Queen of Ruin (Grace and Fury)

by Tracy Banghart

  The journey took three agonizing hours. Several of the women were seasick. The soldiers let them move to the rail, the only concession they made. They moved through the women, binding wrists together. Yanking on sore shoulders. Laughing.

  No one tried to fight them, not even Anika. They were all in shock.

  It was past noon by the time they reached Bellaqua. Serina crouched by Val, who’d dragged himself to a spot along the gunwale. One of his eyes had swollen shut, and his lip had split. Ugly streaks of blood dirtied the front of his shirt. Serina knew there were hidden bruises too, because every time he moved he winced in pain. With her arms bound, she could do little more than hold his hands.

  The boat docked at the palazzo’s pier. Serina had expected they would be taken to another prison somewhere, but the spark of surprise at their destination barely touched the haze of defeat engulfing her. The soldiers marched them through the baking sunlight to a cooler hallway at the rear of the palazzo. Servants steered well clear of the line of prisoners, their eyes going wide.

  Serina twisted to search for Mirror and the other injured women, who were all weak and likely to falter. One of the soldiers cuffed her on the shoulder. “Keep moving,” he growled.

  Her heart pounded in her throat. She felt sick. She’d thought she was through with violent guards.

  The line of women moved slowly through narrow hallways and down a steep dark stairwell to a dim passage that smelled like a newly dug grave. They passed a wine cellar, storage rooms, and several closed doors. Even lit, the corridor was as confining—as terrifying—as the lava tube. Serina took tiny, too-quick breaths, the weight of the palazzo pressing down around her.

  At last, at the very end of the hall, they were herded into a room. Unlike where Serina had been held after she was caught with Nomi’s book, this cell wasn’t merely dim and sparsely furnished. It was dark and dank, with weeping stone walls. This was the dungeon.

  And it was far too small. The guards shoved and yanked until every woman was squeezed inside. Somehow Val made it into the room too. Serina wondered if they’d meant to keep him out, to punish him as a traitor and insurrectionist. Execute him, like they’d executed his father. But in the press of bodies and confusion, he managed to stay with her, for which she was painfully grateful.

  There wasn’t room to sit. The cool dark heated quickly, and the constant pressure on all sides was nearly more than Serina could bear. It was worse than the cave on Mount Ruin. There was no air, no space. They’d been buried alive.

  “Please, please,” a voice whispered into the darkness. “Please deliver us.”

  “Just kill me,” someone near Serina muttered, and she recognized it as Anika’s voice, but this time her defiance was laced with desperation.

  Serina wanted to offer a rousing speech, a word of comfort, anything—but the voice of her own defeat drowned everything else out. Val leaned into her and kissed her temple, but he had nothing to say either.

  For hours, they were left alone in the dark. There were no windows to give them a sense of passing time. No water, no food. A couple of the girls swooned. It was difficult to help them in the tight confines.

  Serina dozed standing up for a little while, hounded by nightmares, and she spent her waking hours internally debating where this interminable day stood in the pantheon of her worst life moments. Was it better than the night Petrel died? Worse than her fight with the Commander? At least that debacle had ended with them taking Mount Ruin. Of course, Oracle had been killed.

  At some point, Serina realized she was quietly becoming hysterical, her own frantic panting breaths echoing in her ears. She closed her eyes and imagined vast ceilings and tried to slow the chaotic pace of her heart.

  Hours or days later, a distant clank heralded someone’s arrival. A light clicked on above them, bathing the exhausted, terrified women in its sallow glare. Serina found the strength to push to the front of the room, by the iron door. Anika took the place at her shoulder, Ember on her other side. Serina knew Val stood behind her, with all the women who’d fought so hard to create a new life for themselves. The numbness broke apart under that unforgiving light.

  The door creaked open.

  Four men stood in the hall, three in black uniforms, their hands on their firearms.

  The fourth—

  For a split second, Serina was staring at the ghost of a memory. She was climbing a long staircase, two handsome brothers looking down from the top. One was severe and intense, the other rumpled and distracted.

