The Hidden Queen, page 59
The csar feels different, with my father returned. For a brief moment, I was absolute ruler here. The very stones of the fortress answered to me.
But the Spear of Ala knows its true master. My replica crown is only a shadow of my father’s, as is my skill at using it. I can still sense the csar, call its power, but I can no longer peer into the hearts of everyone inside or Draw too much without my father’s sufferance.
Father keeps his royal family close, but it is unclear if we are advisors, gatekeepers, or simply bodyguards. The moment we are inside the csar’s walls, he begins touring the defenses. Ashia leads our bodyguard in the front while I walk at Father’s right and Amanvah, his left. Asome brings up the rear.
I try not to think too much about my brother standing so close to my back. I can only hope that if he turns to treachery again, I will sense the change in his aura in time to act. Father seems unconcerned.
And why should he be concerned? The Sharum, even my Majah spear brothers, worship Ahmann Jardir like a god. Steel-eyed warriors, killers of killers, fall to their knees at his passage, pressing foreheads to the ground in utter submission.
The Hollow Soldiers—many of whose families were refugees of Father’s invasion of the green lands—have good reasons to mistrust, but Krasia was an ally against the demons in the war, and our borders have been peaceful and prosperous in the years since. They take their cues from the general and me, accepting this change of command with military stoicism.
Even Gared calls my father sir as often as not, and defers to him without question. I can look into individual hearts still, though it is no great mystery that Gared is happy to have the adults back in charge. He resents my father for his invasion all those years ago, but they have shed blood together in the night, and the general holds my father in more than a little awe.
“Folk sometimes say they feel safer when I’m around,” Gared told me when I asked him about it, “like no matter what happens, I got it handled.”
He wasn’t bragging. I grew up feeling that way about him myself.
“Ent a lot of men make me feel like that,” he went on. “Just Darin’s da, and yours. If Ahmann Jardir’s on our side, we’re going to win.”
He really believes that. They all do. Everyone who knows my father is afraid of him, awed by him. But if he is so powerful, why did he need our rescue? Is it disrespectful to see him as a man, albeit a powerful one?
Certainly Ahmann Jardir exudes regal power. His bearing, his gestures, his voice, all masterfully perform the art of statecraft Mother tried so hard to instill in me. He inspires and heartens everyone around him, bringing new unity to our tired and divided forces as he reviews the defenses I have positioned around the csar.
Father’s experience as a military commander is legendary. I can’t help but feel anxious, my stomach churning like it would when Mother would unexpectedly begin quizzing me on my studies. I’ve learned a bit at the head of an army these last months, but most of my training was on the unit level, defending set portions of the Maze. Thankfully, I had Ashia to advise me.
Rhinebeck is drilling the Flamework Corps when we inspect the walltops. Like me, Rhinebeck doesn’t really know my father. To him Ahmann Jardir is the infamous warlord who murdered and displaced tens of thousands of people in his conquest of the south, not to mention killing Rhinebeck’s father and uncles. He is stone-faced as I introduce him to Father, and he falls, uninvited, into line behind us as Father continues his tour.
“Flamework is best at shorter range,” Father says. “Why position them at the walltops?”
My guts clench, but I keep the anxiety from my voice. “The demons have driven other subterranean creatures to attack us, including minoc…”
“Who are unhindered by the greatward,” Father says, nodding. “The Flamework Corps keeps the walltops clear for the scorpion teams. Wisely done.”
As much as I tell myself he’s only a man, childish giddiness washes over me at his approval. I fall into my breath, embracing the feeling and letting it go. Now more than ever, I cannot let the others see weakness in me.
Father has more questions, but again I know the answers, feeling less and less a fraud, even as I realize how much I have to learn. The places where he repositions our troops, he is right to do so.
The replica crown feels heavier than it did before. I never really wanted it. Now with my father in command it feels almost wrong to continue wearing it.
