by C B Samet
Baird and I watched as waitstaff poured wine. We declined politely and requested water. The waitstaff obliged. I noted the drinks they poured were from the same carafe as the King’s court. It seemed we were all consuming beverages from the same source, so my fear of poisoning subsided. I’d also beseeched Mal to spy in the kitchen off and on, to ensure no dubious events were underway with regard to the food service.
The room filled with chatter, mostly in Bellosian so I didn’t understand any of it. Baird listened intently, no doubt comprehending it with use of his Language Stone.
Bowls, filled with a yellow-orange soup with green vegetables, were placed before us. I tried a spoonful. Squash soup? It tasted delicious and warmed my core.
“Lady Cross, I noticed the exquisite ink on your palm. Is there a story behind the star?” the King asked.
Is there ever.
“A decorative tattoo,” I simplified. We weren’t on trustworthy grounds for me to reveal how the star was the source of my ability to transport myself.
He smiled a warm, fatherly type of smile. “I notice Professor Potts has a similar star. Does it connect you two in matrimony?”
I coughed and choked on my soup.
“Are you father and daughter?” Stout amended his questions.
“Pardon, King Artemis,” Baird began, masterfully pretending to ignore my sputtering. “We should have clarified during formal introductions. We are but friends.”
It was not so much of a stretch to imagine Baird and I might be family—wed or otherwise. We both had the vibrant blue eyes from the Aqua Santos. We both had the Star Traveler’s tattoo. In addition, Porter would have likely told his father that Baird and I had been on the volcanic island together. As close of friends as we were after nearly two decades, a perceptible intimacy between us existed. Coco grudgingly perceived it.
“Ah. I see,” the King said, but something calculating churned behind his murky eyes.
Mal wandered among the crowd, but instead of spying, he watched the table where I sat. I could hear this conversation; I needed him listening to the others. I gave him an expectant stare until he turned and left.
King Artemis looked to Baird. “Perhaps the historian and cultural connoisseur could gift us with a tale. You have some stories of a powerful evil that has plagued your lands? I have read there were seven Champions on Crithos. Perhaps you could tell us a story of triumph.”
Not mine, I cautioned Baird.
Yours is the greatest of all. My favorite. One of the best I know. But you’re right; we must be cautious what we tell this king.
He reeks of ambition, I said.
By most accounts there were seven Champions, though documented literature was sparse. Six Champion statues stood in the Queen’s court, and I wasn’t yet immortalized by a statue (thank the stars). There was Marc Stallik, Mary Quigley, Ipso Kon, Candice Ntaca, Julius Clark, and Kal Plonk. Mal had once told me the first Champion had actually been Isabel Dallik, his mother and the Avant Counsel—and that somehow Dallik became Stallik in an inadvertent misspelling during transcription, and the imagery changed with it. Without a surviving, substantiated written record, no one could correct the history.
Baird began, “The fourth Champion was a fierce dark-skinned woman from Ntajid. Her name was Candice Ntaca. She’d been among the elite Ntraba—a royal princess, as it were. Half of her tribe was wiped out when Malos’ forces attacked. Legend says Malos fights with an army of wolves as big as horses, warriors as tall as giants, and birds as deadly as a swarm of wasps.”
Baird had witnessed these creatures with his own eyes, but anyone who hadn’t seen them wouldn’t believe they existed. It was better he spin the story like a tale, rather than truth.
Baird alternated between Crithian and Bellosian languages, translating his own words, as most of the tables around us quieted to listen.
“When Princess Ntaca and Malos met on the battlefield outside the Ntajid springs, Malos took the form of a dark purple fire-breathing dragon with glowing red eyes. She fought bravely, using two sais to slice through his thick, iridescent scales. When the dragon swallowed her whole, she used her last dying strength to stab through his gullet and into his heart.”
Such was the strength of Crithos, I thought. If the King threatened our country, we’d use our last dying breath to bring him down.
