Nameless Queen

by Rebecca McLaughlin

  “Our names, our names,” they murmur as we pass.

  “Please, our names. Please.”

  I’ve seen these books before, stacked and organized at the library. I’ve seen newer copies in the hands of commerce keepers who march door-to-door every month. They are the population records used to tally the named citizens. The Nameless before us hold in their hands the names of strangers.

  Walking past them is like moving through a garden of sculptures, cold and empty. I can’t sense their auras.

  “You can do this,” an older woman says to me. “You, our queen. You can do this. Give us names.”

  Their voices flow around me, almost like the tide of an aura.

  “My queen…Our names…Please.”

  Their words haunt every piece of my heart.

  CHAPTER 17

  There has been so much violence, I’m startled to find people who are willing to stand in peaceful protest. They just want to be heard. And I want to listen.

  There is a group of people hunting the Nameless, a group of guards who refused to release Hat from prison despite a pardon from the sovereign herself, and a group who set deadly fires during my speech. There could be three distinct groups doing three separate terrible things. Or there’s just one. Who would be more organized and surreptitious than a rogue sect of Royal guards? And I know who will have answers.

  I find Belrosa at the archery range. She’s training the newer Royal Guard recruits. Even though Seriden hasn’t fought a war in over two centuries, long-range weaponry is still a required lesson.

  My first impression on entering the range is that it’s smaller than I expected. I thought there would be rows and rows of targets and maybe even moving targets. Instead it’s a relatively narrow building where everyone is shooting from the middle of the room down two long lanes, where hay bales are stacked with painted targets.

  Belrosa is critiquing someone’s form, lowering their elbow and talking about an anchor point. I don’t know what she’s saying, but I did learn how to shoot two years ago for a con Hat and I pulled on a group of visiting diplomats.

  “What do you think of the new guards, my lady?” Belrosa asks, putting her hands on her hips. Her aura ripples with pride.

  “I have a question for you,” I say. “You won’t like it.” I glance pointedly at the other guards.

  Belrosa squints, and her aura flashes with disdain. Nonetheless, she takes the hint and dismisses them, watching them disappear around the corner before she turns to me.

  “Gotten anyone else killed since the fires?” Belrosa asks.

  I tell myself not to lose my nerve or my patience.

  “What do you know about the missing Nameless?” I ask.

  Belrosa’s snide smile freezes. “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

  I pause. There’s something off about her aura, a creeping chill lingering like the first bite of an ocean storm. It’s like cold, gritty sand between my teeth.

  “Have any of your guards been acting suspicious lately?” I ask. I move to one of the standing quivers and run my fingers along the brown fletching of an arrow. “When I visited the victims of the fire today, some of them mentioned seeing soldiers dressed in gray.”

  Belrosa scoffs. “Gray is not the color of the Royal Guard. We wear red. It’s bold and easy to find. Strong. Gray is less than common. It’s barely the status of Legals.”

  “Which would suit them nicely if their activities are…less than legal.”

  Belrosa’s brow furrows into a mask of concern. “Some of them have been acting strangely lately. I will definitely look into it.”

  Liar. I don’t believe her for a second. When the fires happened, I thought maybe Marcher had done it. I even considered that Esther had orchestrated it to convince the public that she was deserving of the throne. But Belrosa is the one who tried to get Hat executed. I need proof.

  One touch. That’s all I need. One touch.

  “That would be splendid,” I say with a polite curtsy. I slip past her, placing a hand on her arm as I go. I feel a few bursts of aggression and confidence like a gust of hot air from a stove. But then the fear. Trapped deep beneath the surface, buried beneath layers of rock.

  She’s afraid.

  I feel it. I know it.

  In the brief moment that my hand is on her arm, her fear grows. She is afraid that I know. I get flashes of color, gray and black cloth, cold stone, the taste of metal, and something slick between my fingers. Water drips down a dark stone wall. Sounds echo through the narrow halls. A damp sensation crawls over my skin, and a hundred feet stomp in unison.

  As I break contact, it all vanishes.

  She has secrets. That much is clear. And she’s afraid of something. In the strange bursts, I saw—no, I felt—the presence of a large crowd. She knows more about the gray-clad fire starters than she admits. She’s the one training them.

  If I touch her arm and ask her directly, I’ll know for sure. She won’t be able to hide her reaction from me. But if I confront her, what happens next? I should have brought Glenquartz. He, at least, would have a weapon. I swallow hard.

  “I will begin the inquiry with my guards tomorrow morning.” She smiles to reassure me, but it prickles my senses as false.

  I suppress a shudder and turn it into a solemn nod. “Of course. Thank you.”

  She departs, and I can’t help but hang on the fact that she said “my guards.” A group of militants like the one that set the fires would have to take orders from someone. From her.

  I leave the range and return to the palace, mind racing.

  I think about it well into the night, and slowly—ever so slowly—a few pieces start fitting together.

  At Agatha’s house, Spell said that she and her daughter had lived in the cellar. And at Med Ward after the fires, Marcher said that secrets don’t stay buried for long.

  If I had a legion of Royal guards training and planning to set fires, where could they go where no one would stumble upon them?

