by R. K. Thorne
“Why are you even fighting this war?”
“To protect all I’ve built. Because I don’t turn a blind eye to obvious threats, unlike your former lord.” He hesitated, more words on the tip of his tongue, words that were very unlike him to say. The truth, but could he admit it? That it was also to protect her, too? No. Not in those words, at least. “The Akarians hold the power to undo all I’ve built. We risk losing our only advantage against them. Our position has only worsened. We must crush them while we still can. I’m simply trying to protect what we have.”
We. There. That was close, wasn’t it? It wasn’t the same as telling her that it was all for her now, that everything had changed, but it was the best he could do.
Her expression softened, and she looked away, not meeting his eyes. “Some say you are power-mad. That I am just a foolish pawn, a cog in the wheel of a machine that you would destroy as readily as any mage.”
His scowl returned. “Tell me who said that.”
“No.”
“Tell me.” He clenched his jaw and forced himself to take a deep breath through his nose. “I would kill anyone who would dare call you, their queen, a pawn. You are far from that. They should be struck down for their disrespect.”
“Am I not a pawn? I am not so sure. You don’t trust my motivations. You don’t want me to come with you. I know little of your plans, for this or for the war.”
“You are not a pawn. Damn it, I had no plans for this. I have no particular lust for power, Marielle. I am only concerned with security, and I’m willing to take the initiative to keep it. It’s not my fault everyone else is so damn lazy and blind that they fail to act.”
She gazed back at him, still uneasy, eyes narrowing. “How can I know you aren’t using me?”
“You can’t. How can I know you’re not using me?”
“I would never.”
“And I would never have moved against the king if you hadn’t needed it.” If you hadn’t asked, so sweetly. If you hadn’t drawn me into your bed.
“How can I believe you? This has all served your purpose mightily well.”
“We are to be married eventually, after all. Aren’t we? Shouldn’t you simply believe me? Shouldn’t I simply believe you?”
She pursed her lips. “Only if we are fools.”
“Perhaps I should take a mistress to test your motives, then—”
Almost before he got the words out, she stepped a few inches closer and slapped him across the face. “I’d rather you cleave me in two,” she said, her voice breaking.
He reeled for a second in shock, partly at the slap, but even more at his own reaction. Any other woman—or man, for that matter—he would have backhanded so hard, they’d be sprawled on the fine Corovan marble.
But not her.
And in fact, no anger coursed through him, and instead in its place was an inexplicable sense of immense satisfaction, of amusement even. At what? It made no sense. At having goaded her into losing her composure? Yes, but not out of spite. There was something deeper. He brought his hand to his face, rubbing at the sting, mystified. His eyes locked with hers. In their blue depths was a mixture of hurt and fear that in the silence was slowly melting to terror. “My lord, I—”
He kissed her then, hard, almost violently, crushing her with the force of it, gripping her neck and holding her to him. But he didn’t need to. She didn’t shrink. Indeed, the press of her mouth against his was nearly as ferocious. The pounding of his heart went from double to triple time.
He heaved her up, gathering her in his arms and setting her atop the nearby desk, hauling up her skirts and daring her to stop him. He broke away to measure her eyes, her face, for any trace of fear, any measure of cunning, any sign he should stop and walk away from her in disgust.
He saw only a kind of intensity that grew familiar, an intensity he had seen now more than a few times. Patient, if fiery desire, even… trust. He captured her mouth with his again and didn’t release her this time.
He did not understand this. He did not understand her, or what was motivating this sudden outburst, or why he deserved her, or if either of them actually cared about each other the way he was beginning to hope—and believe—they might.
He was filled only with a desire to remind her she was his and no one else’s. And to make her see the opposite was also true.
Gods, he was a naïve fool. He’d likely end up beheaded or quartered for his foolhardy sincerity. It was entirely unlike him. He didn’t understand any of this.
