The Hidden Queen, page 2
Across the aisle on the women’s side of the temple, emotion is not only allowed, it’s encouraged. Rojvah is openly weeping, but it’s more performance than true sorrow. Her sobs are carefully controlled in motion and volume, displaying her mourning without interrupting the services, or failing to keep up with the litany of prayers. And why not? She barely knew any of the deceased.
But her tears are real. I don’t know how she manages to cry on purpose—or why anyone would—but even beneath her paints and perfumes, I can taste her tears on the air as she deftly catches each drop with the flat edge of a tear bottle before they can streak the kohl around her eyes.
Standing next to her, Selen ent one for powders, or for sobbing, but she loved Nanny Micha more than her own mam. Even in this crowd, I can pick out Selen’s scent. I know it like my own. Her pain is real, silent tears leaving wet, salty lines glittering on her cheeks. I wish I was there to comfort her, but maybe it’s for the best I ent. Never been good at that sort of thing.
I’m sad, too, but I’ve never understood the way other folk carry on about their feelings, trying to display what’s right there in their scent. I worry folk think I’m heartless, sometimes. Reckon I could fake it like Rojvah, but it feels too much like lying.
The Krasians don’t seem to notice. I am a man to them, and warrior class, though I don’t look it. Sharum men are meant to embrace sorrow and joy alike, putting both to the side.
It’s a small comfort, with everyone in the whole rippin’ temple watchin’ me.
Ent prideful to say it when it’s true. Krasians think they’re being subtle, but they’re all stealing glances at our row while pretending not to. I hear their whispers. About Olive and the others, yes, but mostly about me. About how I’m the Par’chin’s son, and what that means.
My father, Arlen Bales, has a reputation with the Krasians. Even in New Krasia, modern and at peace for fifteen years, folk have divided sentiments about his name. Creator only knows what it means to the Majah.
Could be worse. Least they ent talking about how I was born in the abyss and have demon blood, like Krasian gossips like to do up north. Still, don’t like to be center stage if I can help it.
But Olive needs this, so I play my part. Ent much for prayer, but neither was Da. Wrote about it in his journals. Used to murmur watermelon over and over, so folk would see his lips moving and think he was praying along. That trick wouldn’t fool me, but others can’t see and hear like I do, especially while doing their best to pretend they ent paying attention.
“Chadan asu Maroch am’Majah,” Aleveran booms, pulling my attention back to the altar as he sweeps a hand over the bodies. “Iraven asu Ahmann am’Jardir am’Majah. Micha vah Ahmann am’Jardir am’Kaji. Who bears witness to their glory?”
There are stirrings and murmurs throughout the pews, though it was all arranged in advance. The warriors who bore witness to what happened below were unanimous in who should speak for them.
Heartbeats are like faces to me. I know Olive’s powerful beats as well as any. The solid rhythm when she’s at rest, the heavy thumps when her blood is up. But now it’s something I don’t hear often, pounding fast like a hare with a hound at its heels.
Olive’s da’s name, like mine, carries weight—and not all of it good. The Majah used to believe Ahmann Jardir was the voice of Everam. Plenty of them still do, whatever their leaders say, which is why Damaji Aleveran and his councilors would be happy to never hear the name again.
But unlike me, Olive Paper ent one to run from a fight.
My name is Olive Paper, and I’m terrified.
I take a breath, embracing the fear. Chadan’s armor fits me like a custom gown, making hardly a sound as I get to my feet.
Tazhan armor is made with the alagai-scale technique—countless tiny overlapping scales of sharp black steel. It flexes like a shirt, and protects like a shield. The scales are warded against demonkind, and when struck they ripple like water around a stone, distributing force and lessening impact.
Chadan’s Majah sigil, a single spear, has been removed, replaced by my own. No gift from the Majah can ever pay back their debt to me, but there is something right to wearing my prince’s armor, bearing the spear and olive crest we shared.
Over the armor I wear a simple black robe, open in the front—more cape than housecoat. It softens the sharp edges just a little, and protects the bone pews from the sharp metal scales. My helm is wrapped in a black turban, and a veil of pure white silk lies loose around my neck.