  Asa had dropped the act. There was nothing disorganized or endearing about him now. His eyes were dark as ink, and the twist of his mouth betrayed his cruelty.

  Did he recognize her? She couldn’t tell. His gaze passed over her without pausing. He surveyed the press of women and smiled. “Ah. My little insurrectionists.”

  Ice razored down Serina’s spine.

  “You know, my father underestimated you,” Asa said conversationally. “He threw you all on an island and gave his guards free rein. He forgot about you. But you wouldn’t be forgotten, would you? You’re smarter than he gave you credit for.”

  He smiled. Serina thought she might be sick.

  “I’m different,” he shared, his eyes glittering. “I appreciate a woman’s intellect. Her propensity for deceit.”

  Asa shifted his weight. Behind him, the guards waited patiently.

  “One such woman, very beautiful, very intelligent, joined your ranks not too long ago. Nomi, where are you?” he raised his voice, calling into the cramped room.

  “She’s dead,” Maris snapped, from somewhere behind Serina. “Just like your brother.”

  Asa went still. “That’s too bad,” he said quietly, knives in his voice. “With you here, I thought I’d get the chance to kill her myself.”

  Serina’s whole body went cold. She had never been so grateful to be separated from her sister than she was at this moment. With any luck, Nomi and Malachi were on their way here already, along with Malachi’s army. Asa would be surprised when they arrived. Serina almost smiled, imagining it.

  “As I was saying,” Asa continued, a little louder, “My father did not fully understand the dangers posed by defiant women. I am not so disillusioned.” His gaze passed over Serina again and paused. “Which is why you will not be moved to another prison. You will all be executed.”

  A collective gasp rose. Serina’s jaw dropped open. Should she be so surprised? Nomi had warned her.

  “One by one,” he said. “Every morning, beginning tomorrow. We’ll draw it out. You, my flowers, will be my examples. A new Superior needs a show of force. You will be mine.”

  Silent tears burned Serina’s cheeks. She had brought them to this.

  “Who’s your leader?” Asa asked. “Do you have one?”

  Serina swallowed. At least she could take responsibility. She raised her chin. His eyes met hers.

  Someone knocked her out of the way.

  “These are my women, and I will die before you hurt them.” Ember stood nose-to-nose with Asa, her every muscle tense with rage.

  “Ember, no!” Serina cried, shock draining every useful thought from her brain. With her bound hands, Ember pushed her farther back into the crowd, without breaking contact with Asa’s sinister glare.

  “Oh, you will die,” Asa said. He grabbed Ember’s chin, and for a moment, Serina thought Ember was going to slam her head into his and make him kill her now. “Tomorrow morning.”

  He tried to push her away from him, but she didn’t flinch or falter. It was a crack in his authority, a slight misstep. For a split second, Ember had the power. Then he snapped a finger and one of his soldiers shoved her into the room.

  Serina and Anika used their shackled arms to hold her up. They wouldn’t let Ember fall.

  I have to fix this. It should be me, Serina thought, but Asa was already closing the door.

  Tomorrow. I’ll make him take me. Not Ember.

  The door stopped creaking. Asa lingered, his gaz
e caught on someone behind Serina. “Maris, dear,” he said. “You look well, considering.”

  Serina spun around. Maris and Helena stood behind her, their hands twined together.

  “That’s… interesting. I think I’d like you for a Grace after all,” Asa said. “I suppose your execution will have to wait. Aren’t you grateful?”

  Mutely, Maris shook her head. Helena pressed closer to her.

  Asa snapped his fingers again.

  The guards shouldered into the room and grabbed her. She wailed and tried to worm away from them, but there was nowhere to go. Helena spit at them and hit them with her shackled hands and shouted at Maris that she loved her as the men dragged her out of the room.

  The door shrieked closed on their screams.

  TWENTY-SIX

  NOMI

  NOMI FOUND A small café near the Bellaqua train station and hid in the back with a cup of espresso. She placed her book on the table and pretended to read, keeping her face deep in the cowl of her cloak. She couldn’t walk through Bellaqua in midday without attracting suspicion. It was hot and sunny out, not wool weather at all. Even here in the café, she sweat inside the cloak’s heavy folds.

