The Hidden Queen, page 31
Faseek thrashes as the barbed head is drawn clear, but Jaia has leverage, and he does not skew the work. I wince at the blood and flesh that coats the arrow as Favah tosses it into a bowl.
Faseek has gone limp again. Jaia holds gauze under pressure on both wounds. Favah produces hora—rare and valuable in Hollow, where no one has encountered a demon in more than a decade. She brings the charged demonbone close to the ward circles she has painted on Faseek’s flesh, and they begin to glow as they draw power from the hora.
The wards seem to spin, growing brighter and brighter. So bright they obscure the wound as I squint from the glare, finally needing to look away as the spell reaches its climax and the wardlight fades once more. The demon bone in Favah’s hand crumbles to dust, its power spent.
“Why isn’t he breathing?” I croak through my surgical veil.
“The breath was trapped inside his chest when the lung collapsed.” Favah does not look at me as she and Jaia roll Faseek onto his back. “We will need to give it a path to escape before the lung can reinflate. Needle.”
Jaia hands Favah a long, hollow needle, and my teacher does not hesitate, driving it between my spear brother’s ribs. Trapped air escapes with a hiss, and Faseek gasps his first full breath since the arrow struck. Soon he is breathing normally, and Favah turns to the shaft still jutting from his shoulder.
“Glory in your breath, Sharum,” Favah soothes. “Embrace the pain and be still, if you wish to ever hold a spear again.”
Faseek tenses at that, and I can see fear in his eyes. He was considered a weakling in sharaj and would have been cast out, if not for me. But when he was put to the test in the night, Faseek showed the heart of a hero.
Wounded veterans are celebrated in Hollow, but in Krasia, a warrior who can no longer fight shames himself and his family. Warriors are meant to spend their lives on alagai talons, not limp home and burden their families. Countless Sharum have taken their own lives rather than surrender to such a fate.
But even in Desert Spear, Favah’s name is spoken in respectful whispers among the dama’ting. Her threat is meant to keep Faseek still while she works, but now that he is breathing again, I’ve stopped worrying. So long as the arm remains attached, anything Favah cannot heal with surgery can be repaired with magic.
Favah continues to speak as she works, explaining what she is doing, and why. Not for Jaia’s benefit, but mine.
Still teaching, even now.
Darsy’s work is long done by the time Favah finishes stitching the wound. She turns to look at me. “He will need two Wanings to heal, and it may be months of therapy before…”
I shake my head. A small gesture, but Favah takes my meaning. I need Faseek fighting fit, and soon. She lets out a sigh but does not argue, painting another set of wards around a neat row of stitches on Faseek’s shoulder. With the benefit of surgery, less power is needed, and Jaia produces a much smaller bit of hora to power the spell. Again the wards glow, turning the swollen and ugly wound into a thin scar in mere moments. Even that fades, as the bone crumbles, and Favah cuts and removes the stitches with quick flicks of her hanzhar.
My ancient teacher turns to me once more. “And Prince Ramm?”
“He will live,” I say.
Favah raises an eyebrow. “Does he require healing?”
“He does not deserve it,” I say.
“He is your brother,” Favah reminds me. “Blood of the Deliverer.”
“Who attacked me in the night rather than challenge me to my face,” I growl.
Favah nods. “And you were within your rights to kill him. But you did not. Now he is your prisoner. Do you know what your mother would do with an injured prisoner, regardless of their crime?”
I frown, because I know the answer, and I don’t like it. “I’ll have a Gatherer tend his wounds, but no hora. He can heal the natural way.”
“Of course.” Favah gives me a shallow bow. “It is late, Highness. Come again in the morning, and we will speak more.”
The invitation is polite, but it is as much a summons as my Tikka’s. Still, I bow in response, deeper and longer than the venerable dama’ting. This is not how I imagined our first meeting on my return.
Our relationship will change tomorrow, but for now I remain her student, and she my teacher. “Of course. Apologies for disturbing you after hours, honored Favah.”
* * *
—
There are guards everywhere as I finally return to my rooms. In the hall, on the terrace, some even in the room with me, spear brothers and house guards I have known my entire life. Arick and Selen were waiting in full armor when I emerged from the university surgery, and even Darin Bales allowed me to glimpse him, letting me know he was keeping watch.
I might once have found so many spears around while I try to sleep disconcerting, but I grew used to sleeping with my spear brothers in sharaj, and seeing trusted faces all around finally lets me relax enough to close my eyes.
It’s morning when I next open them, sunlight streaming in through the curtains. I stretch, and last night’s wounds are little more than tightness and a dull ache. A good night’s sleep for me is a week’s healing for most folk.
But there is a cost to the healing. Even magic cannot not create new flesh from nothing. I eat breakfast like a pregnant woman, and continue snacking as Selen brings in an assortment of wooden breastplates from the armory.
Tarisa was right that my Tazhan armor, black steel designed to mimic the scales of a demon, sends the wrong message at court. For every fool like Manda who speaks their prejudice aloud, there are others who quietly share the sentiments. The Krasians were not kind when they conquered southern Thesa.
