The Glass Queen

by Gena Showalter

  With a war cry, I kicked into a mad dash. Anyone I passed, I killed, as planned, racking up my kill total. A jab-jab here, a slice there. I zigzagged as I fought my way forward. A mound of motionless bodies ahead. I flew over it, rolling in the air to avoid a volley of arrows.

  The song of battle accompanied my every strike. Screams of agony. Moans of pain. Grunts of exertion. The whistle of metal. The pop of bone. The spurt of blood. The sound grew louder and louder, until each noise hit my ears like a hammer. Still I struck when I needed to strike, ducked when I needed to duck, always motoring onward, killing again and again. Hot blood soaked my hands and splattered my face.

  I came upon a troll and snake-shifter, the two trapped in a fierce battle. Guess I’d get to kill a troll, after all. I pulled back my arm to strike—

  Incoming. Sensing an approach at my back, I spun and switched the angle of my blade. Ah. I hadn’t been the one under attack. A combatant had lifted a crossbow, his double arrows sailing over me to embed in the troll’s eyes. The fiend screamed and toppled, batting at his face. He didn’t rise, especially after the snake-shifter removed his head.

  The one who’d unleashed the arrows looked like a mighty fae. He had pale hair, red eyes full of fury, and glowing symbols branded into his arms. He claimed his name was Blaze and he hailed from the House of Fire; unlike everyone else, I knew the truth. He wasn’t fae at all. He was King Roth, his true visage hidden behind a veil of illusion magic, courtesy of Everly.

  We exchanged nods before turning our focus to other combatants.

  As I advanced on the snake-shifter who’d decapitated the troll, someone leaped on me—a wolfin. He knocked me to the ground, flashing sharp teeth, clearly planning to rip out my throat. Good luck. I’d already worked a dagger between us.

  I stabbed him in the gut and ran the blade up his torso.

  As he split apart, I rolled out from under him. On my feet, I pushed forward. Another down. Another. Another. Movement at my left. I twisted to see a gorgon rushing my way.

  I quickly averted my gaze, observing his approach from the corner of my eye. If a gorgon—a “stone child”—held your gaze long enough, he could slip into your mind, gain control of your thoughts and your actions, and turn you into a pillar of rock.

  He entered my strike zone, and swung a jagged-edged sword at me. I went low, my own sword lifted, the blade pointing up and pressed against my side. Our blades met with a clink, jarring him to a stop. I had no such pause. I swept out my leg, knocking his ankles together, at the same time I slicked my sword through another male’s ankles, removing both of his feet. The two opponents crashed into the ground. I stabbed one in the heart, then the other, finishing them off.

  No time to rest. As I stood, another troll slammed into me. We rolled together, flinging dirt. When we stopped, he was beneath me. I got busy, punching, punching. With a snarl, he jerked up and sank his venomous fangs into my neck—or he tried to.

  This morning, I’d decided to wear one of Ashleigh’s defensive pieces, so I’d taken the sketch to Ophelia. In a matter of seconds, the witch had crafted a thin metal collar the same color as my skin. It circled my throat, without restricting my movements. A rush order, she’d said, before charging me an obscene amount of gold. Worth it.

  The second troll’s fangs slammed into the collar, they cracked. He roared with pain and bucked me off him. I rammed into another combatant, my back to his chest, and stabbed backward, slicing into his gut. He screamed—until the wolfin he’d been fighting tore out his jugular.

  A metallic tang of blood, waste, and urine permeated the air. Ah. The battle stench. Oh, how I had not missed it.

  I fought my way back to the troll, who marched toward me as well, tossing combatants out of his way.

  “I’m going to suck the marrow from your bones and take your liaison as my concubine.”

  He dared to threaten Ashleigh?

  Seeing red. I sheathed one of the swords to palm my favorite dagger, a blade with a brass knuckle handle. I slipped my fingers through the loops, keeping the blade flat against my forearm. Then I walked...jogged...sprinted over, closing the distance.

  We slammed together, both of us attacking with savage persistence. We slashed, punched, elbowed, clawed, and kicked. His claws were sharper and stronger than metal. At some point, he busted my cheekbone—I shattered his. Still we fought.

