The War Queen

by Jane Merkley

  “So some prayers were intentionally left quiet?”

  “Some prayers have always been intentionally left quiet. I don’t speak of those enduring these last sixteen years. I speak of everyone who has crossed every bridge ever given them.”

  Herten was numbed to his soul with all this revelation that only himself and Good Priest Chalyn were blessed to hear. The room stilled then, Gildeon drinking slowly to allow the sharp truth of things to sooth back over. Then there was a harsh rap on the door.

  “Good Priest!” A young female acolyte burst into the room, her bare feet skidding to a stop at the rung. She remembered just in time to bow. “The city guard just delivered message that Niesh has been attacked by an unidentifiable army!”

  Both priests sat up straight and Gildeon swiveled in his chair to look at her.

  “They arrived on fifteen ships on Niesh’s shore!” she continued in a controlled rush. “The city guard wants everyone to relocate to the underground shelters immediately.”

  “My priestesses!” Herten laid a thin hand on his chest. “I need to get back to Niesh!” But peace overcame him when Gildeon put a hand on his arm.

  “They’ve closed the road, Good Priest. The guards will not let you.”

  “Thank you, Mayn. We will be out shortly.”

  The door closed.

  “Gildeon,” spoke Chalyn. His clothes rustled and a chair creaked as he stood. “Go to farmer Raelender’s house and collect Priest Herten’s horse. Bring the horse into the temple.”

  “Jurdon?”

  But Gildeon did not question. Of course he wouldn’t. The door opened and closed.

  “What trouble are you getting me into, Jurdon?” Herten put down his half drunken mug on the table, nearly missing putting it on the edge.

  “I’m getting you to Niesh.” Herten, of course, could not see Chalyn’s smile, but Chalyn had learned long ago how to put facial expressions into his words.

  Herten stood and began to pace the room restlessly, his body saying he should take it easy instead. He hadn’t been pacing very long when the clop of horse hooves resounded in the echoing halls of the temple. The door opened and closed.

  “What next, Good Priest?”

  There was pressure on Herten’s arm. “Follow me as swiftly as you can,” said Chalyn.

  Herten followed the pull of his arm. They left the room and the two old priests hustled through the temple as swiftly as one of their age could go, the steady clop of horse hooves following behind.

  Herten was pulled left, and right, up a short flight of stairs, and then down a longer set. The air became increasingly chiller and smelled more strongly of deep, dark places. There was a scratching sound, and Herten smelled sulfur and smoke. They must have gone down deep enough to require light then, which of course made no difference to Herten.

  Finally, they stopped.

  “Before you is an underground passage,” Chalyn explained, a little breathless. “It’s twenty-six miles long and pin straight. If it hasn’t collapsed, that is. There are no other turns or intersections, or doors, except the one door at the very end, which will lead into the undertemple at Niesh.”

  “A passage connecting the two temples?” Herten inquired with astonishment.

  “In the Old Wars, the barons who lived in each of these castles – temples, I mean, temples – were allies and did much dealings together to slight the king. Of course, it was illegal and so they had to do it secretly.”

  “Brilliant. All these years and I’ve never known.”

  “No one is supposed to know. That’s the point. Gildeon said he will go with you, as he thinks this foreign army did not invade for mortal desires.”

  Gildeon put his hand on Herten’s arm to reassure him of his presence. Something was pressed into Herten’s hand. A bag?

  “Food and water,” said Chalyn. “Now be gone, Pathius. Go with Gildeon.” He chuckled. “Literally, I guess now. Sorry, habit.”

  He must have directed this last to the sixteen year old boy, because with Gildeon’s hand still resting on Herten’s arm, he felt it rise slightly as if in a shrug.

  “Thank you, Jurdon. I hope you fare well and find a safe place to hide amid this strange disaster.”

  Chalyn made a sputtering sound. “As if I have anything left to live for. I’ve about reached the end, friend. Don’t take the bed away from me.”

  Herten smiled and mounted his horse. But he supposed his friend was right. It was becoming quite a chore getting up and down the equally old horse’s back. With a wave Herten hoped was still in Chalyn’s direction, he tapped his horse who plodded grumpily forward.

  They traveled for a time. Herten counted the horse’s thumps in the dirt until he hit the average amount he knew to be a mile. Then he counted out five miles. He usually stopped Shar about three times along their usual route to water and rest, but there was not enough water in his bag for a horse and his sense of urgency to reach his temple made him tap Shar forward again who had stopped, expecting a break. Then Herten heard Gildeon talking gently to the horse. Herten didn’t know what he was saying to him – mostly just calming noises, he presumed – but whatever he said to the horse, the reins slacked some in Herten’s hands as the horse raised his head higher than his usual stoop and his steps picked up just a little bit faster.

  “What did you do?” asked Herten, astounded.

  “I instilled in him a memory of when he was young and spry and chasing the fillies. It will last until the end of this tunnel. I could instill such thoughts into you, too, if you like.”

  “And miss this very memory I am making? Of course not. That would be like tearing a page out of my book. But thank you for your consideration of my weariness.”

  Jaryd woke to a terrible creaking of door hinges. He sat up, Lorn twisting in unsettled sleep who was still leaned against him.