The ache in my side is proof I cannot walk unprotected, even in my most private spaces. Hollow wooden armor is light and thin, carved with wards and bonded to glass enamel. Charged by the city’s greatward, it is strong as warded glass. I find a breastplate snug enough to fit like a vest, invisible beneath my peplum blouse and surcoat. I sling a shield on my back and cover it with the warded cloak Mother made for me.
I ride my own horse to the university, refusing to hide in an armored carriage. My honor guard keeps the folk from my path, but I remember Arther’s words and put on a smile I do not feel, waving to the crowds that spontaneously form along the streets.
I need no guide through the halls of Gatherers’ University, but it is surreal entering Favah’s classroom, even so. I am no longer the nervous girl who walked these halls, fretting over test scores and hours in the Chamber of Shadows.
Favah kneels serenely in the same place she always did when I would come for lessons. The door shuts behind me, wards of silence activating around the room, and I am alone with my teacher for the first time in more than half a year.
I leave my spear and shield at the door, sweeping my cloak back to kneel across from her. Then, for the first time in my life, I put my hands on the floor and press my forehead between them, as the Krasians do in supplication.
“Teacher.” My voice is tight. “I apologize in sincerity for the insolence of my youth. I deeply regret that I did not offer the respect you were due. How could I have known that your honored name is spoken with awed whispers even now in the court of my father, and half the world away in Desert Spear?”
I rise, kneeling with my back up straight, meeting her eyes at last. But Favah surprises me, putting her own hands and forehead to the floor with surprising limberness for one so ancient. “Olive asu Ahmann vah Leesha am’Jardir am’Paper, it is good to look upon the real you at last.”
“The real me?” I ask as she rises.
“Your mother and the Damajah both demanded an oath that I instruct you as nie’dama’ting,” Favah tells me. “I do not give oaths lightly, or when my own foretellings disagree. The dice told me it was not your fate to wear the white veil, but that I should pass on what wisdom I could to the leader you would become.”
Again the dice, but this time I cannot fault this casting. Indeed, I am thankful for it. “By your training I was able to save many of my brothers from crippling or death, sometimes even as the fighting still raged.”
Favah nods. “It is one thing to operate in a pristine theater on a sedated patient, and another to stem the flow of blood from a man screaming and thrashing in the dust. You have honored what you were given. There is no feud between us. I, too, was insolent in my youth.”
I find that hard to believe, but I do not argue. “There is more wisdom I need from you, if you will give it, but not as it was before. As student and teacher, we knelt together in this chamber.” I roll back on my heels and stand, extending a hand. “Now I ask you to stand with me. To offer me truth and not obeisance. Advice and not instruction. To be my ally, not my subject.”
Favah takes the offered hand, though she puts no weight on it as she rises. “You’re a lot like him, you know.”
I cock my head. “Like who?”
“Your father,” she says. “Ahmann despised sycophants. He was literate, but not a scholar. Pure of heart, but not a cleric. Humble, but not a fool. His first language was that of the spear, but he guided the blade with a surgeon’s hand by respecting seer and merchant’s tally alike, and led with his heart as much as his head.”
She squeezes my hand. “You will not be the leader he was. Or your mother. You will be the leader you are. But that does not mean you cannot exceed them both.”
A difficult climb, but I will need to prove it true, if I am to navigate the path ahead. “And what wisdom would you offer, to help me get there?”
“First you must survive, little Princes.” Favah points to the hanzhar on my belt. “It is time you learned how to use that.”
I brush my fingers against the new sheath I had made to replace the one I crushed. “I know…”
I don’t have time to finish the sentence as Favah’s hand darts out, grasping the hilt and spinning the blade through the air to rest cold against my throat.
“A nie’dama’ting first must learn to use her hanzhar to heal,” Favah says, “before she is taught to use it to harm.”
* * *
—
Count Thamos built dungeons beneath the keep, but Mother hasn’t used them since the war. The walls and floors are rough unfinished stone, and it is filthy, smelling of must. Spiderwebs hang from ceiling beams, and I can hear the squeak of rats. Mother would be horrified. Rats spread disease.
The one thing that has not fallen into disrepair is the wards Mother carved into the rock, creating a constant magical Draw. After a night here, whatever excess magic my brother Drew from his hora has been drained away.
Ramm has been stripped to his bido, and all of his possessions have been searched. The guards found more throwing blades and powerful hora jewelry, but that was not the most interesting item on his person.
A Gatherer has seen to Prince Ramm’s wounds, but, denied magic, he will have a slower path to recovery. Still, when I reach his cell, my brother is exercising, using the steel bars of his cell to pull himself up over and over, despite the heavy chains at his wrists and ankles.
“Brother,” I say, as he meets my eyes with a coldness that is unsettling even now, when I have every advantage. “I apologize for the filth. These chambers have not been used in many years.”
Ramm only grunts, dropping to the floor and limping to his cot. A rat, startled by the move, scurries out from beneath. My brother flicks a wrist, sending a wave through his chain that cracks into the rodent like a whip, breaking its back. “Your chin prisons are soft. If you lack the strength to kill me, it will not be long before I make my escape.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” I say. “My mother’s prison may be soft, but I assure you her wards are not.”
