A Queen's Pride

by N. D. Jones

  “This is ridiculous. Is she reciting proverbs?”

  “I’m not sure, sir.” Hernandez looked to Silas.

  “I think she is.”

  “A child of a rat is a rat.”

  “Did she call our ancestors and us rats?” Frank sounded offended.

  “Yeah, that one was easy to figure out. She told me she was Sekhem of the Kingdom of Shona. But she didn’t tell me her sekhem name.”

  “What does it matter what name her mother gave her? It doesn’t change the fact that she’s our prisoner and will have no choice but to cede northern Shona to Vumaris. Besides, in an international court of law, forgery would be easier to prove than coercion, especially if the supposed victim is dead.”

  “I think her sekhem name does matter, Frank. I’m pretty sure that’s part of her message. She mentioned Shona believing in a higher power. I think she means their gods. That’s likely a clue to her sekhem name. Only a handful of deities within the Shona Panthera pantheon are female.”

  Shona may have been an isolationist nation, but they were a learned people who were strategic in what they shared about themselves to those beyond their borders. Their polytheistic beliefs weren’t a secret. Silas’s wife, Claire, had found a used book on ancient Shona mythology at a garage sale. She’d picked it up, dusted it off, and added it to their home library. In preparation for his meeting with the Shona leaders, he’d pulled the book down and had read most of it.

  “If your only tool is a hammer, you will see every problem as a nail.”

  “Pause the video.”

  “Why?”

  “Frank, pause the damn video.”

  “But . . . okay, fine. It’s paused. Happy?”

  “Not even close. The Shona alpha lioness is referred to as sekhem.”

  “We know that. That’s her title. Sekhem Asha. Formerly Hafsa Sekhem Asha.”

  “The title of sekhem is derived from the name of the Panthera Leo’s lion goddess. Her name is Sekhmet.”

  Frank blew out a breath, rolled his eyes, and picked up the remote. “She’s a girl, not a goddess.”

  “She’s a sekhem whose mother, if I’m correct, named her after a goddess of war and destruction. According to the Legend of Sekhmet, the goddess went on a rampage, slaughtering nonbelievers and those who threatened the people of Shona. The fields ran red with the blood of Shona’s enemies. They believe the lion-headed goddess is the reason why humans haven’t encroached on their territory since her murderous rampage. She protects them by killing their enemies. Sekhmet can’t be stopped until her bloodlust has been quenched.”

  Frank and Hernandez stared at Silas. The men wore different expressions. Hernandez appeared ready to deliver a kill shot to Asha. While Frank had the look of a man whose patience had run its course.

  “Asha, Sekhem, Sekhmet, whatever in the hell you want to call that girl on the screen, she’s flesh and blood and no more a threat to us than an itch on our asses. I don’t care who or what the Shona worship.”

  “You should care because she does. It doesn’t matter whether we believe in their gods. They do. It also doesn’t matter how young we think Asha is to rule. Her people will rally behind her because she’s the rightful heir to their throne.”

  “The Shona can’t follow a dead girl. We only need her signature. After that, she’s useless. Just like her lion goddess.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “I’m not. Hernandez, once the goddess signs, you have my permission to put a bullet between her eyes.” Frank resumed the video.

  There wasn’t much left. Asha’s gaze wandered again, and she paused between seemingly nonsensical Shona history facts. But there was no mistaking her threat.

  “Anger and madness are sisters. I am The One Before Whom Evil Trembles.”

  Chapter 8: Lady of Strong Love

  Eight Years Earlier

  The Kingdom of Shona

  City of GoldMeadow

  Temple of Sekhmet

  “I can’t do it.”

  “A pout, a whine, and little faith in self. What am I to do with you?”

  Asha knew she should feel ashamed, but she didn’t. She also knew she should be more patient, but her knees hurt from kneeling, and she was hungry. Finally, Asha knew her mother wouldn’t give her leave to break for lunch until she met her lesson’s objective.

  “I don’t know how to convince her to speak to me.”

