The Vanished Queen

by Lisbeth Campbell

  Her left shoulder ached. She rubbed it.

  “How badly are you hurt?”

  “Just a cut, and I was bumped around. I hit my head. I’ll be all right.”

  “Good.”

  He shifted and sat with head bent, clasped hands dangling between his thighs. He was thinking. She watched the bubbling fountain. It would soothe her into sleep if she let it. Fireflies winked against the water.

  Esvar raised his head. Staring at the fountain, he said, “The poems by Rukovili—where did you get them?”

  It was a right angle to anything she had expected. “At the College,” she said. “I found it in the library. The room was locked, but I had a key.”

  “Why did you take it?”

  “It was an impulse. I had been drinking. Then there was no way to put it back.”

  “It belonged to my mother,” he said.

  She swallowed. “I know, my lord. There was an owner’s mark.”

  “Why did you keep it?”

  She could not see where he was leading. She decided to give the conversation her own twist. Her heart hammered; if she had misjudged him, she was giving him reason to kill her. “When I asked my father why he remained a soldier, he said that when the king dies, someone needs to be there to set things right.”

  Esvar’s lack of reaction told her that her words had struck home. She waited, thinking of the first time they had met. She had been terrified when she was brought before him. Then he spoke, and his face was no monster’s face, and his voice was concerned.

  On the bench, he shifted again to look at her. The skin of his hands was light against his dark trousers. “I hadn’t intended to broach this with you yet. But since you brought me here, I shall. I want to employ you.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “To be my messenger to the resistance.”

  “I know noth—”

  “Anza,” he cut in, “don’t lie. Please. We both know better. You killed three men during the raid. It was quite clear once I talked to you. Your father was a very good archer, did you know that?”

  “What was clear?” she asked sullenly. A firefly winked in front of her face. On the other side of the fountain, the Temple loomed against a starry sky.

  “That you are the woman who got away. You fit the description. You had access to a man who could teach you. You’re strong and quick. You have personal reason to hate the king and did not deny having owned an illegal book. You did not collapse under Lukovian’s attempt to kill you. You stood up to me. That all adds up. And I did know your father.”

  “Did Jance—”

  “He hasn’t said anything. But he cut himself on a slate just as you did.”

  She had brought herself to this point. By her acts, by her very mention of her father. By asking to speak to the prince. What for if not to reveal herself? She had taken a risk and he had called her on it; there was no backing away. Radd’s question about the rope and the cliff had been a good one, and she had not considered it carefully enough.

  Avoiding his gaze, she said, “What if I refuse to go to the resistance? Will you arrest me?”

  “No.” His voice was patient, the tone one might take when calming a recalcitrant child. She could not hurt him personally with her rage. Nor did he owe her anything. Yet he was far from passionless.

  She watched the fountain for a while. At last she said, “I can take a message. But they might decide to cut me off instead of sending me back. They won’t want to take the risk that you could spy on me or suborn me. They might even get rid of me one way or the other.” She did not want to imagine Sparrow ordering her death, but she knew it was a grim possibility. Sparrow wanted to win.

  “They won’t. Not when Karolje is busy shifting the blame for all their actions to the Tazekhs. That explosion was planned for days, I assure you. Even if the resistance claimed it, they would not be believed. And no one is going to remember the commander getting shot.”

  So he knew who was behind it too. It should have assured her that he was trustworthy. Instead it made her fear Karolje more.

  “Is that what I am to tell them?”

  “That will do nicely to begin with,” he said. “All I want right now is to know if they will talk to me.”

  “They’re not likely to believe me,” she said.

  “Oh, I think they will. You’re forthright. But if they don’t, ask what they will accept as proof, and I will endeavor to provide it.”

  “I don’t understand why the resistance has been allowed to continue,” she said.

  “ ‘Allowed to’ is not the correct phrase. The leaders are good. It’s only in the last year or so that it’s been evident to people not in it. Before then there were lots of smaller groups squabbling. They competed with each other, which served Karolje. Now Sparrow, and Stepanian before her, have managed to spread resistance like witchgrass.”

  “Are you still trying to weed it out? Because if you are, they won’t have anything to do with you.”

  “I was. For my brother’s sake. But things have changed. I hope to give them something that they want: an end to Karolje’s reign.”

  “You said the king is dying.”

  “He is. His heart came close to failing a few nights ago.”

  “Your brother—”

  “My brother’s position is not secure. If it were, I would have no need of the resistance. I could just wait for Karolje to die.”

  The resistance is not your tool, she thought. She had no idea what ambitions he had for himself. “How can the resistance secure Tevin’s position? Or do you want to use the resistance against him? Do you want to be the king?”

  He recoiled. A hand rose, went down. “No. I support my brother. I thought you knew that. If not for him I would stab Karolje in the heart and let myself be killed.” He said it so factually that for a moment she did not hear the pain.

  Mirantha would not have wanted Karolje’s death to come at the cost of her sons’ lives. Speaking more softly than she had been, Anza said, “For some people, an end to Karolje will be enough. Others want power of their own. They’re going to question why they should put their trust in either you or Tevin instead of toppling the throne altogether.”

