A pair of soft as sin buckskin slippers imported from Shroudania and a glittering crown finish her ensemble as she makes her way to her bedchamber doors.
“Are you coming?” She pauses and turns with her hands on her hips when she notices her Knight has not moved from his place in bed.
“I thought I’d let you handle it,” the Knight waves his hand lazily as he turns over and clutches a pillow to the side of his face. “I’ve had quite the workout this morning.”
Lyra allows an unqueenly snort in response to the Knight’s joke as she slips out of the room and allows the door to slam shut behind her.
The palace crier announces Lyra’s entrance into the throne room as two dozen men and women drop to their knees to bow to their queen. She waits until she is comfortably seated on her throne, her skirts arranged just so and her hair draped artfully over one shoulder before allowing her subjects to rise.
“You may rise,” Lyra twirls a finger in their general direction as she inspects her cuticles. She’d love to stretch out her legs by throwing them over the arm of the throne but refrains because it is not yet time for her to act so freely, not when her reign has not yet been solidified.
Lyra comes face to face with the ugliest man she has ever lain eyes on. A massive brute of a man, the Warrior before her is covered in thick black hair making him look more beast than human. His thick beard hangs to the middle of his chest and the end is decorated with orange coral beads harvested from the southern coast. His Warrior uniform and armor have seen significant wear and the shield lying beside him on the floor is splattered with old blood. A puckered, angry red scar slashes from his right temple to the left of his narrow, pointed chin.
“My Queen,” Garlyn dips his head and pounds his clenched fist to his chest in a show of loyalty.
“Warrior Garlyn,” Lyra acknowledges him with a nod of her head. “What brings you to Vanyia?”
“My Warriors and I have arrived to offer you our fealty and to join with your armies.” Garlyn’s voice is confident and sure, his words well thought out despite his barbaric appearance.
“While I appreciate your loyalty,” Lyra says slowly, “what brings you to the palace at this time?”
“I sense unrest throughout the kingdom, My Queen.” Garlyn confesses. “My Warriors and I were forced to choose between our sacred vows to the Watierai Warriors and what we believe is right when our general refused to honor your orders to slay all Mistborn on sight. We were forced to rebel against those loyal to the general just to grant our freedom. The people on the western coast fear the sea goddess and allow her children to walk among them. They marry them, breed with them, socialize with them. My Warriors and I, as loyal servants to the crown, rooted out the evil in those coastal villages and purified the lands on our journey north.”
“Have you found and killed the Mistborn passing herself off as Landborn?” Lyra asked, sitting forward to hang on Garlyn’s every word.
“Nay, My Queen.” Garlyn shakes his head slowly. “Wherever she has gone, she has hidden herself well. We have, however, brought you a prize nearly as good as the head of the imposter.”
“What is it?” Lyra snaps, irritated that Andromeda slipped through her clutches once more. Curse Pavo for sending the girl to the Warrior camp in the first place. She should have pushed for her execution instead.
Garlyn nods to two of his men who bow to Lyra and excuse themselves from the throne room. A few minutes pass in tense anticipation and a scuffle of sorts can be heard in the corridor beyond the throne room. The doors burst open and the Warriors drag in two struggling figures, their heads covered with burlap sacks and their wrists tightly bound with frayed rope.
The Warriors shove the figures to the floor at Lyra’s feet and rip the sacks from their heads. Lyra gasps in delight as her barbaric first husband Grus and their true-born daughter Midgella are revealed to her.
Grus is older and frailer than the last time she saw his awful face and it looks like the Warriors enjoyed roughing him up during his capture and transport. The fight appears to have left the aging man. He doesn’t even feign surprise or attempt to put up a fight, he just looks resigned. It’s pitiful.
Beside Grus in torn and soiled rags kneels their only living daughter. Her lip is busted and bloody, her right eye swollen and her left puffy and purple but the resemblance between mother and daughter is unmistakeable. Even the look of rage and hatred in the younger woman’s eyes is familiar to Lyra.