  I remember my very first night here in the palace, when I spent the night in the dungeon. I thought I could sense the breathing of the city, like a heartbeat. But what if that wasn’t a sensation from my new magical abilities? What if it was real—the real sounds of a group of Royal guards hiding out and planning underneath the palace?

  If Belrosa buried the truth, maybe that’s where I’ll find it.

  * * *

  The dungeon is as dark and unpleasant as I remember, and I even pay a special curtsy to my old cell as I pass by. As I explore the dark tunnels, I rub my eyes, blinking away blurry shadows. It only takes a half hour before the cold and fatigue are creeping through my bones. As I round a corner, I hear footsteps: a single person, impatient, walking quickly. Then I see the light.

  I move quickly, slipping inside an empty cell. The light bobs closer, rounding the curve. The wall is cold against my neck, and I fight the shiver crawling up my spine. I crouch down.

  The light grows brighter and brighter. Then it flares. A pulse of energy: the man’s aura as he passes. It’s rigid and stern. He’s definitely a guard. I reenter the tunnel. His uniform is red, not gray.

  I put a gentle hand over my tattoo. Two choices: con my way into getting his key, or take it. A struggle could alert other guards in the area.

  “You there, Guard!” I do my best to sound regal.

  He spins around, startled. His heels click together to stand at attention.

  I suppress a grin with a stern frown. “Do you know who I am?”

  He is young, and he reminds me of a softer, younger version of Glenquartz. I remember seeing him during one of my tours of the palace. We were introduced. Kael Rajesh.

  Kael’s hand quivers at his side, as he decides whether or not to go for the single shot pistol at his hip or the musket from his shoulder.

  I
turn my shoulder toward him to show him the crown tattoo. “I am the Nameless queen.” Saying it sends heat through my bones, energizes me. Strong.

  Kael’s fear bridges the gap between us like a static shock. I try to sense more of his aura, but when his hand twitches near the sheathed bayonet, that’s enough.

  I walk toward him slowly, talking to distract him.

  “I’ve gotten myself lost,” I say. “I figured the stairs would bring me to a food cellar.”

  Kael tenses as I halve the distance between us. Now I’m three steps away.

  “You’re not supposed to be down here.” Kael’s aura spikes with fear like crystallizing ice.

  “I’m not? But I’m queen. Can’t I go anywhere?” My fingers grow cold.

  He focuses on my actions, his aura slowing down, like motes of dust suspended in sunlight. The sensation of frost crawls over my skin as his aura cools with suspicion. His hand grips the bayonet handle. He opens his mouth to speak. Now.

  I close the gap, striking his throat so he can’t call for help. The heat of his skin is like embers. He chokes and drops his lantern. I crouch and catch it an inch above the ground as he sputters for breath.

  Kael twists forward, slamming his knee into my body, and there goes the lantern. With a crack of glass, oil spills onto the floor and flames jump to life on the stones. The fire is barely at our ankles, but I scramble away from the heat, striking at Kael’s knee.

  I hit his other knee, bringing him down to my level. He throws a wide punch, and I raise my arm to block it. As soon as I feel the hit, I trap his hand under my arm. Got you.

  I twist his body away from me and grab his shoulder. Gaining leverage, I slam him into the wall. He meets the stones face-first and crumples to the ground. I pull him away from the steady flames as the lantern oil burns.

  There’s an unpleasant dark red outline of rock on Kael’s forehead. I check for a pulse. Still alive, but unconscious.

  I flip open his jacket and find the small key fitted through the cloth loop. I rip the key free. I don’t know when he’ll wake, but I don’t want him running off and telling anyone.

  And, down the tunnel: a perfectly good cell waiting for an occupant.

  Five minutes later, Kael lies on the floor of the cell. Before closing the door, I take Kael’s coat. I can’t hide my hair this time, but from a distance I might pass as a Royal guard.

  Oil settles into the cracks between stones, and the last traces of fire lick up in a grid pattern. With a sidelong glance at the broken lantern, I rip off part of Kael’s shirtsleeve. I use it to soak up what remains of the lantern’s oil from the cracked glass well. I stow the foul-smelling cloth in my boot.

  I envision my map. Most of the dungeon’s tunnels interlock like a maze, and I’ve covered a lot of area so far.

  I walk carefully. A low rushing sound fills the air, like the steady roll of a drum. At first, I think it’s the drainage pipes. Soon enough, I recognize it as the sound of heavy feet. As I round a curve, a door comes into view. A thin smudge of light stretches from beneath it, and I hear another pulse of voices.

  This is where General Belrosa’s militant guards are training.

  The door is twelve steps ahead. My boots grind the grime and dirt. The hairs on my arms rise.

  Six steps, and I can hear the voices behind the door. Synchronized shouts and stomping feet.

  Two steps.

  One.

  I stand outside the door, placing my hand on it. I could bring reinforcements, go to the few allies I have: The Legal servant who transported food to the Nameless; the doctor who tended my wounds and cared for my friends; Devil, who gave me shelter even if it was for a price. Glenquartz. Hat. Esther, even. But I’m already here. The room beyond the door feels empty. It’s a gray blank spot on the map in my head. The door is wooden, rotted along the edges, heavy.

