The Hidden Queen, page 11
Like when they call me alagai blood, Krasians have a name for Olive, too: the push’ting prince. Push’ting’s a big word that can mean a lot of things. It can be kind when some folk say it, and downright unneighborly when others do. But the literal translation is “false woman,” and that’s what these folk see. A prince that Duchess Leesha hid away by raising him in dresses.
The truth is more complicated, but it ent my news to break. To Krasians, Olive presents as male, so that’s how they see her. And why not? Olive is over six feet tall and ripples with muscle.
“That is Tazhan alagai-scale, fool,” another of Olive’s brothers says. “It is priceless. A raiment worthy of any prince.”
“At his waist,” another says.
“Is that a hanzhar?”
“A dama’ting hora pouch!”
“That womanly cloak!”
I linger a little too long, and the rest of the muttered comments start to seep in. I can’t filter them all, and it starts making me twitchy.
Last thing I need is to have a fit with the whole royal family lookin’ on, so I break my attention from the men entirely, focusing instead on the cluster of women.
There are sighs and stares from the gathered princesses, whispers about Olive’s size and regal bearing that cast an imposing shadow on the room.
“Prince Olive may have been stolen from his home in colored silk,” one princess breathes, “but see how he dominated his captors! He returns with Majah warriors under his command.”
Next comment makes my cheeks burn. I focus on the clerics, but their whispers ent better.
“Did he dominate them? Or did they make him one of them?”
“The Majah are treacherous.”
“We must be wary.”
“No man should carry the hanzhar.”
Again it gets to be overwhelming, and I need to jump again. In a crowd like this, it’s all I can do. If I keep my attention in one place for too long, every sound starts to seep in until I can’t sort any of it, and all I can do is cover my ears and close my eyes and curl up.
I force my attention back to Olive as she leads our group to the center of the floor before the thrones. Prince Kaji sits the Skull Throne in bloodfather’s absence, straight as a statue but smelling decidedly uncomfortable. The diaphanous curtains of the Pillow Throne are down, but I can see through easily. Inevera, like everyone here, only has eyes for Olive.
Try as I might, I can’t hear anything from the Pillow Throne. Wards of silence protect the Damajah’s privacy, and I wish I had some of my own.
Kaji beckons Olive forward with a gesture. “Welcome, cousin.”
Something ent right. Been to court enough times to know it’s custom for a herald to shout everyone’s name when they enter a throne room, and Olive is rippin’ heir to Hollow.
“They want her to introduce herself,” Selen whispers. I can smell the anticipation. Everyone’s holdin’ their breath on her next words.
I expect Olive to hesitate. I would. Night, I’d be ready to turn slippery and run. But bein’ center stage is nothing new to Olive Paper.
“Wait here,” Olive says, taking seven confident strides forward alone.
“I am Olive vah Leesha asu Ahmann Jardir am’Paper!” Olive projects to every corner of the room in the bass-heavy voice she uses in battle. “Crown Princes of Hollow!”
Everyone shuts up at that, but it’s a tightening silence. Kind that’s usually followed by shouting.
Olive doesn’t give them time, looking to the women. “Olive, daughter of Leesha Paper. Heir to Hollow! Trained in hanzhar and the Chamber of Shadows at Gatherers’ University under Dama’ting Favah.”
Dama’ting Favah always scared me a bit, but the way the women in white breathe her name I get the feeling I wasn’t nearly scared enough.
“Sisters,” Olive spreads her blue cloak in something that’s half bow and half curtsy, “I am honored to be one of you.”
Olive turns to take in her brothers, from those in the cheap seats by the door all the way up to the throne. “Olive, son of Ahmann Jardir! Like my father, I learned alagai’sharak in the ancient ways, blooded in the Maze of Desert Spear! Kai’Sharum Olive, ajin’pel of the Majah Princes Unit. Hundreds of alagai, I have helped show to the sun. Brothers, I am honored to be one of you.” The line of princes had begun to relax, but tension ramps back up at Olive’s military credentials. Doubt many who came of age safe here in Everam’s Bounty can match them.
