The Queen's Choice

by Cayla Kluver

  Though Shea was inclined to backtrack to one of the towns for medical help, I wouldn’t entertain the idea. We were closer to Tairmor at this point and traveling downhill. Retreating would mean a more arduous journey for me and the horses, one I wasn’t sure I could make. I didn’t share this last thought with Shea, however, suspecting it would have made her even more insistent. Instead, I put on a brave face and promised to call for her if my condition worsened. While she wasn’t happy about the situation, she mixed some herbs from her medical supplies in a cup of warm water, assuring me it would help me to rest.

  I lay on my bedroll, floating between awareness and unconsciousness, between the heat of the sun and the chill of the moon. Faces and shapes kept flashing through my mind, jerking my limbs as though I were a marionette in some lurid puppet show, and each time I moved, my back ached and stung. First there was Zabriel, but his warm, dark eyes had turned pale green and glowed ominously, warning me that he was not the same Prince I had known. Next was Ubiqua, sitting on her throne of twined roots, her hair matted and tangled but long enough to trail across the floor of the Great Redwood. Circles cleaved to her eyes like men aboard a sinking ship, and she gazed through me, begging me to understand. Understand what? That she had sent Illumina to die, she told me, that the sacrifice was necessary. I fled from her in horror.

  Then I met my young cousin, her black hair and pale skin unchanged from the way I remembered her. The only difference was that she was happy to see me, and Illumina was rarely happy. Just when she broke into a smile, figures loomed behind her, and a man wrapped his overgrown hand across her mouth.

  “Got one,” he murmured, and I lurched forward, wanting to save her from the hunters, but she had faded into shadow, intangible and ghostly.

  I couldn’t breathe. I was hot and cold at once, my body fevered, my lungs screaming for air. It was part of the dream, part of the illness, my mind maintained; then clarity came to me, and my eyes flew open.

  I screamed loud and long, though the sound was muffled by luminescent fingers. A pistol went off, but the suffocating grip around my chest and throat only tightened, and I struggled against arms that were at once weightless and as strong as iron. Then my thoughts clicked into place, and I groped at my hip for the Anlace. With my legs threatening to give out, I ripped it from its sheath and struck at my assailant with a blade instead of bare hands.

  A spine-tingling screech tore through the darkness, evidence of the effectiveness of my defense. Again I struck, the Anlace sinking deep into flesh and sinew, and the creature released me. I fell to my knees, then scrambled toward Shea, the horrific sounds of my attacker’s death throes echoing in the foothills of the Fere. I cowered, feeling like I was still trapped in my nightmares, that any direction I ran, walls of glass would contain me like a figure in an orb.

  Shea was suffering no such delusions. Loading and reloading her pistol, she fired a steady chain of shots that hit their mark more than once and eventually forced our enemies to withdraw. When at last the only sounds were the wind and the frantic stamping of horses’ hooves, I raised my head and dared to look around.

  On the ground near my bedroll lay a corpse—only one, despite the number of bullets Shea had sent flying. But the body was no longer white like the hands that had tried to strangle me; it shimmered green, blue, red, and gold in the manner of Faerie wings. Gradually a black fog corrupted the skin, then dissipated into the air.

  “What...?” I stammered, unable to process the sight. “What...?”

  “Sepulchres,” Shea supplied, kneeling beside me. “There were four of them. They went after you first. But this time, they came at me, too.” A shudder passed through her body, perhaps from the memory of those long fingers reaching for her throat. “I—I thought they were going to kill me, but then they backed off. I suppose because I have no magic. When they began to tear through our packs, I drew my gun and started shooting.”

  She was pale and shaken, and I looked to the Royal Anlace in my fist—the weapon that had killed a once-magical creature when bullets could not. Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad thing that Queen Ubiqua had given it to me. I thought back to Thatcher’s assessment that the blade had been imbued with poison, but I couldn’t quite embrace that idea. The weapon was a relic, forged by our ancestors, the Old Fae, and using the riches of Nature for dubious purposes like crafting poisons would have been even more proscribed historically than it was now. I had a stronger sense that the Anlace was imbued with an ancient power long since out of my people’s reach. Our smiths could craft conduit swords for the Queen’s Blades to augment their elemental magic, but making a weapon with independent magical properties was unheard of. Maybe the Old Fae had possessed skills we lacked.