He fell back on the one thing between them he did understand, and her soft gasps told him she understood this part at least too. The damned meddling ladies-in-waiting could do just that. They could wait.
Although they hadn’t found the right words at all—in fact, they’d mostly found the wrong ones—he had a feeling they understood each other.
Miara awoke with a pounding headache. Emerald and sapphire light lanced into her rooms, dappling the queen’s bed with moving blobs of color. She sat up with a groan. Pain sliced around her skull like someone was trying to crush it, and she lifted a hand to block the cheery light, feeling more out of place than ever.
The sea of fabric around her was smooth as a lamb’s ear. Camil had always said Elise cared for fine cloth because she hailed from Dramsren, but Miara had had no idea. She’d had no idea cloth like this even existed. She felt like she was getting such extravagance dirty. How many meals could this pure sea of soft white buy?
The door opened. The groan had been a mistake, alerting her watchers—her attendants—that she’d risen. The three of them bustled in now, arms full and looking like they meant business. Miara put both hands over her eyes and then rubbed her scalp, trying to ease the pain away.
She hadn’t had a headache last night when their work had finished. She’d had the whole night to sleep and recover her strength. And yet, she felt more tired than ever. Very strange. But there was no time for worrying about it now. She downed more tea from an elegant wooden tray as her new attendants swarmed her with details of arrivals of notable guests later in the day. Her belly warm, the ache in her head immediately started to lessen.
“You’re to be prepared to receive them royally,” said Opia—the proper one, using a tone more appropriate for addressing an unruly schoolgirl. Although perhaps “unruly girl” was exactly how the woman saw her. “I will do my best to inform you of each of the illustrious personages, but there are quite a number who may attend. Up, up. We have work to do.”
If Miara hadn’t already missed Fayton and Camil, she would now. Who would have thought that she’d come to miss Estun and its heavy darkness and its merciless, oppressive Great Stone? It meant a lot more to her now, and she found herself wishing that someday they would go back. But she shut the thought away. They had a war to fight first, at the very least.
Her heart panged in particular for Camil’s steady, calm, faintly amused smile now, though. Nothing ruffled Camil, and Miara was pretty sure the young woman would never use the phrase “illustrious personages.”
Still, pretentious or not, Opia was right that they had work to do. It was time to give this queen thing a serious shot. Miara hauled herself out of bed and devoured a plate full of dumplings and asked for more. She was of course twice or three times as starving as any normal person would be because of last night’s exertions, but her ladies eyed her, and she could tell they were thinking—oh, we have so much work to do. Or perhaps they were thinking, she eats like a horse.
Probably right on both counts.
Who would have thought cabinets full of fine fabric would prove such regular adversaries? Miara scowled at the colored silks and regretted that her hasty departure from Estun had left behind what little progress they’d made toward clothing that didn’t horrify her.
“Now, this is a fine wardrobe Queen Elise has provided for you,” said Opia, chin high. “I’m sure it will be quite hard to choose from all of these glorious options.”
Miara eyed the woman. Did
Miara’s fear show on her face, or could her attendants just smell it?
No. She shook her head. No, she would conquer this ridiculousness. There were more important things to do than worry about what to wear.
She imagined herself in Elise’s place, the way Elise emanated a quietly welcoming energy, beaming a friendly warmth and placid confidence. But imagining herself in the same mode sent the image up in smoke.
She sighed. If Renala were here, she would know what to wear, what to choose. But none of the gowns would magically bequeath her grace or friendliness or any of their well-bred, noble-born qualities.
Her mind drifted back to sitting around that campfire with Samul. Hmm, Aven did indeed have enough friendliness for the both of them—for the right audience. She imagined herself glowering icily from his shoulder instead, daggers close at hand.
Yes. That was an image she could almost see. She wouldn’t be Elise—or Renala. Or any of the flighty, giggling ladies she’d observed in the Kavanarian court. The problem was not the dress, was it? The dresses didn’t matter. What mattered was how she wore them, and she’d wear them like herself, and no one else. Nothing else was an option.