But my father does not suggest I remove it. Indeed, I stand at his right hand, a clear sign to the Krasians and alamen fae that I am his heir. The power of the replica crown is exhilarating, addictive, and we are about to face the greatest threat of our lives. It is not something I am willing to give up just to ease my own discomfort. Blood-locked to my chin, it cannot be taken from me if I do not wish it.
Am I more like Asome than I think? I do not covet power, but neither will I relinquish it.
“Olive will stand atop the dais, right of the Skull Throne,” Father says as we approach the seven steps on the altar of Sharik Hora. Again I suppress a girlish thrill at Father’s esteem. Here, most of all, I must never lose composure.
“Amanvah.” Father gestures to the Pillow Throne on the dais of the sixth step.
My sister puts her hands together, bowing even as we walk. “Yes, Father.”
“Ashia, the base of the steps,” he says. The traditional place of the First Warrior. “General Gared, opposite.”
“Your will, Shar’Dama Ka.” Ashia punches a fist to her chest.
“Ay,” Gared says simply, but he, too, pushes down a little thrill at having earned his place.
Father’s face is serene, eyes closed as he ascends the steps. I remember the feeling. He is becoming one with the csar and everyone in it. When he sits the throne and the connection is direct, he will feel he is the csar, and every sacrifice made to build it from heroes’ bone. It is glory and ecstasy and three thousand years of pain, mixed with the sum of the current inhabitants’ hopes and fears.
Caught in the throes of it, I do not know if he is aware of Asome following us up the steps, or if his thoughts are sweeping across millennia like stacks in a library. Either way, he does not protest as his eldest living son takes his place unbidden at Father’s left hand on the sixth step, on par with his sister and only a step from me. I remember how fast he was when we fought. How deadly.
As the right hand, it falls to me to protest my brother’s presence, but I dare not interrupt Father as the glowing lines of magic connecting his crown and the throne shine brighter and brighter until they become one aura of light with him inside.
My siblings and I take our places, regal as we look down at the other leaders standing like penitents. Rhinebeck and my grandfather, Briar and the alamen fae. Gatherer Roni, Gorvan and Faseek. I stand stone-faced, waiting for Father to speak.
Then Darin Bales appears and scares the core out of me.
I’m moving before I’ve realized it’s him, hooking his arm and locking it tight as I put my hanzhar to his throat. Only then do I recognize my friend. He smirks, turning to mist and slipping my hold.
“Corespawn it, Darin Bales!” No matter how many demons and monsters I kill, how many troops I command, Darin Bales can still make me feel like I only have ten summers to my name.
“Son of Arlen!” Father is on his feet immediately, showing far more enthusiasm for the son of his friend than for his own children. He tries to sweep Darin into a hug, but again Darin collapses, misting a couple steps to the side and forming up again.
Father only chuckles. “Now you remind me of your sire.”
It’s the wrong thing to say to Darin. He hates being compared to his da all the time. I wish I could say it serves him right for sneaking up, but I don’t want anyone to feel that way.
I cross my arms. “You have learned some new tricks.”
Darin shrugs, a little chastened. No doubt he smells my irritation and didn’t really mean to step in it like he did. “Still gettin’ used to it, myself. Your mam says she loves you and she’s proud of you.”
“She’s alive?!” The words hit me like a kick in the chest, again breaking my careful composure. “Is she all right?”
“Ay,” Darin says. “We found them, Olive. Mam and Aunt Leesha, even Wonda and Kendall.”
Relief floods me, but Father seems tenser than ever. “If you found your mother, why isn’t Renna am’Bales here with you now?”
Darin chews his lip. I know that gesture. It means there’s something he doesn’t want to talk about because he’s scared of getting emotional, but this is too big to keep to himself. “New demon queen’s already hatched. Mam fought her off, but she got stung.”
It’s all he needs to say. There is nothing more deadly than a demon queen’s venom. Mrs. Bales, who used to sing me to sleep and delight us with her ale stories, is gone.