“I do not seek the Skull Throne.” Olive scans the faces of her prince brothers with a predatory stare. “But neither do I renounce my lineage!”
No one likes that. I hear muscles clench and teeth grind at the words. I’ve lingered too long on Olive, and now all the noise in the room is starting to creep in, hissing like the fuse of a thunderstick. Gonna get the shakes soon if I don’t refocus, but there’s no lookin’ away.
“Brothers,” Olive puts a fist to her armored chest in a warrior’s salute, “I am honored to be one of you. I am sure we can learn much from one another in friendship and fraternity. I come to the court of my father in peace.” Olive shows empty hands, yet smells anythin’ but peaceful. “But if any wish to dispute my claim, challenge me with honor and there will be no shame in your death.”
I blink.
“Ohhh, Olive, what did you just do?” Selen breathes.
“Tsst!” Rojvah hisses. Guess Olive didn’t warn them about this, either.
Ent just us stunned. Don’t think I’ve ever heard a room this crowded fall so quiet. Some of Olive’s brothers had been softening, but this sobers the lot. Hard to pick out who is who with them all clustered together, but I smell anger, outrage, and honest offense.
Underneath it all, there is the rank stink of fear. But that doesn’t make me feel any better. Fear’s usually the last thing you smell before things get scrappy.
The scent that really worries me is Olive’s. She wants someone to challenge her, here and now. Fixin’ to set an example by putting anyone dumb enough to step forward down hard.
That’s assuming she can. I see hora all over the room. Even the lowliest princes have demonbone worked into their armor or jewelry. If a fight breaks out, Olive ent the only one who will be unnaturally fast and strong.
Reckon Olive knows that. Maybe that’s the point. Let ’em know she ent afraid.
But I am. Angry mutters start to break out, and it builds, like the vibration before a quake. I feel it humming through me, itchin’, and know it’s only gonna get worse.
Eyes flick to Prince Kaji on the Skull Throne. Kaji’s only a year older than Olive, both young compared to the other heirs, but if there is to be a challenge, it should start with him.
Kaji’s face is serene as he watches Olive and the posturing princes, but I reckon he’s stunned as everyone else. With no leadership, the princes start growling and flexing, working up their courage, and maybe hoping someone else will step forward and give them Olive’s measure.
Can’t stand this much longer. Feel like I’m gonna crawl out of my skin. Just bein’ here was all I could handle, and now Olive’s got to go an’ pick a fight.
I realize my hand is shaking only when Selen’s fingers slide into mine.
“Steady, Dar.” She squeezes, and Creator, it’s something to focus on. I grip her like a line in the water, and Selen holds tight.
There’s a quiet sniff, and I see Rojvah’s eyes flick away from our hands. She wears too much perfume, but I can still smell the pity beneath.
Wish it din’t sting, but it does. Ent a man to Rojvah any more than I am to Selen. Just a baby brother who won’t stop cryin’ during Seventhday services.
Arick doesn’t notice, all his attention on Olive. He smells protective, like when he guarded his sister in alagai’sharak. Ready to leap forward and serve as Olive’s second, if a challenge comes.
Just when it feels like things are about to snap, the curtains to the Pillow Throne open, and the cloak of silence around them drops. Everyone stops and turns, dropping to their knees. It’s obvious who the real power atop the steps is.
Selen and I are left standing. She looks at me, and I offer a smile, pulling her down. “Like this,” I whisper, sitting crisscross. “Mam was never one for kneelin’, and we ent Krasian.”
Selen gives my hand another squeeze, and I am grateful for it.
“Well spoken, Olive vah Leesha asu Ahmann,” Inevera says. “Words worthy of your father. But violence is not tolerated before the throne.”
Before the throne, she says. What about when Olive ent before it anymore?
“It pleases us to see you returned safely to your people,” Inevera goes on. “You may ascend.”
