces forever turned toward the sky. Evanora would rather set her hair on fire to relieve the tedium. Anything other than more years spent focusing into the great cosmic expanse above.
Her father may not have understood it, but humans were vastly amusing. Humans were born, bloomed and faded in the same amount of time it took the average fae to complete the first level of studies. Humans quarreled endlessly with one another, picking fights, waging wars, taking land from one another only to lose it again the next century.
And their lives were in constant flux. Humans were so fickle, so transitory, so changing. One moment they loved one, a year later they pledged troth to another. They dreamt and fought and wrote stupid poetry and put on plays and cooked for the joy of eating. They dressed themselves more for aesthetic pleasure than for warmth, and were easily impressed by polished bits of earth.
After centuries cloistered away in the dreary halls of learning in the land of the fae, Evanora was finished with her own kind. She hatched a plan, a plan to rule the greatest city of the greatest land of men. Once she bedded the Crown Prince, she would be in control, a falcon ruling over an endless supply of trained mice. It helped that the current Crown Prince was so very delicious. She had enjoyed and discarded many human lovers, but he might be enough to keep her from killing him immediately after. At least until he handed over his crown...
“Artem, darling,” she cooed, her fingers trailing over the back of a velvet settee. “You know what I want.”
The Crown Prince crossed his impressive arms over his chest and stood with his legs braced apart. He was frowning.
“Princess Evanora,” Artem said, his tone light. “I don’t recal
l inviting you to my chambers.”
Evanora smirked. “You know human locks don’t keep me out.”
“What happened to the guards?”
“They were sleeping,” she said, her eyes round with feigned innocence.
Artem sighed and ran a hand through his hair. His crown was already off--it lay on his bed where he’d carelessly tossed it; his fur-trimmed mantle was strewn across a chair.
“Princess, charming though you are, I don’t have time for games this evening. I have a meeting with one of my scholars. I beg you to excuse me. Perhaps you will join me for a walk in the gardens tomorrow morning instead?”
Evanora pouted and flicked her red hair over a shoulder. “Artem, my love. Stop playing games with me.” She approached him, and ran a finger down the buttons of his shirt. “I’m yours for the taking. How much plainer can I make it?”
Artem stepped back. “Lovely though you are, I must decline.”
Fire flickered in Evanora’s eyes. “You reject me then? You will not take me as your lover?”
Artem chuckled, gave her a dazzling smile. “Forgive me, Princess, but I have heard rumors of what one night with a fae can do to a human. Tempting as you are, I fear I would succumb to your beauty and be under your control forever.”
He was charming; she’d give him that. But she hadn’t been scheming for well over a decade to be deterred by a polite refusal.
“You will not have me?” Evanora’s eyebrow arched. “Think of what we will accomplish together when we’re wed.”
“I am sorry. I will not. We are not meant to be.” His words were firm, final. “I would sooner give a servant the crown than hand it over to you.”
Evanora’s lips curled into a feline smile. “So be it.”
Her hand curled in front of her, a ball of light cupped in it. It expanded to encase her. She had been studying these past years, just not on the subject her tutors had instructed. Evanora had found the forbidden tomes of the fae, those on dark control, manipulations, exploitation… If Crown Prince Artem would not hand over his crown, she would make a powerful place for herself in his court.
Evanora began to chant. Artem was yelling and battering at the globe of light protecting her with his steel sword. But he was a fool. Only iron could harm fae. A moment later and they weren’t alone--another human was in the room, a fat one with a confused look on his face. He was clutching a book to his chest, looking at Evanora with wide, frightened eyes.
The fae had befriended the humans, long ago. There were certain gifts the human kingdom of Leiria had been given. The sea wall, the massive windows in the Emperor’s tower… and a protection for the crown. No one could take the crown for themselves, not by magic. So Evanora couldn’t just weave a spell that would make her Empress.
But she could give the crown to someone else...
With a devious chuckle, she slightly amended her spell. Just because Artem would not give her the crown, didn’t mean she would let him keep it. She would muddle all of the humans’ minds, give the crown to this fat scholar. She’d make Artem serve him. Not even Artem would realize an enchanted switch had been made.
She’d pull all of the land’s resources here, to serve her. And in her most devious act, Evanora would weave a cover story in which everyone would believe that she had been killed.
After all, no one looked for someone who they believed to be dead.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Present day-
“Evanora!” Artem roared.
He was striding down off the dais, his face contorted in fury, his sword unsheathed. The crowd skittered back from the authority in the Crown Prince’s voice. They lurched away from his target. The Empress Dowager’s lady in waiting threw her shoulders back.
How, Samiris thought, how did the fae princess hide in our midst this whole time?
“Do you remember what you said to me, Artem? You said that your manservant would be Emperor before you took me as your wife. Fool!” Princess Evanora crowed, her lips peeling back to reveal sharp, elongated canines. She was feral in her beauty, her face not quite human. “This curse may be lifted, but I am not through with you. I will not stop until this city is mine; until you all bow to me!”