  “Hurt Ashleigh? Not while I live.” She’s mine. When he blocked my blade, I released the sword’s hilt long enough to rake my claws over his belly. As his intestines spilled out, I caught the hilt, the sword firmly in my grip once again. Swing.

  But he healed supernaturally fast, as if by magic, and blocked, then drove me back, managing to cut into my side. I grunted and blocked the next forward thrust, spun to reach his side, and threw an elbow once, twice. His nose broke. His jaw unhinged.

  As he staggered back, I sank my dagger into the hollow of his throat. He fell, gasping for breath he couldn’t catch. I followed him down, withdrawing my second sword and crossing the blades over his neck.

  “Don’t—” he began.

  With a single chopping motion, I removed his head.

  A round of wild applause erupted as I stood, several bystanders even shouting my name. To my surprise, I felt no pride for the display of brutality, no satisfaction in a job well done. I just felt uneasy. Had I truly defended Leonora’s newest incarnation, as if we were in love once again?

  I threw myself back into the fray, racing forward—mistake! One of the fallen soldiers pushed a dagger into my calf as I passed him. The blade must have been laced with poison. In seconds, searing pain overtook me, an ocean of dizziness rushing in. A loud ring erupted in my ears, muffling every other noise. My eyesight dimmed, the battle seeming like a dream. Then my entire world flipped upside down.

  No, I’d just fallen. I remained on the ground, panting as my line of vision darkened the rest of the way.

  Can’t see.

  Inhale, exhale. Calm. Steady. I had no reason to panic. I’d trained in the light as well as the dark, both drugged and clearheaded. This? This was nothing.

  I focused on the detail I could best discern. The vibrations in the ground...one hit me stronger than the others. Someone approached me at top speed.

  I yanked the dagger from my leg and hurled it in the combatant’s direction. A grunt sounded.

  Wait. I’d heard the grunt. The ringing had already begun to subside, my eyesight clearing, the effects of the toxin wearing off as my avian blood worked to neutralize it. Ignoring a flare of pain, I climbed to my feet, my weapons in hand.

  How long until King Philipp ended the match? Minutes? Hours?

  Either way, I had work to do.

  I gripped my weapons and leaped into motion.

  8

  When you’re high or when you’re low,

  it’s always great to slay a foe.

  Ashleigh

  The way Saxon fought...

  I’d never seen anyone more vicious or frightening, but I couldn’t bring myself to look away. He was magnificent, his muscles flexing with every action. No matter how many times he’d gotten hit, he’d always rebounded to slay his attacker, his skill unmatched. But...

  He needed better weapons. The brass knuckle dagger was amazing, yes, but it needed ridged blades or tiny hooks that would do more damage more quickly, since some of his opponents healed in a snap. Not that I would tell him what adjustments his weapons required. As long as he dished those petty restitution tasks and retained unlawful possession of my dragon eggs, books and designs, he’d get no help from me.

  I disdained him. I did. So why was I perched on the edge of my throne, utterly rapt, silently cheering him on? I alternated between stroking my mother’s ring for comfort and stuffing my face with the remaining lemon tarts—anything to soothe the churning in my stomach.

  When one of the two comp
eting giants toppled, spectators leaped to their feet, screaming instructions, insults, and praises. I hated to admit it, but I clapped my hands.

  As a child, I’d watched tournaments like this from my bedroom window. I remembered the roar of the crowds and the atmosphere of excitement as men and women had harmed each other for the enjoyment of others. Back then, I’d cried over every wound. Here, now, I better understood the merriment. The battle hardly seemed real. It was like a game, every onlooker rooting for a champion, the other combatants merely obstacles in his way.

  Father stood and moved to the edge of the dais for a closer look at the battleground. He gripped the railing and leaned forward, exuding excitement. Ophelia and Noel remained in their seats, muttering about being bored. Dior—had—not—stopped—talking—to—me. Talk, talk, talk, talk, talk. Words. Sentences. Rambles about her life. I’d stopped listening a hundred years ago.