The Krasian raiment is as much protection against onlookers as the armor is against a blow, conveying a sense of belonging in this sacred place when I feel anything but. I am hundreds of miles from home, amid a tribe of my ancestral enemies, but I don’t look out of place. My turban and veil are worn in the Majah style, like the cut of my robe and the lacing of my sandals.
I look like my captors.
It was only a few months ago that another room of this great temple bore witness to the most humiliating scene of my life. Forcibly taken from my home, I was carried here like freight and thrown to the floor like a prize of war. And when the Damaji found my tongue insolent, I was whipped until I collapsed weeping on the floor.
Now that same tormentor stands before me as I approach the altar.
I was known as the push’ting prince then, a “son” raised as a daughter by Duchess Paper out of cowardice—or perhaps cunning. But whether she was hiding me from assassins or maliciously plotting to steal my father’s throne, the Majah took a dim view of Mother’s actions, and of me. They did their best to make a man out of me, never minding who I actually was, or what I wanted.
And it worked. Better than any—myself included—could have expected. The Majah would not accept me as a woman, so I took the part of a man and made it my own, forcing them to accept me. Now I stand before them as Prince Olive, regal in my Tazhan armor, commanding as much glory as any warrior whose bones adorn this temple.
But much like that pampered princess, this isn’t who I am. At least, not entirely. I’m still playing a role—one I’ve played for so long that I’m no longer sure who I’ll be when I stop pretending. Certainly not Princess Olive, the girl who spent her days scurrying for Mother’s approval, or going on vapidly about court fashion and gossip.
The desert made Prince Olive hard. Whether fighting demons in the Maze or Majah assailants where I sleep, I have never felt truly safe in Desert Spear, save when sleeping in the pillows beside Prince Chadan. Now my prince is gone, and I fear I may never feel safe again. But I can go home, and perhaps find something of what remains beneath Prince Olive’s hardened shell.
I long to be rid of Desert Spear. Of its ghosts and demons and petty politics. I have shared blood and made bonds with my spear brothers, but their leaders have only ever dealt with me in bad faith.
Yet I must do this one last thing, see my sister and my prince to their afterlife, before that new life can begin.
I am no great believer that death holds secrets beyond oblivion, nor do I have faith in Everam, or the Creator the Tenders speak of in the North. Mother raised me to have a healthy skepticism for clerics and “sacred” text. Respect the faith of others, she would say, but do not believe anyone who ascribes explainable events to the divine, or who is so fixed in their beliefs that they refuse to consider contradictory evidence.
I don’t think there really is a Heaven, and abyss is just a word for the magic-saturated world that exists beneath the surface of Ala. I have seen it with my own eyes and it is terrifying, but nothing about the experience suggested the influence of a greater power.
I’ve seen men come to blows over lesser blasphemy, but I am wise enough to keep such thoughts to myself.
My prince and my sister believed in Everam, even if I do not. The prayers and rituals meant something to them, and they in turn meant something to me. How can I honor those I loved without honoring their beliefs?
Even if I do not believe in the Creator, I do believe in magic. It is a quantifiable, measurable fact. The core magic that seeps up from the center of the world, and the bone magic of heroes. I’ve seen the power of Sharik Hora in wardsight. Mother herself was a ward witch, and I spent countless hours studying the art in the Chamber of Shadows, though I never had her knack.
Micha and Chadan spent their lives dreaming of dying with glory, and having their bones grace this sacred temple. And I know the sacrifice of their final hours will make the power of their hora potent and pure. What kind of sister, what kind of…friend would I be, if I did not stand up and see to it that they were honored as they deserve?
When I reach the altar, I offer Damaji Aleveran a shallow bow. Respectful—barely—but far short of the obeisance even the most powerful members of the Majah tribe show their Damaji. “I, Olive asu Ahmann am’Jardir am’Paper, will speak for the dead.”
There are murmurs in the audience at the audacity of my shallow respect, but also at the sound of my father’s name. All Majah once believed Ahmann Jardir was the Deliverer. Many still do.