  The door across the chamber in the dim light opened slowly, revealing flickering torch light coming through. Jaryd’s heart racing, he climbed out of the crate quietly and covered Lorn in the blankets to hide her. He pulled his knife and hid behind four barrels of water, watching the door. He was confident he could dispose of three, but would have to run if there were any more. He was closer to the stairs than they would be, so he could make it and hope Lorn did nothing to reveal herself.

  The door opened wider slowly – the hinges were apparently very stuck. Then with a final burst, the door popped fully open. It was a boy of about sixteen years holding a torch. He came into the undertemple and right behind plodded in an old horse with an equally old man dressed in the white robes of a temple priest.

  Jaryd concluded they must be civilians in hiding like himself and had found a passage to his location. The boy said something in a low voice to the old priest. Jaryd thought he should introduce himself and see if he could be of any assistance. He stood.

  “Hello.”

  The boy and priest looked up.

  “Who are you?” Jaryd asked.

  “Well, I know who you are Jaryd,” said the boy. “Do you not know who I am?”

  Jaryd stuttered at the boy’s accurate guess of his name. The boy walked toward the stairs, leaving the torch in the sconce there, and pattered up the stairs without another word.

  The pew titled back. He held its weight so it rested gently on the floor. He finished his climb and stepped into a dimly lit chapel room. Lines of wooden pews rested beneath narrow slits of windows which looked more suited for firing arrows out than letting light in, but they were up so high that not even that could have been achieved.

  Aside from sounds of the army outside trying to gain entry, Gildeon could see nor hear any other signs of life. But a warm glow did come from the antechamber behind the chapel hall to his right.

  He glanced inside and found three priestesses kneeling in a thick pool of soft white wax, holding hands with heads bowed and murmuring.

  He had come in quietly but the priestess with short black hair across from him lifted her head. Directly after, the other
two followed her motion so three pairs of eyes were fixed on him.

  “Gildeon?” The priestess across from him questioned in disbelief, and he noted a gentle shine of tears creeping across her lower eyelids.

  How did she know? But then, how could a faithful heart to his name not know the face of Gildeon no matter how he appeared?

  Breathless, Miraha stood along with her sisters. Understanding hovered at the edges of their eyes but they did not yield quite the same shine which Miraha had pooling down in tears of conviction.

  “Miraha,” the sixteen year old boy declared, then turned and called each of the sisters by name. “Your prayers will save the future.”

  Mutual Feelings

  Hour two approached and still no word had passed between them since the city square. Both their fingers were clenched and they were leaning away from each other so as not to accidently make contact.

  There were some cells in the castle dungeon, but most of them had been cleared away to reveal a large open space with hundreds of hooks in the floor where prisoners were bound instead. Some old king had thought the individual cell walls were taking up valuable space where more prisoners could occupy. This large section of dungeon also served vital for a quick deposit of massive amounts of prisoners at once. Not every hook in the floor was occupied, but a portion of them were by poor Blindvarns and Ruids who were simply taking a holiday.

  Athenya guards walked the chamber, unshackling those with bowel complaints where they were escorted away and brought back, another guard standing near the remaining shackled partner with a cross bow on them.

  Altarn’s neck was on fire from straining it as far as she could go. She had thought the distance from Blindvar to Ruidenthall was still too close to Byrone and he clearly thought the same. Unbidden, thoughts of their journey together rammed into her gut like a fist so she had to continue to swallow anticipated bile from the shear horror of that reality.

  I hate my life.

  She could feel him breathe with steady lifts on their shared cuffs as he inhaled. Over time, his breathing began to sound angry. Altarn had questions of her own. She wondered who would break first.

  Byrone.

  “You whoring goat mother!” His voice echoed and caused Altarn’s guards who were close by to look his way.

  “Well that’s an insult you hadn’t used yet. Way to continue to be creative.”

  “I can’t believe I shared my saddle with you and… kissed you.” He ran over the word kissed as quickly as he could. As if it would rid the experience, he spit.

  “If you recall, Byrone, you were the one all three times who put me in your saddle against my own protests,” she responded with no less seethe in her voice. “And you kissed me! Two times I told you this could not continue and three times I tried to get rid of you, so you have no one to blame but yourself. I wanted nothing to do with you. Apparently, my instincts are better than yours.”

  “And we soaked in the hot pools together and…” He stopped, physically trying not to implode. “And you want to war my state!”

  “Because you were trying to steal a portion of my state.” Her own voice was rising but she forced herself to calm. “What were you doing in Luthsinia, anyway?”

  “What makes you think you’ve earned answers from me? Don’t think that because I’m forcibly chained to you makes you privileged.”

  “You were in Luthsinia to spy on me!” Altarn thought on it for two seconds, but there was no other explanation. “You waited for a female to cross over from Blindvar, thinking you could woo her into giving you answers. And when you saw that my tags said I was from the Lady’s very house, you stuck with me to learn more about Altarn.”

  He made nonsensical noises behind her. But his failure to form a different answer only confirmed her accusation. He sat up straight to relieve his sore neck from leaning away from her, and still had no reply.