  “We’ve got to get out of here, Anya,” Shea urged, rising to her feet. “They could come back, and my gun doesn’t do more than scare them.”

  Too weak to be of much help, I watched my friend haphazardly gather up our things. When she went to get our packs, it became clear the Sepulchers had only gone after mine, for hers was still tied closed. It didn’t take long to discover the reason for the creatures’ interest.

  “What’s this?” she asked, holding up a small vial filled with an amber liquid that glistened in the firelight.

  “It looks like...the same drink the Sepulchre took from me back in Strong.” I doubted Shea knew much about Sale other than that it was a dangerous and illegal substance, and I didn’t want to get into a discussion of it now.

  “I remember.” Shea’s face puckered in bewilderment. “Why is it in your pack? I thought that flask was all you had.”

  I tugged on my hair, trying to sort things out, and the answer hit me with the force of an arrow.

  “Hastings,” I gasped. “He must have planted it when he was helping saddle our horses. It would have attracted the Sepulchres.”

  “You mean he sent those creatures after us? On purpose?”

  “I’ve never encountered a Sepulchre in my travels in the Territory before, not even when I had my magic. We know Hastings keeps them—he must have found a way to control them, too. That vial would have left a scent for them to follow.”

  Shea launched into a string of profanities that would have done a sailor proud, ending with, “I’m going to kill that fat, ugly, balding swine someday!”

  I gave the only response that came to my addled brain. “I’ve never encountered a balding pig in my travels, either.”

  She gave a short laugh and finished the work, deftly rolling our bedding. After helping me to my feet, she approached the horses intending to saddle them, only to discover that the geldings had fought their ropes during the attack, and one of them had fallen and broken its neck. It was eerie to see an animal so large and powerful motionless, its eyes partially open and glassy with fear. Shea did the only thing we could for it, removing the horse’s halter and lead to let it lie upon the ground as it had been born—unbound.

  When we were at last ready to go, Shea helped me into the saddle of our remaining mount and climbed up behind me. With the sun just breaking over the horizon at our backs, we continued our journey down the other side of the Fere, believing our destination within reach this day. I clutched in my fist the vial with which Hastings had fortuitously supplied me—Sale was extremely difficult to come by in the Territory, and what he’d stowed in my pack wasn’t much. But it might be enough.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  FRIEND OR FOE

  Tairmor was built to make an impression. The capital of the Warckum Territory was a fully walled marvel of a city, with massive stone dams to accommodate the river Kappa at its western and eastern borders. Shea and I followed the path of the river to the solid metal gate, around which curtains of water fell according to the dam’s directions. The structure of the city was more than architecture; it was art.

  The gate was open, seeming to invite us in, but we were stopped
by guards whose demeanors were not entirely friendly. Considering the number of people they had to deal with each day, and the volume of documents they had to examine, their brusqueness was understandable, albeit annoying. It wasn’t our fault that the Governor’s men had increased security tenfold since the last time I’d been here. Not only were our papers scrutinized, but we were required to record our names and state our business, which we listed as touring, in a massive logbook before being granted passage. Shea had the presence of mind to ask the guards for directions to the nearest doctor’s office, while I clung to our horse’s mane, letting the blanket that was draped over my quivering form brush against the animal’s flanks.

  Though the beauty of Tairmor was lost on me at this moment, it had made quite an impression when I’d seen it a couple of months ago. The fountains and snowbirds’ nests, which the nonmigratory birds strikingly insulated with dragon’s blood sedum flowers, always reminded me of Chrior. The river gorge that cut through the center of the city created a perpetual gentle spray of water, while the falls that fed the Kappa down the side of the chasm were stunning. Of course, the city was still human—clouds of smoke puffed from homes and factories on the horizon, trees were killed and mutilated rather than negotiated with to make dwellings, and the earth’s natural ground was paved over for streets. The way humans settled and claimed an area was by erasing what it had originally been, and the Fae in me resented Tairmor for these things, despite its magnificence.