  Zarina’s hand grasped Asha’s, her mother on a prayer rug beside her. As always, Zarina never expected Asha to undergo a task she was unwilling to complete alongside her. That thought did bring shame to her heart.

  “I’ll remind you again, speaking to the goddess isn’t today’s lesson, my hafsa. That ability is years above you, as is aligning her spirit with your own. Both skills are too advanced for your young mind.”

  “But I’ll be ten next month.”

  “Ah, yes. Ten is a notable benchmark. Do you imagine, when you move into the two digits, that your patience will double?”

  Asha scooted closer to her mother, warmed by her hand over the top of hers. “Sarcasm also isn’t today’s lesson.”

  Zarina’s laughter filled Asha’s ears and the temple, bouncing off the stone walls and settling at their bent knees. “You mastered the art of sarcasm by age eight. I was quite proud.”

  “Daddy says one sarcastic sekhem in the house is quite enough.”

  “Did he now?”

  Asha nodded.

  “What did you say?”

  “I told him that there was only one sekhem in our home and that I am hafsa sekhem, which is not at all the same.”

  “Of course not. Not the same at all.” Zarina laughed again.

  Asha used the lighthearted moment to snuggle even closer to her mother, dropping her head to her arm and closing her eyes. “I know today’s lesson is for me to clear my mind.”

  “Correct. A cluttered mind is like a house with bars on the windows and doors. No one can enter or exit.”

  “What if I don’t want to leave the safety of my house?”

  “Sometimes, Asha, what appears as safe proves to be nothing more than an elaborate prison. At some point, one must open the door and venture outside, trusting their home will always be there when they are ready to return.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Lips pressed to her forehead and an arm wrapped around her shoulders. “To commune with Goddess Sekhmet, to truly be one with her, you have to open all the doors and windows to your mind and heart. She requires a willing and unafraid vessel. But no sekhem is expected to serve in that physical role. We may be long-lived, Asha, but our bodies are mortal. We aren’t meant to carry the weight of a goddess.”

  Asha opened sleepy eyes. Her mother’s gaze wasn’t on her but on the six-foot standing statue of Sekhmet fifteen feet in front of them. Shona sculptors depicted the goddess as either seated or standing, using black granodiorite combined with a variety of stones. Regardless of the position or the material used for the statue, the designs varied little from the one in the temple. Except for a lion’s head, tail, and clawed hands, the statue was that of a female—naked breasts, a fitted wrap from waist to ankles, and braids that flowed down her back and over her breasts.

  At five, when Zarina had first brought Asha to Sekhmet’s temple, she’d hidden behind her legs, afraid to enter despite having an offering of frankincense oil. She’d seen smaller statues in her home and in most buildings in Shona. Yet stepping in the ancient temple, atop a hill where every khalid and sekhem pledged their undying protection to the people of Shona, had frozen Asha’s legs.

  Zarina had ended up carrying her inside. Not only that day, but every time they’d visited the temple until Asha ceased feeling as if the statue would come alive and claim Asha’s body as her own. At night and alone, Asha admitted she still felt that way, though she knew better than to voice such nonsense to her parents.

  Hearing her mother mention carrying the weight of the goddess as an impractical feat for a mort
al eased five years’ worth of unspoken anxiety. There were times when Asha had curled up next to Mafdet on the couch and watched a horror movie with her godmother. None had given her nightmares, the only reason why Mafdet relented. But Asha disliked movies that involved possession.

  Most characters were possessed by demons or some other equally vile creature. The possession took two forms—forced or voluntary. Sadness and anger had her balling her fists at the awful turn the protagonist’s life had taken after a forced possession, while she yelled at the characters who allowed themselves to be possessed for petty or shortsighted gains. During those times, Mafdet would hit her with a pillow and say, “Quiet it down or I’m turning it off.”

  Asha always quieted it down because, while the thought of possession frightened her, the fear didn’t diminish her curiosity. Could a mortal control a supernatural entity or would they lose themselves—mind, body, and soul?

  “I know you’re still young, hafsa, so I do not expect you to master the art of meditation by your tenth birthday.” Zarina bumped Asha’s shoulder with her own. “But ten is pretty mature. You should at least be able to recite all ten thousand of the goddess’s names before your birthday.”