“You’ve done very well, Garlyn.” Lyra praises him. A feline smile appears as she gestures over two of her personal guard, “Throw these two in the dungeon on suspicion of plotting to kill the queen. They have committed treason and shall be considered highly dangerous.”
“You cannot do this,” Midgella snarls and spits at Lyra’s feet.
“I’m the Queen,” Lyra smiles cruelly. “I can do whatever I please.”
Chapter 18
Lostero
Of the three Landborn kingdoms, Lostero had always been the weakest. Shroudania was the richest and most prosperous and traded in spices and jewels. Vacantia though at odds with the sea encircling its island was rich in the fish trade and known for it’s Watierai Warriors and varied terrain. Lostero was furthest south of the triangle of kingdoms, the country bisected across the middle with the southern half forever cast in dark days and frigid winds leaving only the North worth anything to trade. Their forests were their most famous feature, the wood harvested and processed their greatest export to become furniture and building supplies. People in the other kingdoms marveled at its’ deep ochre color shot through with glittering black ore. It was said to withstand nearly anything thrown at it. Others claimed it had a magical quality.
For the past two generations, Lostero was also known for one other export; slaves. Since father Zarouk created the Landborn kingdoms Lostero had been plagued by invasions from their northeastern and northwestern neighbors. Their homes were pillaged and their people massacred while their armies were depleted. Yet they maintained their own kingdom and King to rule over the people. Until eighteen years ago.
King Dao of House Noori was a kind man who wanted nothing more for his people but to be allowed peace and commerce with the other kingdoms. The Mistborn rarely bothered them and invasions from Vacantia and Shroudania had been far and few between since his father’s reign. In an effort to forge an alliance with Vacantia, Dao offered his young, beautiful daughter as a bride to the young King Pavo.
Dao’s daughter was as sweet as she was beautiful and Pavo was instantly taken with her, to Dao’s delight. He thought this was the dawn of a new era for Lostero. That Pavo’s army would ally with his in the event of a Shroudanian invasion. Dao had been so naive and underestimated the might of the Shroudanian throne.
Eighteen years ago while Dao was in Vacantia’s capital visiting his daughter and new grandson the Shroudanian boy-king Alem had swept in with his great army and overthrew Dao’s rule. The strongest of the Losteroan men, the untamable ones, were slaughtered in battle. A good percentage of the lesser men, the women and children were placed on ships to become slaves for wealthy Shroudanians and Vacantians.
One of Alem’s advisors was placed in the former palace to oversee the strip mining of Lostero’s forests and when the rarest commodity in the world, java beans, were found growing in the frigid south the advisor sent other Losteroan slaves to mine that too.
The Losteroan trees were sacred to her people and it broke many a heart and stirred pits of fury within the souls of the laborers to be forced to harvest them for the Shroudanians. They vowed to someday get revenge. The workers growing and harvesting the java beans looked upon them in disgust, wondering what the other kingdoms could want with the bitter inedible beans.
King Dao should have thanked the gods that he was not killed during the invasion but the last eighteen years of hard labor in the java fields had taken their toll on him. The first growing season he’d lost the tips of three fingers to black rot from the cold winds.
His hands were constantly cracked and raw from his daily work. He’d lost so much weight his skin hung from him like loose, heavy fabric. And the memory of his beloved wife who had been attacked, tortured, and killed by Shroudanian soldiers during the invasion haunted his every waking moment.
If Dao spoke for his people, he was bone tired and beat down but there was still a spark within him waiting for a change in the tides.
It was early morning at the beginning of the rain season and Dao and the others were forced to work in cold miserable conditions to ready the fields for the growing season. The slick handle of the tiller slipped from Dao’s hands as the rain beat a steady rhythm at his back. His long scraggly hair and thick beard dripped with rainwater pooling beneath his bare feet. There would be no respite from the weather, no breaks, no midday meals. The Losteroans were expected to be in the fields from the waking hour to the darkening time.