Aleveran is within his rights to demand I kneel, but he knows better. I will never willingly kneel before this man, and even if—and it is a big if—he could get the Sharum to force me to my knees, he would only lose face and support for doing so.
Aleveran wants me gone as much as I do. One last dance, and we can part ways forever. He returns an even shallower nod, still a public honor, especially after such a slight.
“Welcome, son of Ahmann.” The Damaji stretches a hand out at me, and another to the Witness Pulpit. “Speak your truth, for Everam and all His children to hear.”
I keep my back rigidly straight, standing as tall as I can as I ascend to the sacred Witness Pulpit—built from the ribs, spines, and shoulder blades of martyrs. It is said the bones will burn the hands of any who speak a lie from the blessed lectern. Part of me wonders if that is truth or legend, but I won’t be finding out. Today I speak only truth, whatever the cost.
“Before you lies my grandson, Chadan asu Maroch am’Majah,” Aleveran intones with all the emotion of a marble statue. “What glory does Prince Chadan bring, to earn his place in the Temple of Heroes’ Bones?”
He gestures to the first of the three bodies on the altar. A turban hides the ruin of Chadan’s head, making my prince appear whole. His powdered face is serene, as if he were peacefully sleeping and might wake at any moment. His armor hugs me like a Solstice gown, still smelling like him. I can feel his presence, even now.
The hurt of it threatens to overwhelm me, but I hear the steadying mantra of my old tutor in my head. Fear and pain are only wind. Bend as the palm, and let them blow over you.
I close my eyes. I had never seen a palm tree when Dama’ting Favah first spoke those words to me. A month later she came to me during a great storm, leading me to a window overlooking a willow tree on a small hill, whipped about by the winds and rain. It bent and swayed, weathering the storm without losing so much as a branch.
I picture that tree now, letting my spirit sway in time with the winds of sorrow. I am here as an advocate, not a mourner. As a man, to speak of Chadan’s deeds and glory, not as a woman to weep over his body.
But I am a woman. Or part of me is. And why shouldn’t I weep for Chadan? What does it matter, if I love as a man or as a woman? Will I ever love anyone the way I loved my prince?
I swallow a lump in my throat, afraid my grief will tie my tongue, but in the end, it is not difficult to speak of why I loved Prince Chadan.
“Chadan asu Maroch am’Majah was the bravest man I have ever known.” I grip the lectern, unafraid of its supposed power. “We were blooded in alagai’sharak together, not in the Maze, but on the streets of the chin quarter, where he refused to leave even the lowest beggar to the alagai while there was breath in his body.
“Time and again, the alagai came for his charges,” I say. “Women. Children. Khaffit. And let us not forget his spear brothers. Each time, the demons met instead the shield and spear of the son of Maroch!” I clench a fist, raising it for all to see. “I would be dead,” I sweep my hand over the Sharum in the front of the men’s side of the aisle, “all of us would be dead, if not for Prince Chadan. I saw this.”
As one, my spear brothers stamp their feet, a sound that reverberates in the domed temple. “I saw this!” they shout in unison.
The refrain gives me confidence. Chadan’s afterlife, at least, is secure. “When Waning came, and Alagai Ka walked the surface of Ala, even a brave man could be forgiven his fear. But the son of Maroch did not balk. Not when the Father of Evil sent his minions to tear down our walls. Not when the only way to end the threat was to venture down into the eternal night below, where Alagai Ka had corrupted the undercity and made it his own. I saw this.”
“I saw this!” Again my brothers stamp their feet, this time joined by Arick and even Selen, though I imagine it is a scandal to hear a voice from the women’s side of Sharik Hora.
“Grievously injured by the demon king, Chadan could have lain down and died with honor, his soul bright with glory. But doing so would have left me defenseless before the enemy, and that, my prince could not allow.”
Again my throat tightens. I don’t mention that Chadan’s injury came not from a demon but from my possessed half brother Prince Iraven, or that he would have killed me, too, had my prince not ignored the blade in his lung to throw himself back into the fight. I do not mention that it was his own spear brothers, under the demon’s control like Iraven, that finally brought Chadan down and dragged him before the demon king.