“Intriguing.” The King picked up his wine goblet and drank.
“Prince Stout doesn’t join us for dinner?” the Queen asked. She cut a very small piece of meat and ate it.
“He’s resting.”
The Queen blinked several times. “Is he well? We gave him our best guest room at the castle, and the finest food.”
“Yes, he said the accommodations were most generous, Queen Rebekah. The excitement of it all has left him weary.”
A glint of darkness shown in Artemis’ eyes when he discussed his son. Was he annoyed that the Prince had trespassed on Crithian soil? Or annoyed he’d been caught?
The conversation drifted to more benign discussions of weather, and wildlife, and health.
12
MALAKAI
The dining hall flourished with expansive rows of tables, filled with court members, dignitaries, and politicians. The bourgeoisie wore fine cotton and shimmering satin. Merry faces were painted with rouge and eyes sparkled with the consumption of spirits. On a stage off to one side, a quartet of violins played.
Snake Eyes had been bored at the prospect of spying on people rather than stealing their jewels, so he’d chosen not to join me this evening. He’d floated off to roam the castle and look for a vault of riches like Queen Rebekah had at Marrington castle.
The scene in the dining hall reminded me of the many royal parties hosted by my mother in our castle in Karnelik. We’d had such splendid parties in the castle—wine, music, dancing, and plays. I suspected the celebrations had been great to counteract the terrible war in which the world had been entrenched for so long. At those events, everyone could forget the suffering spreading through the world with no end in sight.
I’d danced with many women at those parties—many of them wealthy women, born and raised to make royalty swoon for them. But only one woman, Anastasia, had my heart in the last year before my transformation. Anastasia hadn’t been a noblewoman or of royal blood. Instead, she’d been a soldier in my father’s army. When she’d worn her battle armor and practiced sword fighting in the courtyard, she was rousingly fierce. When she’d dressed in her green gown—the color of dragonfly wings—for the castle celebrations, she was breathtakingly beautiful.
After she’d left to join Karnelik’s forces in one last, great stand against Bellos, I took the plunge to become Malos and absorb evil. On my deathbed, I’d at least glimpsed the future—and with it, the knowledge that my actions saved her life. A peace treaty stopped the battle before a drop of blood had been spilled. Anastasia found love, had children, and enjoyed a long life.
Since then, I hadn’t given much thought to women… until Abigail. Now, I lurked in her life—and dancing at parties wasn’t in our future.
My role tonight wasn’t to enjoy the festivities—not that I could anyway. Nor was it to romanticize the past. I walked unseen among the Bellosians to spy—the world’s greatest spy, according to Abigail. I would eavesdrop on the conversations of the Bellosians.
My gaze fell on the procession of Crithians entering the room. At the sight of Abigail in a flowing, blue gown, my heart fluttered. Her long, dark hair tumbled in waves over her shoulders and back. She looked stunning as the dress accentuated her blue eyes. Her goal of not appearing as a warrior had been achieved; she was all smooth skin and delicate curves. Yet her “disguise” had half of the men in the room salivating. She walked with the Queen, Baird, and several others to the table with King Artemis. The King had greeted the Queen and introductions passed before everyone took their seats.
I scanned the room for the Prince as I shook my head. The Queen behaved far too diplomatically in my opinion. S
he should have held Prince Porter against his will and made his release contingent upon the King’s oath to leave Crithos alone. Unfortunately, such strong-arm techniques probably wouldn’t have worked anyway. It likely would have given them justification to spur Bellosians toward invasion of Crithos with more zeal.
I realized Abigail stared expectantly at me. Right. Espionage. I left dignitaries’ conversations on trading posts and port cities to check the kitchen. When I was satisfied no signs of foul food preparation were evident, I returned to the dining hall to eaves drop on others’ discussions.
As I sauntered around the room, I heard talk of the weather, and baking, and gossip of infidelity. Apparently, slavery and prostitution were legal on Bellos—evident by discussions of the rising cost of both.