  Shea brought our horse to a halt, and I was assisted from the saddle and taken inside one of the buildings. All I felt was heat, despite the unrelenting shake in my bones. Someone removed my travel clothes, peeled away the soiled bandages that clung to my back like drying mud and put pressure on my screaming wounds. I cried out, and that was all it took for me to lose consciousness. My last sight was the silver pistol at Shea’s hip, my accompanying thought the meager hope that she would keep up her guard while I was in a hapless state. These were neither familiar surroundings nor familiar people, and the question remained whether we had landed among friend or foe.

  * * *

  I awoke in the same sort of pain I’d been in when I’d opened my eyes at the More house, my body so fussy and restrictive that if I moved the wrong way, I’d damage myself all over again. The best thing I could do was lie still, even though my neck hurt from being craned to the side while I’d slept on my stomach.

  I closed my eyes, trying to remember how I had ended up here. Then curiosity got the better of me and I examined the room, or what I could see of it from my position on the bed.

  To my left was a curtain, while on my right, set into the brick wall, was a window with brilliantly clean glass. Judging from the voices that floated in the air, there were other people beyond the curtain, and when a woman in a soft blue dress that looked like a uniform came to check my pulse, I caught a glimpse of a row of beds behind her. I was in a human hospital. But where was Shea? Though I longed for an answer, I didn’t make inquiries of the hospital staff, desiring no attention beyond what was necessary to care for my back.

  As the day went on, restlessness set in, and I pushed myself up to look out the window. A short distance from the pane of glass was a brick wall—the space was hardly large enough to be an alley, though that was its purpose, and snow and leaves were gusted into piles along the ground like whitecaps. My gaze fell on a flyer posted a few yards down from the window, and I stared at it, unsure whether to laugh at the irony or appreciate the sentiment.

  “FAE not FOE,” it read above a drawing of a winged person with, fittingly enough, the same curly-toed boots we rigorously mocked in Chrior. At the bottom it announced: “Faerie Rights Are Human Rights.” I was aware of the Governor’s somewhat poetic penchant for slogans around which to rally his people, although I wasn’t sure how well they worked. Some even asserted his efforts were child’s play, the result of a weakening mind. Nonetheless, the flyer served as confirmation that the official position in Tairmor was staunchly pro-Fae.

  It was evening before the curtain that divided my room from the larger hospital ward was pushed aside and Shea blessedly entered, glancing behind her as if to ensure she wasn’t being followed. In true fugitive fashion, she’d probably been hiding during daylight hours. She jerked the divider back into place, though the thin fabric couldn’t possibly shut out sound.

  “Thank God you’re awake,” she exclaimed, moving to claim the chair at my bedside. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better. Don’t worry. I’ll be able to travel tomorrow.”

  The skeptical lift of Shea’s dark eyebrows told me she thought otherwise, and I sat up straighter to demonstrate my strength and stamina. I could tell she was still dubious, but at least she didn’t belabor the point.

  “Whether you can travel or not, I think we’re safe for the time being. It’s been three days and no one’s recognized me or taken issue with you.” Flashing a grin, she leaned closer to me, and it was clear she had also been treated well—her hair was clean and brushed, lying loose about her shoulders, and her clothing had been laundered. “Then again, I haven’t left the hospital. I acted like I was starving and won several good meals and quite a bit of sympathy.”

  I chuckled at her self-satisfied expression, but couldn’t share her casual attitude. We’d already lost precious time and I didn’t want to lose more.

  “I really can travel tomorrow, Shea. They injected me with some medication a while ago, and it’s helping. I promise I’ll take it easy, but there are a few things we need to accomplish.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Maybe letting yourself heal ought to be the first thing you do. Look, this hospital has so far been a good place for us. After all, you’re not dead, and I haven’t been arrested.”