  Altarn almost got up and danced. Since her current binding prevented it, she flexed her shoulders and opened her mouth to shout silently in triumph. She was proud of her subconscious instincts. This was the second time it proved her right.

  She reveled in her victory in semi-contained silence a good moment before mounting up to speak again.

  “You said Byrone was fat.”

  “You said you were a servant.”

  “Do you really wear a the belldew flower pendant under your armor?”

  His response was a painful creaking on her fingers closest to his reach from his cuff. Altarn grunted and tried to retaliate but her fingers were too short.

  “How about you think about this army which is taking over your Blindvar instead of asking stupid questions,” Byrone barked.

  He was right. It was obviously not Byrone’s army – obviously. There were other land masses outside of Endendre but the need to discover strange new places had not inspired anyone yet. Perhaps they had come from there? What interest would they have on Endendre?

  Altarn wasn’t about to divulge any of this to Byrone who was likewise keeping his own thoughts private.

  Her neck hurt so badly from trying to keep her distance from him. Strange how just earlier that day she was going to miss sharing his saddle. Miss sharing Byrone’s saddle… The thought threatened bile in her throat again. It was too much to think on all the little things they had said and done together. She wanted to sit up to relieve the pain. And Gildeon she was tired. If she could lean against him…

  No! Don’t break! So she suffered in silence. But a man with girthy shoulders did not make him limber while his hands were restrained behind him, so very soon, she felt him bump against her back and then quickly recover with a mumbled something.

  Altarn sighed and some demented part of her felt bad for the man. Perhaps females were as fickle as men claimed. No sooner would females receive an insult than they forgave and forgot. She felt she was better than him, for she never returned her own demeaning letters.

  “Byrone… I will put my bias aside long enough for you to lean against me and sleep. I do owe you, after all, for the many times you let me sleep in your saddle.” She was surprised when he did not grumble at the reminder. “I know your neck hurts just as badly as mine.”

  He didn’t respond. She half wondered if he was still there.

  “Fine,” she heard him say softly.

  Slowly, he leaned back until he connected, and moved even slower as he lowered his head onto her shoulder, accompanied at the end with a heavy sigh which told that he would hate every moment of this necessity.

  Twice Imprisoned

  A smattering of feet echoing about the underground chamber woke her, which likewise woke Byrone who sat pin straight up. The guards that patrolled the chamber were gone. There were some grunts and scuffles coming from down the corridor, and then silence. Then an orange glow began in the corridor, growing like a blossoming flower. The torch bearer appeared, followed by three others. They were wearing the Athenya guard uniforms. Altarn did not recognize them as the ones that were usually about.

  But Byrone did.

  “Kendall! Over here!”

  The three guards swished into the room as swift and silent as a breeze. One of them knelt beside Byrone and produced a hammer and nail.

  “Lean forward and rest your cuffs on the floor,” he commanded quietly.

  They did so. Kendall set the nail into the key hole and with one clean stroke, struck the nail. The cuffing mechanism broke into pieces and clattered loudly to the stone.

  “What’s going on?” Altarn stood and dusted herself off, looking frantically about for any guards who might have heard the unrest in the chamber.

  Byrone joined the three men and spun around to her. “Unlike you, I had my guards follow me at a safe distance. You can thank me for your freedom if you wish, but it is only because we happened to be sharing the same cuff. Good luck with running this army out of Blindvar.” He ran after his guards who were almost to the corridor.

  Her stomach knotted at the reality of what he said, and it ha
d nothing to do with the clear fact he would not help her. “Leave the hammer and nail!” she shouted after them.

  She heard a dull clang on the floor as the guards disappeared with their light down the stony hallway.

  Altarn ran to where she heard the sound, tripping over another unfortunate couple chained to the floor. She went to her knees and groped around for the hammer.

  “It’s right here!” whispered a voice to her left, and the speaker kicked the hammer to her.

  She looked around for the nail but was wasting time looking for it in the dark.

  “Who has a hair pin?” she shouted as quietly as she could but with enough projection as to reach out to those about her. Several females answered. The female who had kicked the hammer also responded.

  Altarn dug her fingers into the young girl’s hair until she found one. “I’ll come back and free you,” Altarn promised, then stumbled back toward Jasper. Her eyes were adjusting to the dark and she was able to make the journey without damage to anyone in her path.

  “Jasper!”

  “Here!”

  She came to her knees beside him and fitted the hair pin in the lock, held it firmly, and struck down with the hammer. The pin bent a little but did not yield destruction on the cuffs. Steadying her anxious fingers, she struck again with extra effort toward making it count. To her profound relief, the cuff broke, but they had to pry Jasper’s partner out with a little more vigor because his cuffs had not completely detached.

  She worried over the pin and if she’d be able to free the rest of her guards. They watched her anxiously.

  “Go look for the nail!” she told Jasper. He took off immediately to where she had found the hammer.

  She looked at the hair pin in her hand in dismay. “Does anyone else have a hair pin?” She bit her lip when several other females called out, knowing that they were hoping that the hair pin would buy them freedom, but Altarn had already promised the first girl freedom and didn’t have time to free every girl she borrowed a hair pin from.