Challenging herself, she seized one purely by color—a stormy, grayish blue. There was no more Akarian color than that, in her estimation. Elise wore it frequently, and Renala had already shown her the power of color to make an impression. The gauzy thing whipped in a chilly draft that swept by. It was little more than a bundle of fabric. She had no idea where a body went into it or how to put it on.
Not that her new attendants were going to let her dress herself anyway.
She held it out to the nearest, the freckle-faced woman with warm, dark eyes. Kalan? Yes, that was it. “What do you think of this one?”
Kalan’s eyes lit with delight. “You’ll be a dream. Not that you wouldn’t be a dream in all of them, my lady.”
Miara shook her head as she cut at the air with the knife-edge of her hand. “You’ve no need to flatter me. I need the truth.”
Wincing, the woman looked at her warily. “I would never lie to you, my lady.”
“No, I mean it. Sincerely. Your name is Kalan, is that right?”
Calming slightly, but still wary, the woman nodded.
Miara glanced at the other women. Oh, no—there were four now, even though the proper one was briefly gone. Gods, the servants were multiplying like rabbits in the clover. This is fitting, she chided herself. This isn’t about you. It’s about Akaria. It’s about freeing your people and then some. It’s about a land that’s worth living in, a land many people believed was worth dying for. And if she wanted power, well, pomp and circumstance came with it. She wasn’t just herself, but also one who stood for all of them, and in that light, humility did no one any good.
She softened her voice, warmed it. “Truthfully, my dear Kalan, I want nothing but honesty from all of you. It is all that will be rewarded. I am no noble—certainly you’ve heard that much.”
Grudgingly, they all nodded. Their expressions ranged from worried to guarded, though.
“Is it—” started the youngest before Kalan shushed her.
“No, what is it?” Miara said, trying to sound welcoming and friendly. Not something she had much practice at.
“Is it true you were the one?” When she stopped and didn’t explain further, Kalan elbowed her. “The one who grew the plants last night?”
“Oh. Yes. Did you see them? What did you think?”
The air went still, the fear almost palpable.
“I thought… well, it does seem quite unnatural, my lady,” the girl—Etral?—whispered.
Miara hid a wince. Had it all backfired? Instead, she forced a smile and nodded. “It is a bit unnatural, but all the plants are back to their late fall cycle. None will be harmed by it, and I thought the harvest might help some through the winter.”
“I thought it was beautiful,” said one of the newcomers, whom Kalan glared at slightly. She seemed to be speaking out of turn. “Woke up to fresh roses in my window box.” She glared back at Kalan, whose expression softened quickly.
As if realizing the implications of her expression, Kalan straightened up. “It will help some through the winter. My brother’s little garden brought in a whole second yield.”
“Tell me what you’ve heard,” Miara said as gently as she could. “Both the good and the bad. Honesty only, remember?”
They all glanced nervously at each other. Miara was glad the proper one hadn’t returned just yet. She had a feeling she knew which side that attendant would be on: any side quick to pronounce judgment.
“I think that about sums it up, my lady,” said Kalan. “I heard a man outside the temple crying evil and corruption, but to be honest I’m not sure many were taking him too seriously.”
“Why not?” said Miara.
A sly grin snuck onto Etral’s face. “I think it’s hard to buy something as corruption when it’s as beautiful as roses and daisies and fresh apples, my lady. I mean, really. If that’s vile pestilence, I’d like some more please.”
Kalan elbowed her again but relaxed as Miara’s snort of laughter registered as actual amusement and not offense.
“Thank you for your honesty.” Miara was surprised at how gracious that had come out. She almost sounded like she knew what she was doing. “I am new to all this. I’ll need your advice, and I trust it greatly. But I am also no Queen Elise. I must cut my own path. I fought my way here, and I’ll not be setting aside my dagger or my magic. So…” She hesitated, wondering if admitting weakness would help her or hurt her in their estimation. She decided to risk it. “If you would, I want you to make me look like the queen I will become. But it must be the sort of queen who carries a dagger. Or ten. Will you help me?”