  All through the long afternoon, Nomi waited. When the proprietors of the café started giving her looks, she moved on to another establishment. If she’d brought her dress, she might have walked more freely through the city. Then again, soldiers loitered on every corner, and she saw no women walking alone, so perhaps not.

  The day slowly, inexorably tilted toward twilight. When the streets had started clearing and Nomi felt as if she might crawl out of her own skin, she headed out into the heavy, humid early evening.

  She skirted the central piazza—too busy—and snaked down twisting cobbled streets and arching bridges toward the palazzo.

  Malachi had spoken of a bakery, somewhere near the grand canal.

  At last she made it to the waterfront. She studied each shop she passed. A tiny yarn store, a butcher with hare and hog carcasses hanging out front. She bought an apple at a little fruit market, keeping her head down and her voice low.

  Few shoppers were out this close to nightfall, and the ones who were moved quickly, almost furtively. The only women Nomi saw were elderly wives with baskets for the goods their husbands would buy. No young female servants, no young daughters, no young wives. Bellaqua was keeping its girls close.

  Nomi remembered the spectacle of Malachi’s selection ball. There’d been little girls throwing flower petals, dreaming of becoming Graces as the beautiful prospects floated across the canal on golden gondolas. Serina had worn a gown, had smiled as if she could never want for more than the Heir’s attention.

  A group of soldiers turned onto the street a few yards down. Nomi’s stomach twisted. She ducked into a shadowy stationery shop, just before the shopkeeper could lock up.

  “Excuse me,” he muttered.

  “I—I apologize,” Nomi said in her deepest, gruffest voice. “I’ll just be a moment.” From the corner of her cloak, she kept her gaze on the street outside the window, waiting for the soldiers to pass.

  The stationery store smelled of ink and leather and musty paper. Nomi feigned interest in a stack of heavy cream paper with a gold foil border of twisting vines. A soldier appeared before the window on the street outside, so she moved to the back of the store, hidden from the door by a towering, precarious stack of boxes. In a dusty corner, she found a small, cheaply bound journal, with smooth blank pages and a coarse leather cover. She lingered over it a few more minutes, until the shopkeeper pointedly cleared his throat. On her way to the register, she noticed a jar of thick graphite pencils, each with a small razor for sharpening tied to it with twine.

  “How much?” she asked gruffly, holding out one of the pencils and the little journal to the shopkeeper. She hoped she sounded like her brother, and not like a girl playing dress-up in her brother’s clothes.

  “A silver,” the man said.

  Nomi kept her head down as she rummaged in her pocket, never meeting his eyes. She had no clear idea what he looked like, only how he sounded: nasal and vaguely disapproving. Nomi slammed a silver on the counter and snatched her items up. She whirled and headed for the door before he could get a better look at her.

  A peek down the street revealed that the soldiers had disappeared. She slipped out of the shop, the clank of the shopkeeper locking the door behind her loud in her ears.

  It took her another twenty minutes or so to find the bakery Malachi had spoken of.

  The store’s lamps were lit, and a small stream of customers slipped in and out, hands filled with paper boxes of cornettos and almond cookies, loaves of fresh bread and rich chocolate tortas. Nomi’s stomach grumbled painfully.

  She slipped in among the shoppers, quickly surveying the layout along with the baskets of breads and pastries. The front room was small, but a glass divider showed a glimpse of the baker’s ovens in a room beyond, where his wife and daughter were busy cleaning. A hallway led away from the front room to a back door she could just spy the edge of, along with several darkened doorways. Perhaps one led to the basement. Nomi reached for a small round of savory cheese bread, paid for it as quickly as she could, and hustled outside.

  She found a spot deep in the alley across the street, dark enough that her cloak made her disappear, and sat down on the damp stone. There was no breeze here, nothing to cool her overheated skin, but she didn’t brush the hood away from her face. She curled into the heavy night, ate her bread, and waited, comforted, at least, by the food.