  “W-what?” Asha squeaked.

  “You do have a month, after all.” Zarina stood. “You better start on creating that list of names. You left your book bag outside the temple. Hopefully, mixed in with your books and dolls, you actually have paper and a pencil in there.”

  Asha stared after her mother’s retreating form, convinced she was joking.

  Zarina walked out of the Temple of Sekhmet and disappeared into the bright late afternoon day.

  Asha fell forward, her stomach grumbling. Her mother was the worst. The absolute wors—

  “Mother of the Gods. That’s one.”

  Her mother was the best.

  Smiling, Asha jumped to her feet. Zarina stood in the temple’s arched entryway, a pretty smile on her face. She ran toward her, wrapping arms around her waist. “Lady of the House of Books.”

  Zarina lowered her lips to Asha’s forehead and kissed her. “Of course my devourer of literature would know that name.” Zarina kissed Asha’s forehead again, and she beamed up at her.

  “I know more than that one.”

  “Do you know nine thousand nine hundred ninety-eight more names for the goddess?”

  “Mommeeeeee.”

  “More pouting and whining, my hafsa. What am I to do with you?”

  Asha darted outside, shrugged on her book bag, and didn’t give Sekhmet’s ten thousand names another thought.

  Zarina joined her on the grassy hill. “I suppose I should feed you. That’s what a good mother would do.” She linked her hand with Asha’s, leading her away from the Temple of Sekhmet and toward town. “Have I been a good mother to you, Asha?”

  “I remember one day you allowed me to have dessert before dinner. That day you were a very good mother.”

  “Oh, only on that day, huh? No others?”

  “Hmm, ask me again after lunch.”

  Zarina laughed, and Asha did love that she could bring out the less serious side of her mother. “Your father is correct, one sarcastic sekhem in the family is quite enough. Race you.”

  Zarina took off running. Seven strides in, she’d transmutated. Strips of her ripped dress flew off her swiftly moving form.

  “That’s not fair, Mommy.”

  Dropping her book bag but hating to ruin her favorite jeans and sneakers, Asha growled. So unfair. She undressed then barreled down the hill after her waiting mother.

  Zarina nipped at Asha’s tail then sprinted away.

  Asha gave chase. She couldn’t catch Zarina but matching her mother’s speed was never the point. Zarina had told her, for as long as she could remember, “Each sekhem shapes the role to best suit her heart and talents. Your goal isn’t to imitate anyone, not even me. All you need to be, Asha, is better than you were the day before. If you do that every day, you will be a sekhem deserving of the love and loyalty of your people.”

  Better than she was the day before. Every lesson her mother gave her had that end in mind.

  So, Asha chased after Sekhem Zarina, not following in her footsteps but making her own.

  Two hours earlier, Asha felt the sun rise. Not as strongly as she did in her beloved Shona, the air fresher and cleaner than in the overly industrialized Republic of Vumaris. But she’d felt the pull of Mother Sun, Sekhmet as much a sun deity as she was a goddess of divine retribution.

  Asha did wish the warehouse’s windows weren’t so filthy. She would’ve liked to have searched for her goddess in the face of the sun. It wasn’t to be, though. At least not until she either freed herself or Ekon and General Volt came for her. Surely, her Shieldmane General had arrived in Vumaris. Minra was but a short flight from GoldMeadow, the city of Asha’s birth and her home. For all that she craved to return to the peace of her native land, she dreaded going there without her parents. She didn’t want to think about living in her house alone. Even Mafdet wouldn’t be there for quiet comfort.

  Duty and common decency dictated that Asha speak with the family of each slain Shieldmane, offering prayers, condolences, and whatever else they might require of their sekhem during their time of need and mourning. Other than Asha and Talib, Mafdet’s lover, Mafdet had no family. Years ago that hadn’t been the case, but Mafdet rarely spoke of the past and Asha respected her too much to pry. Zarina and Bambara had known, though, and whatever Mafdet’s past held had formed a bond between her and Asha’s parents.