The sound of whips slapping skin crackled through the air as slower workers were commanded to work faster in the ditches that were fast becoming muddy sludge.
A loud avian shriek broke through the usual work day sounds dragging Dao’s attention to the skies above. A large bird with the features of a raven and the wingspan of two men laid end to end kicked up a chill wind as it circled above. The bird was a majestic wuju, the sigil of the fallen kingdom of Lostero. A bird not seen in Lostero in two generations. The Shroudanians had tried to kill them off entirely. Their massive size that could carry a reasonably sized man on its’ back and their beaks and talons as sharp as blades made them the only creatures able to cause fear in the Shroudanians. Everyone thought them extinct. Until now.
The wuju dipped its head to survey the workers and overseers like wiggling worms on the ground far below where he soared. He shrieked again, a high-pitched whine that grated on the ears of Shroudanians and Losteroans alike. The bird flapped his wings harder as his circuit grew tighter, his search narrowing. Some of the workers and even the overseers darted for tree cover or dove into ditches but Dao remained where he stood. The wuju looked at him and cocked his head but Dao didn’t flinch. Let the beast kill him, what did he care? He had nothing to live for anymore, only the bones of his lost kingdom.
The wuju opened its’ massive beak and something fluttered to the ground at Dao’s feet. Any worker or overseer not already hiding dove for cover and Dao used the opportunity to grab the object and race into the edge of the forest.
The wuju had dropped a tightly rolled tube of paper. Dao cast a look over his shoulder to make sure the overseers were still distracted by the bird overhead. They stood clumped together trying to decide what to do about the beast.
Quickly Dao unrolled the scroll and quickly read the missive written in neat script. He then realized why the wuju had presented the scroll to him. The message was from someone claiming to be his grandson, Cygni. He wrote that his father was dead and his stepmother had declared him illegitimate and stole the throne from him, banishing him from the Vacantian capital. If the message’s author was to be believed he was writing from the Watierai Warrior camp and asking for any assistance from his Losteroan relatives.
Dao smiled and sent thanks to the gods for delivering as he felt the tides of fate begin to shift. He tucked the message away in his trousers as the overseers barked for the workers to return to their tillers and ditches. Dao pretended as if nothing had happened as the gears in his mind began to churn with plans.
Tonight. Tonight when he and the other workers retired to their one-room dormitory he would tell his Losteroan brethren of the message and spur them into action. Once they liberated themselves they would march to the forest and liberate the Losteroans forced to strip the land of their sacred trees. And from there Vacantia waited for them.
❖
Octavia
The sun was streaming through the window of Octavia’s chambers and at first she couldn’t understand what she was seeing. She’d left the stirrings of the rain season back in Vacantia, and yet even in the growing season it was rare to wake up to bright, welcoming sunshine first thing in the morning.
A young woman with pale pink hair and pink, purple, and blue stars etched into her face bustled into the room carrying a bundle of cloth without preamble.
“Who are you?” Octavia asked as she shot up and brushed the sleep from her eyes.
“The Mother Goddess asked me to prepare you for your trials,” the girl answered as she crossed the room and began stoking a fire over which she hung a cast iron pot filled with water on a metal hook. “If you please, I will get your bath water ready for you.”
“That’s not necessary,” Octavia replied shyly as she wrapped her arms around herself.
The girl cocked her head to the side and stared at Octavia as if she’d spontaneously sprouted a second head, “The Mother Goddess insisted. I am to help you prepare.”
Without waiting for Octavia to reply the girl approached the bed and began tugging on the blankets Octavia was huddled under. It seemed that there was no modesty between the daughters of Adventrya which sent hot embarrassment through Octavia as she struggled to tug back the blankets and hide her thin chemise and shorts from the other girl.
But then Octavia felt something else. A hot tingle of energy coursing through her veins the same way it had when she encountered the girl in the corridor the day before. The girl that had vanished into thin air. Octavia gasped and tried to push the sensation back down, down into the core of herself as she imagined the hot energy turning to ice in her veins. But still the energy pushed at her senses.