I feel his pain like it’s my own. “Oh, Darin.” Gared lets out a grief-stricken moan, but it’s Darin I keep focus on. His mother and father, both taken from him the same way, sixteen years apart. I can see the pain inside him, shriveled up in the center of his aura like a black prune, kept under pressure by his immense will. I fear what will happen when he can no longer keep it contained.
I want to throw my arms around him. To call Amanvah for tear bottles and weep together, lancing and draining some of that pain away, but Darin is not me. I know my friend and know what he needs. I lay a hand on his arm instead, squeezing gently but firmly, giving him a pressure to focus on without the suffocation of a hug.
Darin seems to draw strength from the gesture, and I am grateful. “Queen grabbed Alagai Ka and fled. Got thousands of drones, and I’ll bet the pot they’re headed straight here.”
Father nods with unnatural calm, as if Darin had simply warned of a coming rain shower. “How long do we have?”
Darin shrugs again. “Queen can’t mist, and the rest of them are staying solid to keep her surrounded. Headed here on foot, and they left maybe…four hours ago? Six? How long does it take a horde of demons to run a thousand miles?”
Father shakes his head. “Not long enough.”
* * *
—
“Olive, you will sit the throne when I go out to meet Alagai’ting Ka.”
Father has taken one of Ashia’s glass spears, laced with electrum. I’ve watched him knead magic into it like dough as he meets with his commanders and sets them to task. By the time he gets to me, the weapon is alight with power. If any weapon other than the Spear of Kaji can kill a demon queen, it is that one.
I’m getting better at reading hearts, now, especially those close to me. I sense the wounded pride in Asome’s aura without even looking at him, but my brother says nothing as I punch my fist to my chest. “Yes, Father.”
“Two thrones, now?” Darin asks as we exit the audience. “Startin’ a collection? Maybe the Damajah was right to worry.”
“I don’t want any of them,” I say, perhaps a little too vehemently.
“Ent turnin’ ’em down,” Darin notes.
“Never been given much choice in the matter,” I say. “Lord Arther told me Hollow’s whole economy might crash if I didn’t put a crown on my head. You think I want to be stuck sitting on a pile of skulls while my warriors take the field under Father’s command?”
“Ay, just tweakin’ your nose,” Darin says. “We don’t do that anymore?”
Darin’s aura is unique. Hard to read. Some of it’s the power. Magic he was born with, like me, because our parents were full of it when we were conceived and in the womb. But it’s more than that.
Darin’s emotions are organized differently than others I’ve observed. Most are a constantly shifting spectrum, coexisting with one another on a level the person isn’t even aware of. Others, like clerics and elite warriors, have learned techniques to suppress emotions when they threaten to overwhelm, but they are not truly under control. A crowd of prisoners rattling their bars.
But Darin’s emotions are all kept separate, like the way he keeps different foods on the same plate separate when he eats. Some folk think Darin doesn’t have emotions at all. His face seldom shows them unless he’s mumming. But he does. He’s just got them on a tighter leash, second to his logic as he studies things and works them out.
“We’re not kids anymore, Darin,” I say. “You can’t just spook me in front of everyone like we’ve only got ten summers, chasing around Mum’s keep. Things are serious, and people are looking to us. We need to back each other up, not pop bubbles for fun.”
Darin takes it in and nods. “Ay, I know. Just…a little scared to feel serious right now, that makes any sense.”
“It makes a lot of sense, Darin. I’m scared, too. I want to fight, but the csar’s magic is strongest with someone atop the throne to direct it. Father is the only one among us with the strength to fight the queen directly. He cannot stay behind.”
“Well he got me runnin’ messages,” Darin says, “so you’ll be seein’ me a lot, ’less I get into trouble.”
“I should be there to keep you out of trouble,” I say. “It’s my job.”