I swore to speak only truth, but that does not mean I must speak every truth.
“In the end, it was Alagai Ka himself who killed the son of Maroch. Sharum dream of a worthy death, and what could be worthier than to fall to the First Demon, Nie’s hand on Ala? I saw this.”
“I saw this!” my brothers cry, stamping, though in truth they did not. All were puppets to the demon’s will when it feasted on Chadan’s mind. But when we broke its control, they saw the horrid aftermath, and know my words are true.
Aleveran turns to his councils of clerics, but none are fool enough to contradict or offer question to my testimony. Aleveran gives them hardly a moment to nod their accord before raising his hands, signaling the nie’dama serving the altar to ring bells that signal acceptance.
“Everam, giver of life and light, accept the bones of Chadan asu Maroch to bless this great temple, in your eternal name.”
Muscular priests bow to the altar, then lift the poles of Chadan’s bier and carry it down to the undertemple for preparation.
When they are gone, there is a brief respectful moment of silence for Prince Chadan. I close my eyes, wishing his spirit well—whatever that truly means. All too soon, Aleveran’s voice breaks me from the reverie.
“Before you lies Iraven asu Ahmann am’Jardir am’Majah.” Aleveran’s voice is equally flat as he introduces my half brother, a man who was an endless thorn in his side and threat to his power. “What glory does Prince Iraven bring, to earn his place in the Temple of Heroes’ Bones?”
Unable to look at Iraven, my eyes flick to the council of dama’ting, where Iraven’s mother Belina is watching, eyes full of hate. Jongleurs’ tales are full of evil stepmothers, but there are few to match my own. Belina ruined my life without a thought to bring glory to her only surviving son. Now he, too, is dead. All that remains of her family is her daughter Linavah, supposedly held hostage by my father in the North, much as I was held here.
I know Belina fears what I will say—fears I will deny her son the one honor left to him. Creator knows, I want to. The Sharum chose their voice, and there is nothing Belina can do to prevent me from speaking my truth.
But she does not understand me as well as she believes.
“Iraven had a Sharum’s heart,” I say. “I stood on the walltop with him when the alagai breached the great gate three moons ago. He could have sealed off the Maze, sacrificing the men trapped within, but he refused to abandon his warriors. He could have ordered the gate retaken from the safety of the walltop, but he would not ask men to brave a battle he feared. The Majah son of Ahmann leapt into the courtyard and led the attack himself, retaking the gate and scouring the Maze. Hundreds of Sharum owe him their lives. I saw this.”
Again the Sharum stamp their feet. “I saw this!”
“And when the demons tunneled below the chin quarter,” I continue, “bursting from the streets, Iraven could have sacrificed the chin to conserve warriors. But all people are siblings in the night, and the Majah son of Ahmann would suffer none to die. He struck Drillmaster Chikga to the ground for suggesting otherwise. I saw this.”
“I saw this!” my chorus of warriors booms.
I hope those words alone will be enough, but I see already they will not. While Chadan’s petition was mere formality, Iraven’s is more of a trial. Many powerful Majah clerics consider Iraven—and Belina—to be interlopers, and would deny him if they could. The venom is still in Belina’s gaze as I decline to say more.
This time, when Aleveran looks to his council, his son Dama Maroch, Chadan’s father, steps forward with practiced precision. “By your own words, son of Ahmann, much of the tragedy of the past Waning can be laid at Prince Iraven’s feet. He betrayed us all, failing to seal the breach last Waning, and leading our best warriors into a trap beneath the city. Do you truly believe he is a worthy candidate to join Sharik Hora?”
There are gasps in the audience at this, and nods of assent from other dama. The council has already heard my testimony, and that of the other witnesses, but the gathered worshippers have not. This could have been settled behind closed doors, but Aleveran wanted Iraven’s dishonor made public, to weaken the support of those who still believe my father to be the rightful ruler of all Krasia.