The pink-haired girl did not seem to notice the reaction Octavia was experiencing or if she did she didn’t acknowledge it in any way.
The girl gave one more sharp tug and Octavia felt something give inside her. Her head spun and she closed her eyes against an intense wave of vertigo. The room seemed to drop out from under her. She felt weightless, the same way she’d felt the night before when she’d hovered above the floor but she was spinning like a coin tossed to the ground.
Risking her churning gut Octavia cracked open her eyes and screamed as she found herself spinning within a thick white column. She reached out to touch it and the column exploded and sent her skittering to the floor in a heap.
“What was that?” Octavia breathlessly asked the pink-haired girl.
“What was what?” The girl raised an eyebrow but her knowing smirk told Octavia she knew exactly what Octavia was talking about. “Are you ready for your bath? The Mother Goddess does not tolerate lateness.”
Octavia tore her gaze from the girl and followed where she pointed. The wash tub, which had been empty seconds earlier was now filled three-quarters full with water. Steam rose from the water invitingly.
“What is this place?” Octavia murmured under her breath as she allowed the girl to help her to her feet and into the bath still clothed in her chemise and shorts.
Once she was lathered and scrubbed and dressed in soft white linen pants and a sleeveless white shirt by the pink-haired girl Octavia was allowed to eat a few pieces of fruit to break her fast. The pink-haired girl watched every bite she took from it’s journey from bowl to mouth and the way Octavia chewed. It was unnerving. The girl never even blinked.
“Did you grow up here?” Octavia finally asked just to make conversation.
The girl nodded, “I’m a lifer. Not many girls are.”
“What’s your name?” Octavia blurted.
“Nilsa,” the girl reaches across the bed and plucks a starberry from the bowl. Taking a bite, she licks her lips as the magenta juices dribble down her chin.
“Octavia,” Octavia offers her own name.
“I know,” Nilsa giggles girlishly.
“Can you tell me anything about the trials the Mother Goddess will put me through?” Octavia asks hoping Nilsa will confide in her or offer some useful advice.
“Nope,” Nilsa grins wickedly. “I am bound from saying a word. Besides, the trials are different for everyone to bring out everyone’s strengths.�
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Octavia sighs and looks away.
“Now hurry on, the Mother Goddess is expecting you.” Nilsa reaches over and pats Octavia’s knee reassuringly. “I’ll get your chambers all straightened up and finish off these starberries. They’re always in season here in the Starborn kingdom, did you know?”
“I did not,” Octavia shakes her head as she wipes her hands on a towel and takes a deep breath.
True to her word, Nilsa does not accompany Octavia into the corridor. Still uneasy after her encounter in the corridor the day before, Octavia hurries down the halls to the throne room.
Somewhere along the way she must take a wrong turn because when she turns the corner to where she assumes the throne room to be she comes to a solid brick wall. Frowning, Octavia turns back and steps to the middle of the hall to get her bearings. The throne room was in the opposite direction from Octavia’s chambers, but the hallway twisted and turned several times in between.
Her heart beats faster as she begins to panic. What will the Mother Goddess do if she’s late for her trials? Would she refuse to give aid to the Watierai Warriors in the coming war? Give her favor to the usurper queen instead?
Octavia darts down a hallway at random but stops short when she sees what awaits her at the hallway’s dead end.
Her stomach lurches and she feels blindly for the wall to prop herself up as she retches all over the floor spewing magenta starberry slush all over the pristine white floors. She averts her eyes from the horrible sight. Thane, Cutter, Rian, and Castor. Their severed heads anyway. Bloody and impaled on wooden spikes, their eyes widened in horror and their mouths frozen in silent screams. Is this it? Has she failed already?
As she presses her face to the wall she hears a snickering behind her.
“Is that all you’re made of initiate?” A harsh whisper asks. “Snot and fear?”
Monsters & Mist Page 25