  “I suppose I can wait and hear what the doctor has to say. But as soon as I’m discharged, we’ll nose around the city for Evangeline and try to find out if Zabriel’s been here.” Diverting my gaze, I added, “I don’t think there’s much hope for word on Illumina.... I mean, she has no travel papers.”

  “At least we have a plan,” Shea replied, trying to sound upbeat—she understood that my cousin might be dead or injured. “The best thing we can do right now is get a good night’s sleep.”

  “That raises an interesting question. Where exactly have you been sleeping?”

  She grinned mischievously. “On a cot in the doctor’s lounge. I curl up after I’ve finished my patient rounds.”

  Shea ducked out of view around the curtain before I could retort, and I lay down on my side, settling into the comfort of my pillows. As I stared at the lights of the city filtering in through the window, my thoughts traveled to the events leading up to Queen Ubiqua’s marriage to William Ivanova. From what I understood, the Governor had desired a lasting peace with the Faerie Realm along with an exchange of information. He understood that there was much to be learned from us, and that our elemental connections could be used to benefit both of our races. But I wondered if, in the aftermath of his son’s death, his devotion to the cause was fueled by yet another motivation—to ensure the human world was welcoming to Fae in the hope that his grandchild would eventually cross into the Territory. He had known Ubiqua was pregnant, after all, and perhaps anguished over whether the baby had been born alive after crossing the Road in its mother’s womb, whether it was a girl or a boy, and whether he would ever have a chance to get to know his eldest son’s offspring.

  It was early morning when I was roused by a man softly repeating my name, and I forced my bleary eyes to focus on him. He was gray-haired and bespectacled, with neatly trimmed facial hair. On my other side, Shea was rising from the chair with a tug at her rumpled clothing, flustered that he had come in without her notice. I wondered when she had returned to the room.

  “I’m Dr. Nye, and you’ve been in my care since your arrival,” the man said, his watery blue eyes kind. “I’m happy to say the infectio
n in your wounds has dissipated promisingly, and you’re doing quite well. We’re in need of beds, so I’m willing to discharge you, but you must stay on the medication I’ve prescribed. And I’d like to recheck your wounds three days hence.”

  Shea stood and took my hand, laying claim to me for the stranger’s benefit.

  “So we can leave?”

  “Well, you can leave here.” He was hedging, and my stomach lurched. Shea let her tension show in her jaw, clenching it so tightly the tendons in her neck stood out. “You see, there’s one other matter, Anya. You do realize you were the victim of a crime?”

  While I wasn’t sure what I had expected—maybe a bill for hospital services or a visit from the director of a children’s home—this was not it. Taken aback, I warily nodded. Of course I was a victim, according to the law of the land. But surely it was far too late for me to file a report—I couldn’t imagine that an effective investigation was still possible.

  “As a medical practitioner, I’m required to report evidence of crimes to the Governor’s Constabularies. Please don’t let this alarm you. All they want to know is what happened when your wings were removed. We would all like to see the people responsible caught and punished. We don’t want them to hurt anyone else.”

  Shea, looking nauseous, was holding her head in her hands, though thankfully she had faded into the background where Doctor Nye couldn’t see her. Something in the man’s tone had revealed a terrible truth.

  “The Constabularies are here, aren’t they?” I inquired.

  “They’re waiting outside.”

  Judging from the doctor’s apologetic tone, he didn’t enjoy entrapping his patients in this way, though he wasn’t hesitant enough about the Governor’s methods to have given me a ten-minute head start out the door. Bureaucrats. Wasn’t it my business whether or not this crime should be recorded, examined, disseminated? Hadn’t my experience been amply traumatic? I could have made a thousand political arguments, but my true horror lay in the thought that my own carelessness in tending my wounds during our travels might be responsible for Shea’s discovery. Seven years her father owed for his crime. Seven years to repay a debt just like whatever debt Spex was repaying. Who knew what she might be forced to do if she were imprisoned?