  Asha strained her eyes to catch a glimpse of sunshine, but it was no use. She settled for appreciating the few shafts of light cutting across the warehouse through random clear spots in the windows. Asha also listened to the conversations around her, as she’d done since entering the warehouse and being chained to a chair.

  The chains chafed, but they weren’t as uncomfortable or as limiting as the soldiers likely thought. Triple the thickness of her wrists, the chains gave them a false sense of security. They had spoken freely among themselves. Asha knew Thundersnarl and his wife were buying a new home. Ragebreaker had missed her sister’s birthday party because of “this fuckin’ felidae mission.” Darkpelt, an abysmal code name for a person with albinism, had boasted: “This is going to be one damn fine payday. From what I hear, we’re moving south. We’ll finally get to see what the lions have been hiding in Feline Nation.”

  “Nothing special, I bet,” Gore’s Scream had replied. “I don’t care about that. Politics is above my paygrade. As long as the Deputy Chief is happy with us, I’m good to go. But yeah, the extra cash in my bank account will come in handy.”

  Rogueshades weren’t two-headed monsters. Nor were they like the demons she’d seen in too many horror movies—evil from birth and unable to act outside of their nature. They were intelligent men and women nurtured in a society that placed a higher value on the life of humans than those of the felidae. They were soldiers who served their country for gold and glory as their ancestors once had. Back then, their god had also factored into humans’ justification for displacing and killing felidae. Perhaps, for some, their religious beliefs drove them more than notoriety and money. Asha’s beliefs certainly drove her, though not to subjugation.

  Asha closed her eyes. From the sounds upstairs and of the Rogueshades exiting the warehouse, the time had come. Stormbane had left for hours. When he’d returned, he’d checked her restraints.

  “You’re still here.”

  “Yes, Mr. Stormbane, I am.”

  “Don’t do that. Don’t give me that sweet tone or look at me as if I’m the crazy one for being surprised you didn’t break these chains and murder my soldiers while I was gone.”

  “I assure you, Mr. Stormbane, this is my normal voice. I could try to sound more menacing, more animalistic, if that will better suit your notions about felidae. I will tell you, though, I’ve tried books on tape. I have found the voices for the characters I create in my head are more t
o my liking than the voice actors’. Altering one’s voice to suit the mood is a talent, though not one of mine. So, you see, I don’t think I can oblige you by changing how I speak.”

  Asha hadn’t feared the human male would strike her. His hand, however, had twitched above the gun holstered at his waist. No, she hadn’t thought he would hit her, as his wife had. He had barely touched her when he’d clamped the chains around her wrists and ankles. Stormbane would shoot her, though, of that she was certain. When his hand had paused at his gun, a finger grazing the handle, Asha almost welcomed the relief a killing bullet would bring.

  She didn’t fear that fate either. If she died, if they killed her, she would see her parents and Mafdet again in the Garden of the Sacred Flame. Her parents had promised they would be together again. By Sekhmet’s grace, Asha prayed their souls would be reunited. Until that time, she had to deal with concerns on the physical plane.

  The warehouse door closed behind the last Rogueshade. Asha opened her eyes. A small group of soldiers still remained on the second level, weapons trained, not on Asha, but on the creatures released from their cages. Stormbane was among the soldiers who’d stayed. His gun, unsurprisingly, was aimed at her head.

  “I need you to sign the papers,” he’d told her when he had returned, holding the same manila folder Nighthide had given him. “They want your signature, and I assured them I would make it happen.”

  “Father told me it is unwise to offer a promise when there isn’t a high probability that you will be able to honor your oath.”

  Again, Stormbane’s hand had reached for his sidearm. The human really did have excellent self-restraint, which probably explained why his wife felt so free to betray him.

  “You won’t sign?”

  “No.”

  “Have it your way.” He had backed away from her. “Pride will be your downfall.”

  “Pride, love, and hate are all you and your friends have left me.”

  “You’re a spawn of the devil.”

  Asha hadn’t dignified the insult with a response. She wasn’t a spawn of the devil, but she would gladly become Sekhmet’s mortal tool.