  Speaking at a louder volume—and talking over Dior—Ophelia said, “So. Ashleigh.” Her leading tone made me instantly uneasy. “Have you met Eve yet?”

  “Eve?” Dior asked, bouncing in her seat. “Who is Eve?”

  Sweet goodness. She was excited about the prospect of making a new friend, wasn’t she?

  Before meeting Dior, I’d thought myself a good person. Kind, mostly. Generous...at times. Forgiving, eventually. Yet, she made me feel like a she-hag who’d cursed all the land to die forever. Was she even real? Had she sprouted from a rainbow or something? And why was I being so petty to her?

  “I did meet Eve, yes,” I replied to Ophelia. I told my stepsister, “Eve is an avian commander who serves Prince Saxon.” The man I still watched. I winced as he took a blow to the temple and dropped.

  Multiple onlookers gasped, proving they watched him, too.

  “I wonder if she’ll like me,” Dior said, chewing on a fingernail. “Do you think she’ll like me?”

  Finally a question I could answer beyond any doubt. “Of course she’ll like you.” Who wouldn’t?

  The princess beamed at me. “You really think so?”

  “What have I told you about neediness, Dior?” Noel asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Oh, well, I meant to tell you that your prince hates it.”

  Dior gasped, excited. “I’ll wed a prince? Like Prince Saxon?”

  Oh...weeds. How many princes had entered the tournament? No, I didn’t need to know. I didn’t care.

  “I’ve said all I can say.” Noel looked to me. With a tone as leading as Ophelia’s, she asked, “So. What did you think of Eve?”

  Saxon had gotten back up, fought a few more soldiers, but dropped again. He hadn’t gotten back up. He was shaking his head, as if trying to clear the haze from his mind. My stomach churned faster.

  “Ashleigh?” Noel prompted.

  Oh, yeah. She’d asked a question. “Eve is wonderful. Smart. Independent. Strong.” Would Saxon recover in time to block an incoming blow?

  “Wonderful?” In unison, Noel and Ophelia cackled. Why?

  Yes! Saxon had rallied and fended off the attack. Not that I cared. His breastplate had come off, revealing gashes all over his muscular chest.

  Watching him now, it was easy to believe he once, maybe, might possibly have been the original avian king. Such ferocity. Such brutality. But, even if he was a copy of Craven the Destroyer, he wasn’t actually Craven the Destroyer. Saxon had led a different life this go-round. He’d had a different upbringing, with different challenges and experiences.

  And that was good. I suspected Craven would have murdered me right away. Saxon merely toyed with me. Which was frustrating. Definitely not fun. But I wasn’t Leonora. I hadn’t changed my mind about that. If anything, I was more certain than ever. Because...reasons.

  If I were the witch—or phantom—I would have used her powerful fire magic at least once while I was awake. I wouldn’t burn or blister when I encountered flames, and I did.

  But oh, what I wouldn’t give to wield power like hers. To create fire from air...to melt and mold my metals anytime, anyplace I desired... It had to be paradise.

  A bloody Saxon shot into the air so suddenly, it looked like he’d been thrown. I held my breath as he peaked, angled his head down, tucked in his wings, and bulleted toward the ground.

  “Oh, my goodness,” Dior cried. “Will he...can he...?”

  The crowd held a collective breath. At the last second, the avian leveled out, spread his wings, and swept over the remaining combatants. Any warrior who came into contact with his wings toppled, clutching some part of his body as fresh blood spurted.

  I caught sight of Milo just as he felled a goblin with surprising skill and violence. The warlock had been training.

  Dior clapped for him, and I slinked deeper into my baby throne. For her sake, I hoped Milo had grown out of his selfishness. Until I got to know the man he’d become, I wouldn’t feel right commenting about the boy he’d been.

  “You know,” Ophelia said, tapping a fingertip against her chin. “I can’t help but wonder if Saxon thinks Eve is wonderful, too. They both have parts in ‘The Little Cinder Girl’ prophecy, after all.”

  What? I jolted, shocked to my core, my heart galloping. The battle momentarily forgotten, I zoomed my attention to the oracle. “They do?”

  “Big ones,” Noel confirmed. “Huge.”