I hold up the flamework weapon he used as a last resort when the battle turned against him. “Where did you get this?”
Ramm laughs. “We are not fools in the Mehnding tribe. When Jayan’s army was destroyed by your greenland fire chemics, we sent spies into the ruin of Angiers to learn of them. They came away with one of the mountain spears that launched the deadly projectiles, though it took some time to unlock its secrets.”
It makes sense. Mother, too, had the secrets of fire and diagrams of the weapons of the old world. She outlawed their use in Hollow, even as they became more common in the militias of Angiers and Miln after the war. It was only a matter of time before the Krasians added them to their arsenal.
You must seize every advantage, Inevera had said. Good advice, even if I do not entirely trust the advisor.
I tuck the weapon away and look at him again. For all his bravado, Ramm has little to bargain with if he hopes to ever see his home again.
It isn’t difficult to guess why Ramm would come for me. With the Majah returned to the desert, the Mehnding are the second most powerful tribe in new Krasia. As their crown prince, Ramm has spent his entire life just heartbeats away from the Skull Throne.
“You and Vuxan failed to kill me,” I say. “Who will be the third prince to accept my challenge?”
Ramm shrugs. “Your information network is better than mine, little brother, if you know of another.”
“Demonshit,” I say.
There are teeth missing from Ramm’s smile, but it only makes him more unsettling. “Why should I help you, even if I knew?”
I cross my arms. “To keep the courts from executing you for attempting to assassinate the heir to Hollow?”
Ramm laughs again. “The courts are an extension of your will, brother. You did not have the courage to kill me when I came for you in the night. I do not think you will find it now, or be so weak as to hide behind your pitiful ‘courts’ to absolve your cowardice.”
The words needle at me, mostly because I know he is right. Capital punishment is another thing Mother outlawed in Hollow. None would challenge me if I made an exception, but I do not think I can find it in myself to kill another of my brothers. Iraven’s eyes still haunt me.
I offer my brother a smile. “I don’t have to kill to destroy you. I can simply let you rot in your cell while every Jongleur in Thesa sings of your shame. Prince Ramm the coward, who struck in the night and dared not face his youngest sibling in fair challenge, yet still failed the contest. At least our Krevakh brother kept something of his honor in defeat. Will your tribe’s Sharum even follow you after this, without Father’s shadow for you to hide in?”
Ramm’s mouth tightens, and for once he does not have a laugh or retort at the ready. “Why on Ala would one of our brothers confide their plans in me?” he asks instead. “If Father is truly gone, then Prince Kaji will not sit the throne for long.”
I feel my skin go cold. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Ramm speaks slowly, as if to a child, “the bloodshed has only just begun.”
* * *
—
Arther is waiting as I emerge from the dungeons, and from there it is another long afternoon of meetings, tallies, and politicking. The first minister does his best to ease the burden, telling me who to flatter and who to bully, whispering names and relevant laws, proclamations and agreements as I need them.
Still, there is much to learn. I trust Arther, but simply acting on his word grates on me. Mother knew all these things herself, and was more powerful for it. Even an honest baron can get a tally wrong, she would say.
The last meeting of the day comes unexpectedly, as Grandmum arrives without an appointment. None of Hollow’s barons intimidate Arther, but he is quick to excuse himself when Elona appears.
“Olive!” Grandmum is all hugs and kisses. Her cloying perfume clings to my coat even as she withdraws to take the most comfortable chair in the sitting area, the one usually reserved for Mother.
“Took my advice, I see,” Grandmum says.
“Ay, how’s that?” I ask, my mind still on mining contracts in New Rizon.
“Not hiding who you are, anymore,” she elaborates. “Princes Olive! I love it!”
It’s true Elona counseled this course moons ago, but I didn’t do it for her. “I didn’t have much choice when I was thrown into sharaj with the men in Krasia,” I say. “I don’t know that I would have had the courage to take your advice on my own, but I am glad it’s done.”
“Ent done by a long sight,” Grandmum says. “You’re off to a good start, but the folk still don’t quite know what to make of this ‘princes’ business. They’re used to seeing you in jewelry and gowns, not arms and armor.”
“What does it matter?” I say.
“It matters if I ever want great-grandchildren!” Elona says. “How are we going to get you married if folk don’t know if you’re man or woman?”
“I’m both,” I say, “and I’m not looking to get married.”
“Doesn’t matter what you’re looking for,” Elona says. “You owe it to Hollow to give them an heir.”
I used to dream of having children of my own. I would have done it in a heartbeat with Prince Chadan. But now…“I don’t even know what that would look like. Mother believed I could carry a child to term in my own belly, or father one on a woman.”
“I expect you have a preference by now.” Elona winks.
I wince and shrug in reply. “I’ve only ever kissed two people, a girl and a boy, and I liked them both.”
“Take one of each, if you like!” Elona laughs. “Wouldn’t that be something? Why should your da be the only one to marry more than once?”
The idea isn’t as appealing to me as it seems to be to Grandmum. I wanted to marry for love, not duty. Now she’s talking about taking a harem like a Krasian prince.