Murmurs about the visitors from Crithos suggested the Queen’s presence was received as an “unwelcome surprise,” a “sign of desperation” and wouldn’t affect the “inevitable outcome” of being “colonized” by the King of Bellos.
“They’re savages, don’t you know?” One thin woman with a beak-like nose said.
“Are they?” The husky male companion beside her sipped his wine.
“Oh, yes. I read in the gazette that they’re far behind modern times. And they hoard resources. Bellos needs access to their ore and silver.”
“I’ve heard they have magical healing waters.”
At another table, a woman fidgeted with her napkin. “What do you make of those blue eyes those two Crithians have? Why, they’re practically glowing. It’s not natural.”
“Honestly dear, no one is looking at that woman’s eyes.”
Although I couldn’t argue with the man’s statement of Abigail, I wanted to slap him upside his head for saying such a thing.
The woman beside him continued, “Maybe they’re demons.”
I wandered back, closer to Abigail’s table. There were no secrets to be discovered in this gathered gaggle of geese—only judgment and ignorance.
The King addressed Baird, “Sir Potts, enlighten me as to the meaning of the markings on your palm. Lady Cross has something similar I see. Is it symbolic of something? We’ve already established it isn’t matrimony.”
Abigail’s lashes fluttered in surprise at the question. Baird remained pleasantly unfazed. King Artemis’ earlier question about Baird and Abigail’s relationship wasn’t an outlandish one. Why weren’t the two of them together? He adored her, without a doubt. He’d followed her on numerous quests, trained her in the art of combat, and helped raise her children in Joshua’s absence.
“The star is a symbol of our friendship,” Baird explained.
True, I thought. The stars not only enabled them to travel, often to see each other, but the magical mental connection enabled them to talk only to each other. Well, almost exclusively to each other. I could eavesdrop on their conversation, much to Abigail’s chagrin.
Abigail cast a long look in my direction, before turning her gaze to the plate of noodles before her. I cocked my head to one side, intrigued by her distress, but unable to guess her quandary. I waited for her to look at me again. Was there something she wanted me to do? What had she wanted to convey with her expression?
She stared at the etchings on her goblet of wine, as though the symbols held great words of wisdom. She took a sip, still intent on not looking at me.
I could get closer and speak with her, but I knew she wouldn’t want that. If she inadvertently answered my question, she’d either appear crazy—or alert them to an unseen guest at their dinner.
As she drank, her throat bobbed lightly. My eyes wandered to the smooth, white skin exposed by her low-cut dress. The contour of her clavicle extended out to the roundness of her shoulder. Her neck, long and smooth, connected seamlessly with her angulated jaw. Her cheekbones angled gorgeously toward her evenly tapered nose. My gaze came back to her lips—round and supple appearing. What wondrous sensation to taste those lips.
“Is it hot in here?” A nasally woman’s voice pierced my concentration.
I looked down at the woman, seated beside me as I stood. She pulled a fan out of her bosom and began fanning herself.
Emerald—that crafty advisor to the King—snapped his gaze in the direction of the woman. His eyes searched as though looking for something… or someone.
As I opened and closed my hands, I felt the heat they generated. I turned and left the room to cool my fervor.
13
ABIGAIL
After the three-hour-long ordeal of grazing on strange food and making conversation, I accompanied the Queen back to her room. Two Crithian guards walked behind us, and two in front.
Baird had left to go to his room for rest. I’d take the first shift on guard with the Queen, and he’d relieve me after midnight.
I rolled my shoulders to ease the stiffness from sitting so long. The evening’s socialization reminded me of why castle life and court politics held no interest to me. Every conversation seemed simultaneously bland, and yet like a dance with daggers as the King and Queen tried to tease information from the other based on expressions, reactions, and unspoken words.
“You’re uncharacteristically quiet, Abigail.”