Olive bows. “I am honored, Damajah, but first I must formally invoke the Pact of the Free Cities,” Rojvah and Selen breathe a sigh of relief at that, “and ask for safe passage through New Krasia until I am across the border into Hollow.”
Inevera smiles and nods. “You are right to do so, of course. The peace between New Krasia and the green lands has been good for both our peoples. Sharak Sun is over, and inevera, will not come again in our lifetimes.”
Something about the way she says her own name winds me up. It’s a common Krasian word meaning “Everam’s will,” or “fate,” but here with my bloodfather missing, it is her will, not Everam’s, that holds power.
“Such escort will take time to arrange and supply,” Inevera notes.
“I already have an escort,” Olive says. “General Gared and the Cutters will be ready with only a short respite.”
Inevera smiles. “Of course. But the desert crossing is taxing, and there are many who will wish to know you better. I would invite you to accept our welcome and give your bodies time to recover before continuing on. Hollow will be immediately informed of your health and status.”
“One week to the day,” Olive says.
Inevera’s mouth tightens, but again she nods. “One week, to the day.”
Angry glares follow as Olive bows and ascends the steps to the Pillow Throne. The wards of silence activate again, sealing off their conversation from everyone in the crowded room.
Talk breaks out, then. Apparently, the Damajah is known for this. Folk keep their voices low, but settin’ on the floor I can hear all of it, too much threat and anger to process. I can smell seething outrage, and know the danger ent over.
Selen squeezes tighter, but it ent enough, anymore. I can feel myself starting to turn slippery. But then Rojvah finds my other hand. Her fingers are softer than Selen’s, but her grip is firm. Still I feel myself vibrating between them, and don’t think I can hold on much longer.
Rojvah cocks her head at Arick, who notices my shaking for the first time. I expect to smell pity or disgust, but instead it’s the same steady protective smell he has for his sister, and Olive.
Then he does something amazing.
Arick starts tapping his leg with a finger. Just a whisper of skin against skin with a layer of silk between. Too quiet for anyone else to hear, it’s like a heartbeat for me. A steady rhythm I can focus on.
Arick adds another finger, and another, building layers upon layers of complexity in a perfect, even pattern. His skill and dexterity are amazing, and soon all ten fingers are thrumming in unison. It would be an impossible trick for most, but Arick has been training in music since he could first hold a rattle, and does it as easily as writing a letter.
I breathe in, becoming more solid as I let the rhythm fill me, become me, and take me out of the crowd’s angry vibration.
I’m more nervous ascending the steps than I was challenging my brothers. Men, I know how to deal with. The Damajah is something else, entirely. Like Mother, Inevera is a witch, with magic enough to blast me out of existence with a wave of her hora wand. Mother spoke of her with respect, but never trust. It was an open secret in Hollow that my father could never visit because of the animosity between the women, and Mother refused to let me off Hollow’s greatward, much less visit Krasia.
Now I’m here, without Mother or Father to protect me, making threats in the Damajah’s court to hide how frightened I am.
Most Jongleur’s tales exaggerate, but Inevera is as beautiful as the ale stories say. She must have seen half a century at least, but the Damajah’s skin is smooth as a woman of thirty, her lithe body draped in red silk that covers everything and hides nothing.
But it’s her eyes that unnerve me, piercing from beneath a circlet of coins etched with wards. I know Inevera, like Mother in her warded spectacles, can peer past the surface and into my aura, gleaning information I might not even know myself.
The words of Favah, the teacher sent to me by Inevera herself, echo in my thoughts. Keep your center before those with the Sight. Speak only truth, but offer nothing.
I was never good at keeping my center, but I learned early that even Mother could be fooled if I was careful not to be caught in a lie.
Inevera regards me coolly as I offer a man’s bow, carefully counting the duration. The Damajah knows Mother’s throne awaits me, but I have still to claim it. We are not equals.
Yet.
Inevera touches a wardstone, and the sounds of the court vanish and there is only us. “Prince Olive?” Inevera asks. “Princess? You lay claim to both?”