Kalan raised an eyebrow but stepped out from beside the girl and very carefully took the dress. “We can make you look like a queen, my lady.” She glanced uneasily at the others. She was clearly making no dagger-related promises.
Etral stepped forward to examine the dress too and then gave Miara a long look. Wondering if Miara would be true to her word about honesty? If her lady was truly a plague of corruption? “Aye, we can do that, and we will. You, uh, may have to help us with the dagger bit, my lady.”
Miara snorted again. “That I can do.”
The women set to work. The dress truly was little more than a gauzy collection of fabric. That, in fact, was the magic of it, Miara discovered as it took shape around her. Soft, thin silks and fabrics she couldn’t name concealed nearly all of her, but seemed to risk covering a little less at any moment. An illusion, but a powerful one.
But the dress was only a portion of their ministrations. The youngest presented Miara with ten different hair ribbons, eight sets of beads, and three different jewelry cases. The hair ribbons were easier to select than the dresses; a brilliant cobalt ribbon and silver beads were drawn from their box, although quite a lot of braiding took place before she could see them in action. To the women’s credit, the elaborateness of the braids woven with ribbon and beads and wrapped carefully in a suggestion of a simple crown around her brow did not scream of as much effort as they actually put in. The effect was rather understated. Hmm, Elise’s effortlessness might take more work than Miara had thought. Was that a good thing or a bad thing?
Eventually, Kalan pushed her in front of the looking glass to evaluate their handiwork.
Miara caught her breath. The woman in the glass was indeed regal, and at the same time familiar. The dress seemed like it was out of a bizarre dream, some other reality, and it didn’t feel like it belonged against her skin. The lightness of it compared to leather riding gear made her feel uncomfortably naked. It certainly wouldn’t protect her from anything. But she’d be able to move just fine. It would have to do. She’d try out this particular tool, and if it didn’t suit her, she’d try another one. She took a steadying breath, smoothing damp palms down the sides of the dress and watching it shift and settle around her.
“Your daggers, my lady?” The youngest held out her boot sheath with a grand sweep, like it might be a fine vintage, or a box of a dozen colored ribbons. Good. The girl was trying to go along with Miara’s bizarre requests.
“Thank you, Etral.” Studying herself in the mirror, the dress revealed her calves at times, and they hadn’t permitted her boots, especially since they had no plans to leave Ranok. She settled with hiking the dress up and strapping the blades to her thigh, which seemed a fair compromise between accessible and appropriate. She pretended not to notice their wide-eyed stares as she did so. Just because they hadn’t seen it before didn’t mean it was a bad idea. “I will also need something for the outside. Something to wear on the hip, most likely,” she muttered to herself. “But there’s time to look for that later.”
“I’ll see what we have, my lady,” said one of the newcomers quickly, hurrying out. As she left, the proper one popped back into the room.
Miara raised her eyebrows. Never had she seen such eager servants. Overzealous might be more like it. Miara glanced back at Etral. “What do you think?”
The girl smiled politely. “You’re a queen if I ever saw one, my lady. Which I have.”
“Wait,” said Kalan. She searched in a nearby cabinet, pushing and shoving things like a mother in a market. A moment later, she produced a black cloak with thick black fur trimming its shoulders and on down the edges. “There. That’s not a cloak for Queen Elise, but I think it cuts a mighty profile on you. Mighty is what you’re going for, I think. Fearsome. But still beautiful, of course. What say you?”
Kalan looked over Miara’s form proudly, appraising her like a well-cooked roast chicken, but Miara had to smile. Even with the proper one staring at her as if she were about to break some unspoken rule.
Yes. This was a cloak for ominous glowering. For facing down her former masters as equals. For staring daggers at enemies of the Akarian throne.