  “I doubt there’s anything I can do to convince everyone. All I can do is convince you.”

  “Why should I trust you?”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  For an instant terror stopped her breath. Then reason asserted itself. He was not saying he would betray her. He was holding her at a distance, walling her off. From friendship, from risk, from reliance.

  Friendship. What a foolish word that was. This man had no friends, and if he did, she would not be one of them. What did he hold himself accountable to? Not her, that was for certain.

  He was still talking. “That’s the thing about trust. It’s faith. Without it, there’s nothing but fear. The king trusts no one and fears everyone. He is convinced every person he meets is against him, and so he makes them enemies. It’s impossible to hurt him, because he’s hollowed himself out.”

  “Did you trust my father? Did he trust you?”

  “I would like to think so on both counts. It was never put to the test. He was in the king’s command, not mine or my brother’s, so I did not have much to do with him. I can’t fault him for obeying Karolje’s orders. I obey them. Your father didn’t let his men be cruel, and the men who trained under him are good soldiers. When I was a boy, before he was made a captain, he helped me a few times. You have nothing to be ashamed of in your parentage.”

  “You told me he served you better than he knew. How?”

  “He showed me that a man could be kind.” He was quiet. “That’s a rarity in the Citadel. I’m not much good at it.”

  “You let me go.”

  “That wasn’t kindness.”

  She got up and walked to the edge of the fountain. Spray cooled her face. She dipped her hand in, sliding her fingers under the smoothly resisting surface of the water to the rough ston
e basin. It was colder than the air. The lamplight reflected in the water and gilded the mist.

  The falling water was too loud for her to hear Esvar approach, but her body sensed it before his hands came down on the basin rim. His face was newly shaven, his shirt crisp. He had not come carelessly to her.

  “Let’s go in,” he said. “I’ll have Marek take you home so you can rest.”

  And then? she thought. Radd was dead.

  She slapped her hand hard against the surface of the water, splashing them both. She did not have obscenities enough.

  Esvar wiped the water from his face. “You’re angry.”

  “You’re bloody right I’m angry!” She hit the water again.

  “Let me tell you about rage,” he said.

  The words were an axe of ice, severing her from her anger. She wiped her own face and stared at him.

  “Rage burns hot. It stays a coal one can curl around and warm oneself with. It keeps one moving. It’s an incendiary, and when it goes off, it destroys everything around it. That feels powerful, oh so powerful. But all the smoke gets in the way of what one needs to see.

  “Karolje’s not like that. When he gets angry, he gets cunning. His rages are calculated, intentional. Anger makes him crueler and stronger. It’s not his weakness. When one goes up against him and he’s angry, he wins every time. He enjoys it when people throw themselves furiously at him. They burn themselves out. It’s no use for the resistance to try to make him angry, or to manipulate other people into being angry at him.

  “The resistance needs to erode the power of the lords who support him. And that needs to happen fast. Or we might have a Tazekh war on our hands.”

  He was frightening. Every line of his body spoke of contained violence. “Why are you doing this?” she blurted. “Why oppose him?”

  “When I was eight years old, Karolje made me watch the execution of my mother’s lover.” In the speaking of his father’s name, she heard something cold and implacable that resonated in her spine. Not hatred, not hot enough for that, not contempt nor scorn, but unyielding opposition. “Three months later he killed her. There is nothing he can do to buy my forgiveness. Or my brother’s.”

  Her stomach lurched. He was staked, not ganched. Mirantha had spoken of Esvar watching, but it was far worse to hear it from him. “Did you look?”

  “I closed my eyes. I couldn’t keep them closed forever. It was worse for Tevin, who had to stand next to the king. My guards told me not to look, but they didn’t dare cover my eyes or let me turn my head. It took a long time for him to die. I had nightmares for weeks.

  “The soldiers came to arrest him while he was teaching me. I yelled at them, and one of them looked at me and said, ‘It’s the king’s orders, boy,’ as though I belonged in the kitchens. Karolje could have taken him quietly at night, but he thought I should have a show.”

  It seemed impossible Esvar could have survived such brutality without having learned to be brutal himself. She wondered how much it cost him to try to keep to an honorable path.

  “I want a favor,” she said. It wasn’t really a favor, it was a test, and it was edged.

  “For yourself?”

  “No. The things I want for myself you can’t give me.”

  “What?”

  “I have a friend whose lover was arrested for no reason last year. Find out what happened to her. Her name was Velyana Roshikian.”

  “She’s probably dead.”

  “I know. But uncertainty is terrible.” She left unsaid, You of all people should know that. The words hung between them nonetheless. Show me you can have compassion. Show me you won’t let Karolje win this point too.

  “I will inquire,” he said.

  “I will take the message, my lord,” she said. “It might be a few days. How am I to bring you a response?”

  “Take it tomorrow. I will meet you two days later in the Red Hawk Tavern, near the College.”

  To see Sparrow tomorrow, she would have to ask Radd—Radd was dead. There was nothing she needed to do tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after. She would send the pending business back to his clients. A letter had to be written to his children.