I shrug. “Why not? Whether I wish it or not, I am saddled with the responsibilities of both, so why not twice the title? Olive Paper, Princes of Hollow.”
Inevera laughs, a richer sound than I expect. “It’s closer to the truth, I suppose.” Her eyes flick down for a moment, taking in my body, but there’s nothing to see. Clothes mean little to one seeing in wardsight, but my Tazhan armor offers protection even from the Damajah’s prying Sight.
Still, the Damajah seems pleased with me, and warmer than expected. Like Mother when I’ve just passed some secret test. It immediately puts me on edge for more testing to come.
“You are welcome here, Olive Paper,” Inevera says, “and safe from me, though I cannot promise as much from my sons, after your words of challenge.”
I cross my arms. “In my experience, challenge is the only thing Krasian men respect.”
Inevera leans back. “There is wisdom in your words…Princes Olive.”
Offer nothing, Favah said, but I need answers.
“Princes was in Chavis’ prophecy,” I say.
Inevera’s calm, pleasant demeanor turns suddenly serious. She leans in, voice harsher. “Chavis shared her casting with you?”
It was Belina, but I don’t volunteer that information, keeping my face blank and aura flat. Prophecies are sacred things to the dama’ting, and they do not part from them easily.
The Damajah squints at me with those piercing eyes. “No. It was Belina who told you.”
I curse inwardly. I need to get better at this. I cannot afford to let anyone with wardsight peer into my secrets.
“She will regret not volunteering that information,” Inevera notes.
“She has little else to bargain with,” I say. “Iraven is dead, and the Majah have stripped her of her title.”
Inevera eases back into her pillows. “Perhaps. But Belina has the Sight, and that is power still.”
“Is it?” I dare ask. “We cast dice, but seldom understand the prophecy in time to make a difference. Instead we tear ourselves and those around us apart in the guessing, and it does not save the ones we love.”
I think of Micha, and Chadan, and my spear brothers, all lost to the demon king. I think of Mother and Mrs. Bales, gone off armed with Mother’s prophecies, never to be seen again. Even my father benefited from the greatest seers of our age, only to disappear.
Dama’ting do not take it well when you question the alagai hora. Favah would have struck me across the knuckles and assigned a penance for such words, but Inevera only regards me coolly. When she speaks at last, her voice is calm.
“I was a palm weaver’s daughter with a coward father,” she says. “But the dice called me to the white, and the wards of prophecy…spoke to me. Guided me. I married a Sharum from a poor family with no great honor to its name. Now he is Shar’Dama Ka, and I am Damajah of Krasia. Your father and Darin’s parents may have killed the demon queen, but without the armies I spent decades preparing, they would have come home to a burning grave, if they had lived long enough to face Alagai’ting Ka to begin with.”
Inevera leans in. “The future is not set, Olive am’Paper. It is a living thing, like you. Full of potential and possibility. The dice seek our best hopes and guide us toward them. I am sorry if they do not tell you what you wish to hear, or put a burden of worry on you, but that is not a burden easily set aside by one who chooses to sit a throne.”
“I did not ask to be born in line for any throne, much less two.” The words are bitter and childish, but I cannot help them.
“None of us ask for the lives we are born to,” Inevera says. “But taking a throne is a choice. A choice to take responsibility for your people. To make their burdens your own. Not because you wish it, but because you are the only one strong enough to lift them.”
“You sound like Mother.” I don’t know what I expect the Damajah to do at the comparison, but I am surprised when I see a hint of smile behind her gossamer veil.
“Leesha Paper is my zahven,” Inevera says. “Do you know this word?”
“Rival,” I say in Thesan.
Inevera gives a little shrug. “Among other things. But the word itself means ‘balance.’ Forces that cancel each other. She would not have risen so far without being…formidable.”
I nod. Mother was definitely that. “And now without that force?”
Again a shrug. “I am hoping you will be that force. I do not have a man’s thirst for war, Olive vah Leesha. A strong and prosperous Hollow is good for a strong and prosperous Krasia. Our spears should spill demon ichor, not red blood.”