“Used to be,” Darin says sadly. “Right we ent kids anymore, Olive. Can’t keep hidin’ behind your skirts. ’Specially since you stopped wearing ’em.”
That gets a chuckle from me. “Dresses aren’t terribly practical on horseback. But if we live to see peace again…” I shrug.
“Speakin’ of life after this,” Darin says, “your boyfriend’s waitin’ for you outside the doors at the end of the hall.”
“He isn’t—” I begin, but Darin cuts me off by tapping his nose.
“Sure it’s complicated,” he says. “Ent lookin’ to argue. But whatever it is, I can smell it on you both. See how you avoid lookin’ at him, too.”
I fall into my breath. “Never could get anything past that nose of yours.”
“Do you want him to be?” Darin asks. “Because he stinks of it. Honest suitor, Mam would say.”
I focus on breathing. “You tell me.”
Darin turns and I see his nostrils flare, but in crownsight I can see him reaching for me with all five senses, and some I don’t even have a name for. A shower of information comes back for him to sort, so much I can’t understand how he processes it all.
I remember all the times he couldn’t—the fits he’d go into, with me and Selen having to carry him sometimes to get away from a crowd or cacophony. For just a second, I understand what it’s like to be Darin, and I marvel at my friend. He’s so much stronger than I knew.
“Don’t know what you want,” Darin says at last.
I cluck my tongue. “I was hoping you knew more than I did.”
Darin reaches out again, this time fixed down the hall as he sucks a breath through his nose. “He smells guilty. Like he’s lookin’ to patch things up. What’d he do?”
I fill Darin in quickly, but he doesn’t have any answers.
“Core if I know how courtin’ works,” he says. “Only reason I’m with Rojvah is because she or Selen or someone always explains what I should do, and I do it.”
“So explain it,” I say. “He’s waiting to talk and I don’t want to. I’m not ready to. What do I say?”
Darin considers. “Said it yourself, I guess. We ent got ten summers anymore. Things are serious. Whatever it is he’s lookin’ to resolve can wait until we know we’re going to live through the week. ’Specially if you’re still raw about what happened.”
“Maybe I’ll get lucky and the demons will eat me first,” I say. Darin laughs, but it’s the fake laugh he does when he doesn’t get the joke but wants to be polite. The black knot of pain in his chest is still there, and growing.
“I know you’re hurting,” I say.
Darin nods. “Know that. Thank you. Reckon there will be plenty of time to fall to pieces, we live to see next week.”
“Next week’s calendar is really filling quickly.” That one gets a genuine laugh out of Darin.
“Going to find Briar,” Darin says. “Give you some peace to talk to your prince.” I reach for him, wanting to offer comfort, but he’s already insubstantial, and then he’s gone.
Rhiney is waiting right where Darin said he would be. His heart is an open book in crownsight, and every bit as sincere as Darin warned. He wants to make peace, to get back to where we were just a week ago, but that seems an impossible divide. Twice now, he has failed me when I needed him most. I understand his reasons, but it doesn’t make the betrayals sting any less.
“Olive.” He reaches for my hand, but I move it just out of his grasp.
I see the hurt in him at the simple act, like a puppy denied a scratch behind the ears. These sorts of things endeared me to him once, but now they only push us further apart.
“Are you afraid your father will see us together?” Rhinebeck asks.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “That has nothing to do with it.” Perhaps it does, a little. “Father can see into the hearts of everyone in this csar. He already knows.”
“Then what is it?” Rhinebeck asks. “That I did not watch you die? That I did not want to rescue the man who…”
“It’s that I can’t trust you!” I snap, and he jumps back as if struck. “Two times I needed you, and two times you weren’t there.”
“And that negates all the times I was?” Rhinebeck demands. “Would you have even made it this far, without me?”
“You’re right,” I say. “Your support has been essential. I don’t know if I could have done this without you. But I don’t owe you kisses, or a promise for it. Did you come all this way for me, or because it was the right thing to do?”