I glanced at the Queen. “I’m trying to digest everything. I’m also trying to decide if the knots in my stomach are the result of the liver I tasted, or the distrust I have of the King.”
When we reached her quarters, the two male Crithian guards remained outside her door, and two female guards took positions just inside the room.
The Queen began taking off her jewelry and laying the pieces on the white and gold vanity table. A fresh glass of water sat on the table, and her bed sheets had been turned down.
I inspected the room—behind the curtains, in the cabinets, and under the bed. The room had two chambers—dressing room and bedroom. Candles and lanterns gave a soft glow along walls, painted green and gold.
“I think Baird and I revealed too much when we first fought Porter on the island. I’m sure he relayed my strength and our traveling ability to his father. King Artemis Stout took a keen interest in our stars.” I peered into the bathroom, but saw nothing of danger there either.
When the Queen stood, I walked over and helped her undress. I began with the numerous buttons on the back of her gown.
“The King has agreed to meet me tomorrow. I’ll coax out his intentions, and then we’ll leave,” she said.
“I like that plan.” I could remain in the meeting room with her during the conversation. At its conclusion, I’d transport her to safety—not to the ship, but directly back to Marrington Castle. Baird could start bringing the guards back home as soon as the Queen’s safety was secured. Lastly, we’d move the ship.
I helped Queen Rebekah out of her dress and gingerly situated it over the mannequin in the corner. If time permitted, I might retrieve her impractical wardrobe.
“Abigail.”
When I turned back to the Queen, her hair tumbled down in long white ringlets. She wore her undergarments and looked the nearest to grandmotherly I’d ever seen her.
Stepping forward, she placed a cool hand against my cheek. “Never have I trusted anyone with my life or my country more than you.”
My throat grew thick at her words.
“Thank you for everything. If you’d ever wanted the throne, I would’ve entrusted it to you. But you’re far more effective at change without such confinements or constraints.”
I gave a slight bow.
“You’re more important than me, Abigail. If you’re presented with a choice—my life or yours—you must choose your own.”
I shook my head. What nonsense was this? “We leave together. Tomorrow.” I kept my voice hard.
I walked to the door. “I’ll return after I’ve changed.”
I walked in long strides back to my room. Was the Queen growing senile? Why the uncharacteristic sentimentality?
My room consisted of a simple, single bedroom with water basin. It had a single window co
vered by a thick, crimson drape.
As soon as I shut and locked my door, I rushed to change out of my absurdly constricting formal gown and into cotton slacks and cotton tunic. I strapped on my sword and dagger.
“Mal?”
He appeared beside me. “You always summon me after you’re dressed. Your timing is abhorrent.”
“This was a mistake.”
“You’re worried.” Mal’s tone sobered.
“Both Baird and I shouldn’t have come. We’re too much magic in one place and raise too much suspicion. Did you hear Baird spouting the depth of our friendship? A King of his greedy aspirations needn’t know connections like that.”
I pulled on my boots and left the room.
Walking down the corridor, I took the series of lefts and rights to get back to the Queen’s room. “And returning Porter, who’s been a guest and a spy in the castle for a week, was a mistake.” I turned to look at Mal. “He’s seen Baird’s and my ability to transport. Now the King knows I’m someone of importance to the Queen.”
I resumed walking, Mal keeping pace beside me.
“What will you do?”
“She’s a meeting with the King tomorrow. I’ll guard her until then, and then get her to safety.”
“No.” His tone sharpened. “Danger closes around us now.”
I stopped walking. The quiet stillness of the hallways formed an icy lump in the pit of my stomach.
“Mal, what do you sense?”
“I don’t know.” The concern in his voice raised my level of alarm higher. “I can’t see anything.”
I knew he referred to the present and immediate future. Dread spurred me into a run.
Baird, I called.
Yes?
To the Queen’s chamber. Something is wrong.
When I reached the door, I saw two bodies crumpled on the floor. Crithian guards. The Queen’s sentries lay dead.
Abigail, I need directions.