Princess Evanora lifted an elegant hand, and a small, egg-shaped sphere of golden light appeared, cradled in her fingers. As Artem lifted his sword and swung, the light expanded to encase her, and Artem’s sword bounced off the barrier with a deafening clang. There were screams and panic as nobles tried to flee.
Steel cannot harm fae, Samiris thought.
Princess Evanora began to chant. Artem raised his sword again and his soldiers raced to join him. But Samiris’ hatchet was in her hand, and the balance was true. Samiris swung and released the weapon. It sailed through the sparkling magical barrier as if it weren’t there. The iron hatchet buried deep into Princess Evanora’s forehead with a wet-sounding thunk like the sound of a dropped melon.
Evanora fell. Samiris’ face was grim as she unsheathed her other axe. She stalked forward as Evanora tried to regain her feet. The rest of the royal court scattered like frightened birds in Samiris’ wake. The fae princess had just pushed herself to hands and knees when Samiris reached her, Samiris’ hatchet still buried grotesquely in her skull.
“You...” Evanora hissed.
But Samiris’ axe was already mid-arc. The blade separated Evanora’s head cleanly from her shoulders.
The axe was sharp. Samiris had found that it was essential to have a sharp axe.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Two months later...
Samiris was getting sick of people crying and waving. So she headed where she always went when she wanted to be left alone: her favorite barstool in Faro. Faro was a bustling little port once more these days, a good way-point for settlers looking to move South from Teymara and start a new life. New buildings were going up; old buildings were being torn down or fixed.
The whole nation was at it. Chaikine was green and fertile again; the Northern wolves had fled the forest around Teymara. There was life and breath and hope everywhere you looked, and underneath it all a fragile uncertainty and disbelief. The Empire of Leiria was like a child testing the thickness of ice upon a newly-frozen pond. They all had one foot stuck out into the future, leaning excitedly forward to see if this new existence would hold.
After the curse was broken, Samiris had done what she said she would if she were released from the Choosing. She had packed a bag the morning after the Questioning and ridden South as fast as her strong horse could take her, only stopping when fatigue threatened to swipe her from her saddle like a low-lying branch. But no matter how hard she rode, the good news seemed to arrive wherever she was going first.
Samiris couldn’t wait to see her father walk. She wished she could have been there when the curse was broken, wished she could have seen the strength flow back into his limbs like sap thawing in the great boughs of a mighty tree in the spring.
Samiris had reached her doorstep at dawn on the fifth day, crashing and staggering into the kitchen, half-drunk with exhaustion. Her father had scooped her up and carried her up to her room to rest. Samiris was not ashamed that she had cried like a baby in his arms the whole way.
Samiris rapped the wooden bar with her knuckles and ordered an ale. This was the only place, other than her own home, where she was not besieged and buffeted with waves of unwanted gratitude. Peg the bartender simply wouldn’t allow it. Whenever someone drank enough courage to approach Samiris, Peg gave them a look or swatted them away with a twisted dish towel.
It was a smart business maneuver on Peg’s part, really. Crowds followed Samiris wherever she went, but Samiris only wanted to be left alone. So Samiris was at the tavern a lot, and her crowd was with her, drinking Peg’s ale at a respectful distance. Even now, Samiris heard the whispers... “Liberator of Leiria” they called her. She wrin
kled her nose at the name.
Samiris felt as if a bubble of unearned notoriety surrounded her, and she wondered if this was how the Crown Prince felt. She winced, thinking of Artem. Yes, the curse was lifted, but he had so much to do to clean up all of the residual messes left behind by the magic… not to mention the fact that his Empire had been ruled by a scholar for the past fifteen years.
The Marquess of Brizelle’s properties were dispersed among the people of the Sands. Abandoned farms were being re-planted in Chaikine, and ships with emissaries and traders had already set sail across the Eastern sea. There was progress everywhere, but along with it came one administrative nightmare after another. Everyone had questions. Did laws passed by Fitzhumphrey during his rule still apply? Were old treaties with other nations still in effect if the leaders had changed?
That’s why Samiris had left the way she had. She had written a letter, pressed it into Artem’s hand, given a kiss to his cheek and a swift embrace to his midsection, then strode away. They both had responsibilities, and the world did not stop for love. When the nation was healed, perhaps there would be time for them then. Samiris hoped.
Samiris sipped the amber liquid of her apple ale, enjoying the crisp bite of the taste. A large body slid onto the stool next to hers.
“I would have been here sooner, but someone stole my horse,” Artem said, his voice low.
Samiris’ heart fluttered, and she grinned. “I told you I was going home with all possible haste. What part of ‘all possible haste’ didn’t you understand?”
Artem was here, here in Faro, on a barstool right next to hers. Her heart swelled within her chest. It was all she could do not to throw her arms around him. He was dressed plainly for a Crown Prince, crisp white shirt of the finest quality, navy breeches, polished boots.
“What are you doing here?” she finally asked, after Peg set a full glass in front of Artem and bustled away. Samiris saw Peg shooing everyone out, except for the four royal guards, then she closed the door behind her.