  I can’t see the hinges, which means it opens inward. The doorknob is metal, rusted slightly, so I can assume the hinges are the same. I’ll have to open it carefully, pressing it tight to keep it quiet.

  I take a deep breath: slow, steady, and calm. I use Kael’s key, turn the lock silently, twist the doorknob, and push.

  My shoulders and knees ache as I crouch in the doorway. A bar of light sneaks into the hall, broadening as the door opens. It casts a cold glare onto the wet stones.

  I peer inside. Five steps from the doorway is a railing, and the room opens up beyond that. There’s movement and the flicker of firelight, but I can’t tell how many people there are. Hundreds, at least. I stay close to the door, peering along the inside edge of the room.

  A dark sea of movement shifts beyond the rail.

  I slip through the door, keeping the doorknob turned until I close the door behind me. There’s no one on the walkway in either direction, so I move toward the railing, crouching. The center of the room is a pit.

  Together, a group of nearly three hundred people moves in unison. They step forward and bring the guns up to aim. Pivot to the side, aim, lower their weapons, pivot again.

  I’ve seen little of the military aside from the Royal guards who patrol Seriden. Yet I know without a doubt that this is organized training.

  This is not a small group of rogue militants.

  This is an army.

  In the firelight, General Belrosa emerges from the sea of soldiers. They freeze and stand at attention. She walks up the far staircase.

  Gaiza. She wasn’t supposed to be here.

  “It took you long enough to find your way to my training grounds.” Her voice echoes, distorting off the walls. She turns at the top of the stairs and begins the long trek around the walkway, fixing her gaze on me.

  “I knew you sensed something from me at the archery range,” Belrosa says. “But you caught me unprepared. That won’t happen again.”

  She strides toward me, and I want to stay strong and brave, but I back away. I caught her by surprise at the archery range, but I’ve only practiced my abilities on injured patients at Med Ward. I doubt I’d stand strong against her.

  She observes me, coming to a stop a few paces away. “It’s tough, isn’t it? Being connected to your subjects and seeing their fears and thoughts. People think that being sovereign is all about power and strength. But with that crown, you’re more a slave to them. To me.”

  I remind myself of my power: to create illusions and to read memories and thoughts. What can I show her to make her afraid?

  But I can barely focus on her movements as she approaches me, let alone focus well enough to make a hallucination.

  “I’m here to make a deal with you,” I say.

  She snarls. “A deal?” Her aura pulses, dark red with disgust.

  “You have secrets. You are vulnerable.” I motion to the army of men and women. “You’ve seen what I can do. At the gallows. At the fires. I am not powerless.”

  Belrosa laughs. It scrunches her eyes and shows her straight teeth. A second later, her laugh disappears and her eyes are a slow burn of ice. “I’ll spare you the details of how the Royal Council won’t believe you, and instead I’ll tell you how they’ll kill you.”

  A shudder snakes down my arms.

  Belrosa’s face flickers in the firelight. “The council will finally realize that you are unfit to continue as the heir. The riots, the execution, the fire! All under your watch, because you are Nameless. Seriden is on the brink of civil war! What the city needs is a firm, militaristic rule. No longer will a two-hundred-year-old, antiquated treaty dictate our actions. We need an army to control the madness of this city. The city needs a familiar face in power. And whose name will they force from your lips when they finally agree? Who, of all of the Royals, is fit to take your place?”

  I grind my teeth.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Belrosa says coldly. “You won’t speak my name. Oh, but conside
r what happens if you don’t. I will track down your little Nameless friend who escaped the gallows. She will suffer in ways you never dreamed a person could suffer.”

  The fire in my chest flares. I can’t feel the cold hatred of her aura, because my own anger crawls along my skin like beads of molten metal.

  “Or,” she says, “in two weeks, at the Assassins’ Festival, you simply pass the tattoo to me peacefully. No need for violence. No need for suffering.”

  “No.” I set my jaw.

  “No?” Belrosa’s mouth twitches.

  “No,” I say more firmly. “I’m not here to take your threats. I’m here to make a deal.”

  “Are you?” Belrosa grins. “I was under the impression that you weren’t making any more deals.” Her gaze shifts to something behind me.

  I take a cautious step, sure to keep the firelight between us. Another figure walks along the curving walkway.

  “What’s this I hear about a deal to be made?” Marcher says.

  I feel as if the blood’s been drained from my body. “This is why you keep coming in and out of the palace. But I don’t understand. Why work with her?”

  Usually, I never admit when I don’t understand something. But I know Marcher. He’ll seize the opportunity to undermine me. As expected, a slimy smile appears on his face.

  “Our lives,” Marcher says, “the lives of the Nameless, they aren’t so black and white, legal and illegal. Sure, we can’t hold a job or own a house. But since when has a system ever abided by its own rules? Why do you think I’m here?”

  His taunting smirk rolls up his cheeks like spreading mold.

  “To get me here,” I say. “To the palace. To the dungeon.”

  Now I can see why Marcher is so pleased. To them, I am a dancing marionette: strings pulled, limbs flailing.