  Eventually, the owner of the bakery ushered the last customer out with a hearty “See you next week, Claudio!” and locked the door behind him.

  Nomi snuck a little closer and watched the owner’s wife and daughter finish cleaning up the shop. She waited until, at long last, the lights went out. A few minutes later, the windows on the upper floor brightened. And then, another hour after that, those lights went out as well. Nomi listened for footsteps, any sign that someone was out on the street. When she was sure she was really, truly alone, she scuttled across the street and down the narrow walkway beside the worn stone building. The rear of the shop backed up to the main canal, and soon the smell of brackish water and dead fish overtook the more appealing scents of bread and melted chocolate.

  Nomi’s pulse raced. She glanced across the water at the glitter of the palazzo. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She wouldn’t lose her nerve now. She couldn’t. Her parents deserved justice.

  With a last look at the palazzo, she turned around. The back door of the bakery was also locked. She wrapped her arm in the thick folds of her cloak.

  You’ve already broken the law. You learned to read. You escaped prison. This is child’s play.

  Nomi tried to imagine what Serina would do.

  She wouldn’t hesitate.

  With that thought, Nomi slammed her elbow into the glass panel in the top half of the door. She had to do it a couple of times to break the glass, and the loud crack sent horror coursing through her. She ducked away from the door and waited, breath held, for the baker to rush down and investigate the commotion.

  Endless minutes passed.

  Eventually, she accepted that, miraculously, no one was coming. She carefully reached through the small ragged hole to unlock the door.

  As quietly as she could, she slipped into the bakery, the broken glass crackling under her boots. She put out her hands to feel for the doorways she’d seen as she shuffled down the hallway, her heart clamoring loudly in her throat.

  At last, her hand caught on a door handle.

  It squeaked faintly as she opened it. Stairs, down into a velvet darkness.

  She crept into the black. Why hadn’t she bought a lamp? Or a box of matches, anything to help her. She put her hands out, feeling her way. Malachi had said there was a secret door behind a relief of a fat-bellied man.

  When she reached the bottom of the stairs she knelt, running her hands along the lower half of
the wall, pushing and testing the wood. Nothing. She moved down and repeated her actions. Again, and again. She wriggled between the legs of a table, hands trailing the wall, only to crack her head painfully on a chair set up at the other side.

  Nomi moved the chair out of her way, shuddering as it scraped loudly across the floor. She’d made so much noise… surely someone would come soon. She tried to hurry, but the walls seemed to go on forever, smooth and featureless.

  The darkness pressed close.

  And then it didn’t. A flickering glow bloomed behind her. Heart in her throat, Nomi turned around. There, in the doorway, stood the baker’s wife, a lamp in her hands.

  The woman looked at Nomi.

  Nomi opened her mouth. Shut it again. Her throat closed. Panic made her vision wobble. She needed to breathe. The hood of her cloak had fallen away from her face. This woman could see her, could tell she was a girl, could describe her when the constables came, even if somehow Nomi escaped.

  “Are you loyal to the new Superior?” the woman asked, her voice hoarse and strangely uncertain.

  Nomi started to say yes, but something in the woman’s face, something in the tight worry of her mouth, made Nomi pause. She thought of the girl she’d seen through the window, helping this woman clean up. A daughter. Young, with a sweet round face. Nomi blurted out the truth instead. “I am loyal to the rightful Heir. Malachi.”

  The baker’s wife didn’t respond. Nomi held her breath until her vision sparked at the corners.

  At last, the woman held the lamp a little higher, until the whole room was lit, and inclined her head. Mutely, Nomi turned to look where the woman indicated and saw it. The little fat man.

  Then the baker’s wife disappeared, taking the light with her.

  Nomi let out her breath. She scurried to where she’d seen the relief.

  When her fingertips brushed across the fat belly, she felt a tiny bump in the center and pressed it. With a click, part of the wall opened inward. A wave of stale air wafted up at her. She gulped.