  It was too much. Her vision blurred. Who else can Karolje use to hurt you? Sparrow had asked, and she had been able to name no one except Radd. She had made herself into a person alone without even knowing it.

  “What time?” she asked, hard.

  “Six.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  He shook his head, then walked away and up the steps. He did not look back.

  She followed. Marek waited inside the Temple. “Are you ready?” he asked her. Esvar was speaking to a priest several yards away.

  “Yes,” she said. “Get me the hell out of here.”

  Marek went to Esvar’s side. The prince said something, then looked over his shoulder at Anza.

  Their eyes met. She felt exposed. Everything he had said to her, kind or moderate or firm, covered the depths of who he was. She understood Jance’s loyalty. This was a man she did not want to fail.

  MIRANTHA

  AN ASSASSIN TRIES to kill Karolje and nearly succeeds. He has been in the king’s guard for years, and when he knifes Karolje, the only thing that keeps the wound from being fatal is that the king twists away at the first prick, and the blade slides against a rib. The man kills himself before he can be questioned. Word is given out that he was a Tazekh spy, but Mirantha does not believe it.

  Karolje’s survival is accounted divine, the protection of the gods upon him and his kingship, and a holiday for prayers and libations is ordered. When Mirantha takes the cup from Ashevi to pour the water into the basin, their fingers touch. Run, her instincts say, run now.

  * * *

  It is a cloudy winter morning a week later when Esvar brings her the news of Ashevi’s arrest. The boy comes pelting into her rooms, his guards behind him, and says, “Mother! They took him. Ashevi.”

  Mirantha goes still with shock, but recovers herself at once. “Tell me. Slowly,” she says.

  “It was my mathematics lesson. The king’s soldiers came in and said he was under arrest for treason. Will he be killed?”

  Treason. She will be next. Karolje has learned, he has heard, he suspects. She has to be completely calm about it.

  She says, “Your father will decide. If he finds Ashevi is a traitor, then he will be killed. It is nothing to do with you, Esvar, I want you to remember that.”

  He thinks it over. He is a few months shy of nine, no longer a little boy. Clever, bookish, but with some of his father’s temper. She once saw him strike another boy with a hard, efficient blow that sent the other child to the ground.

  “Will I have another priest as tutor?” he asks.

  “That is up to the king too.”

  “I hope not. The other priests don’t know as much as they think they do. Will I be allowed to see him?”

  “No.” She looks up at one of the guards. “Do you know where they took him?”

  “To the cells, my lady. In chains.”

  He will be executed within days, then. She says to Esvar, “You’re not to seek him out. No one in the cells is to have visitors. To make an exception would weaken the king’s power. Did he say anything to you about your lessons?”

  Esvar shakes his head, but the soldier says, “My lady, he says to tell you the plan is in his workroom. He didn’t fight them at all.”

  Thank the gods. “Take Prince Esvar to his archery lesson,” she says. She has to search Ashevi’s workroom before Karolje’s soldiers do.

  * * *

  She looks quickly for anything she does not want to fall into Karolje’s hands. In one drawer she finds a cake of opium and a book of erotic drawings and stories that disgust her and arouse her at the same time. She leaves both. His papers are letters from priests and scholars and notes for tutoring her son. No journal, no letters in Tazekh, no papers of debt. Nothing that shows he has any sort of lover. She is safe.

 
; A soldier raps on the door and opens it without waiting for a response as she is making a pile of the books Esvar had been using and Ashevi’s notes. “The king commands your presence, my lady,” he says. He is a few years younger than herself, black-haired and handsome, and she can tell he does not want to take her.

  She follows him, heaviness growing in her. This is it. She hopes she will be allowed to say goodbye to her sons.

  The soldier takes her to one of Karolje’s formal rooms, the Green Court. Several people are present, but only one she cares about: Tevin, at his father’s right. This is not fair. He should not be made to watch this. His face is studied, impassive, but she knows him. She sees the anger and fear in his eyes.

  Karolje says to the soldier, “What did she take?”

  “Nothing, my lord.” He is wooden.

  Karolje says, “What do you have to say for yourself, woman?”

  His stare separates her from her body. She watches from a twilit distance as a woman says without insolence, “About what, my lord?”

  “Ashevi has committed treason. As soon as you were told of this, you went to his workroom. What did you destroy?”

  “Nothing, my lord.”

  He looks at the guard. “Is that true?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Why did you go?”

  “To see where he left off in his teaching,” says the woman. “Those papers and books might be destroyed, and Prince Esvar’s next teacher will need to know what they were.”

  “So you are certain Ashevi will not be freed?”

  “My lord, no one who goes to the cells is ever freed.”

  “You will not try to persuade me of his innocence?”

  “Why would I do that, my lord?”

  “Look around.”

  The woman turns her head. Mirantha, watching, follows the gaze. The king’s general is there, and a Truth Finder, and Goran, who will be regent with her if Karolje dies. Cold-eyed Doru, who spies and watches. The soldier standing to Karolje’s left holds a whip. If the woman needs help, there is no one to turn to. Tevin is too young, and Mirantha cannot help her either.