  Why had no one told me? I mean, I understood that some royals kept their prophecies to themselves to ensure an enemy couldn’t use the fairy tale against them, but come on! If Saxon and Eve were part of “The Little Cinder Girl,” just as I was part of “The Little Cinder Girl,” our futures—our very fates—were intertwined.

  “Guess what?” Dior squealed, grinning from ear to ear.

  Oh, no. No, no, no. Don’t say it.

  “I’m part of ‘The Little Cinder Girl,’ too.” She clasped my hand and squeezed excitedly. “Can you believe it? We share a last name and a prophecy. That must mean we’re going to be best friends.”

  Well, she said it. What if she was Cinder? Noel had already admitted Dior was going to wed a prince. And Saxon kind of fit, one part of him an honorable friend, the other part of him a dishonorable foe. But, when was the obvious choice ever the answer?

  I gripped the arms of my seat. Saxon and Dior would make a lovely couple. They didn’t share a violent history. She was in perfect health, wielded magic, possessed great wealth and the adoration of a king.

  Let’s face it. I could be her evil stepsister.

  Oh...weeds. I didn’t want to be an evil stepsister. And Saxon might be the prince, but that didn’t mean he belonged with Dior, who clearly wasn’t a warrior unwilling to bend. Eve was, though. I couldn’t imagine her bending for anyone about anything.

  And what about me? Did part of me still qualify? Unbending? Please. My entire life was a compromise of some sort.

  Cinder didn’t desire wealth or power of her own, but I did. Money purchased what you needed to survive or even exist. Power protected you from the foes who tried to take your wealth. And, really, I’d like being my own fairy godmother. I mean, I’d take help when I could get it, but I’d taken such pride in solving my own problem.

  My dream to make and sell quality weaponry solidified. I would save my coins and buy a magical ability of my own. Nothing would stop me. Which a certain avian prince might consider a very Leonora desire...

  Two hearts, one head. One head, two hearts.

  I drummed my nails against the arms of the throne. Why try to figure this out alone with an oracle nearby? “Do you happen to know our roles in the fairy tale?” I asked, doing my best to sound nonchalant, lest she decide to charge me for the information.

  Noel’s purple eyes lit with excitement. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask for years. Because I do, and I don’t. There are so many players, taking steps this way and that way, then changing their mind and going here and th
ere. But time reveals all, and all reveals time. Does that answer your question?”

  What nonsense. “How about you tell me everything you do know about the players and nothing you don’t?”

  “Certainly.” She swatted at a twirling dust mote. “As soon as you tell me what we’re talking about again?”

  Were all oracles this frustrating?

  Multiple gasps drew my attention to the battlefield. Recalling the tournament—how had I forgotten, even for a second?—I scanned the combatants, searching for Saxon. Where was he now? I leaped to my feet and joined my father at the railing, desperate for a closer look. He stiffened, but he didn’t rebuke me.

  Saxon, Saxon—I pressed a hand over my mouth to silence a cry of distress. He was fighting a giant, two trolls, a warlock, a snake-shifter, and four sorcerers. At the same time. They formed a circle around him, attacking him two at a time at different intervals. Saxon held his own, delivering more strikes than he took, his body in a constant state of motion.

  “Why did you allow sorcerers to enter?” They were just as universally despised as trolls. In the past, many sorcerian had abducted magic wielders to hold them captive, drain their power, and steal their magic.

  With my conversation with Eve so fresh, however, I decided to reserve judgment about each individual sorcerian.

  As Saxon disemboweled one of the sorcerers, Father waved away my words. “Excluding specific beings would have ignited an unnecessary war. And there are ways to ensure certain creatures do not win...”

  He would cheat? But, that was so low. So cowardly. “Father—”

  “No, not another word,” he snapped. “I wish to enjoy the game in peace, girl.”

  I flinched. What made me so unlikable to this man?

  When Saxon slayed a second sorcerer, Milo joined the circle, hoping to be the one to take out the avian. At that point, Father decided to nod to the master of ceremonies, who placed a horn at his lips and blew. Amid the ensuing blare, the remaining combatants jumped apart, every fight ceasing.