The Queen's Choice

by Cayla Kluver

  Deserting Shea, Zabriel slid to his knees on the floor of the cab. He took my hands in his, and I looked into his dark, almond-shaped Ivanova eyes, which carried in them so many of my own memories. His hair sprang forward unregulated, and I reached out to touch it, then slid my hands over his cheeks and onto his shoulders. He was real, he was here, and he was safe.

  Throughout my journey with Shea, I hadn’t considered how I would feel if I actually ended up face-to-face with my wayward cousin, and now I was in such turmoil that I didn’t know which emotion would dominate. I was happy—more than that, I was euphoric. But I also wanted to slap him so hard his relations on both sides of the Bloody Road would sit up in their beds. I wanted to scream at him; I wanted him to understand the bedlam of grief and rage and...and abandonment he’d left in his wake in Chrior. Yet I was terrified that if I did anything at all, he would disappear all over again.

  “Let’s see...” Zabriel mused in response to my silence. “I’m taller than you remember, and more muscled. And I’m a heck of a lot better-looking.” He swept my thick auburn hair over my shoulder and winked. “That’s it, isn’t it? Come on, Anya, say something.”

  I stared at him, thinking of the things I needed to tell him but not knowing where to start. Then my mind skipped to the mutilation I had suffered. How would he react to it? Without conscious thought, I inched toward the back of the seat, hoping he wouldn’t notice that I was different. I didn’t know how or when I had come to be ashamed of what had been done to me, but my stomach was coated with humiliation.

  “For years,” I finally managed, “no one’s known if you were even alive. And you think I care about your jawline?”

  He peered at me through the shades of his eyelashes. “You can play that game all you like, but if I’d gotten uglier, I’d be hearing about it. Don’t even try to deny it.”

  The urge to hit him for being so glib was formidable, but it couldn’t overpower my desire to go along with him and pretend the past two years hadn’t happened. After a brief, almost physical battle with myself, I hurtled into his arms. He grimaced, and I readjusted my position to put less pressure on his newly bruised ribs.

  “I missed you, too,” he said, still lighthearted, but I knew the moment of discovery would come, felt it arrive as he tucked his face into my hair, his hands curling into fists over the fabric where my wings should have been. His words became a whisper. “God, I’m so sorry.”

  At first, I didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge him; then I gave in and sank against him, willing to be weak in the circle of his arms. He and I both understood that silence could signify more gratitude than a thousand words of thanks, an embrace more support than a million promises. But most importantly, from my point of view, I determined that his wings were still there, the membrane, though shrouded, soft under my fingers.

  An eternity later, he cupped my face in his hands and used his thumbs to wipe my cheeks clean of the tears that had appeared without my acquiescence or awareness.

  “I’m okay,” I assured him, taking his hands in mine, unwilling to dwell on the past, on years that had been lost and misfortunes that couldn’t be reversed. Zabriel, the long-absent Prince of the Fae, was kneeling before me, and that meant the future could be planned. “I really am. But you could have chosen a better moment for your grand arrival.”

  I looked him up and down as he reclaimed the seat next to Shea and his smile drifted back into place. He was dressed in a fancy double-breasted coat, which I recalled from the wanted poster in Luka Ivanova’s sitting room, and his boots folded down almost at the half, the butt of a pistol extending from one of them. He was tall and lean, and had shed the last vestiges of childish weight, revealing more angular features, as he’d so modestly proclaimed himself: sharp cheekbones, a rigid jaw, a mysterious brow. He was even handsomer than when I’d last seen him, the golden glow to his skin a testament to his health and vibrancy. I couldn’t help thinking he’d done well by leaving Chrior.

  “You may be right,” he answered with a chuckle, then he shifted his gaze to Shea. “I do believe I’ve paid for my dramatic timing, though. Isn’t that right, Smiley?”

  “It’s no more than you deserve,” she retorted, not ready to forgive him for the scare he’d given us. “Where did you come from, anyway? Were you hanging on the back of the cab?”

  “Of course. I’m surprised you didn’t notice, since you seem to view yourself as quite the little soldier.”

  “I could kick you again, you know.”

  “Oh, let’s not make a mess. The good man driving this cab has been so tolerant of our rumpus that I’d hate to have him cleaning you out of the grate.”

  Zabriel’s hand played with the shiny hilt of the blade that was barely visible between his hip and the wall of the cab.

  “Why don’t we pause for introductions?” I interrupted, worried Shea might very well call his bluff. “Then if you’d still like to battle your way to harmony, you can go right ahead.”

  Though she sullenly dropped her chin, Shea nodded, while my cousin settled back with a smirk.

  “Zabriel, this is Shea. She and her family helped me after I was hurt.” My eyes met his, but I did not elaborate. The time for details would come later. “Shea, this is my infamous cousin, Zabriel, Prince of the Fae.”

  “Infamous—I like that.” Zabriel stretched out his legs and planted them on the seat between me and his hat, feet crossed at the ankles. Extending a hand to Shea, he offered, “Truce?”

  She accepted his hand without making the requested promise, but he didn’t seem perturbed by any ill will she might harbor toward him. Outside the carriage, the city proper was sprouting up, and gas lamps attached to posts cast halos on the still-active streets. Their consistent light unburdened our eyes, and Zabriel’s mood shifted toward the serious.

  “Now, Anya, before you launch into that interrogation you no doubt have planned, I need to make one stipulation. You won’t like it. But I don’t want to play any more games, and I’m hoping you feel the same.”

  His face had hardened, the walls I’d grown used to seeing about him before he’d left Chrior returning like the chill that deadened autumn leaves. He’d become royal and unassailable in the span of a single breath, shrouding his benevolence as easily as he did his wings.

  “But first, let me set your mind at ease about Illumina. She’s safe.”

  “Illumina?” My eyes widened and my pulse quickened. “You’ve seen her?”

  “Yes,” he confirmed with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m aware of everything that goes on in Sheness. She doesn’t know my whereabouts, but I have people looking out for her. I figured she was looking for me once I saw her in the city, and assumed there might be more of you on the way. I asked Gwyneth to keep an eye open in Tairmor. She’s a friend, if you hadn’t guessed. When I learned you were on this side of the Bloody Road, I decided I could afford a conversation. But let me make myself clear. I’m not likely to be persuaded of anything, and I will not be forced.”

  This was the Zabriel I remembered all too well—defensive, aggressive, distrustful of his mother. He’d drawn his legs under him, his elbows upon his knees, one hand sealed around the opposite fist. He was daring me to say he had to come home regardless of his wishes, goading me into giving him the justification he needed to disappear again, clearly of the belief that there were more Fae, probably the Royal Blades, waiting to make him abide by the Queen’s demands if he refused. But I’d never done anything to earn that cold glower, and indignation rose in my chest like a snake ready to strike.

  “The last two years may have changed you, Zabriel, but they haven’t affected me much. I wouldn’t have tried to trick you then, and I wouldn’t now. It’s just Illumina and me, and in all honesty, I wasn’t even supposed to come. Queen Ubiqua has no intent to force you.” I took a deep breath and met his eyes, determined to keep my voice steady. �
�She’s dying, Zabriel.”

  He stared at me for a few seconds, his expression unchanging. Then his gaze dropped to the grated floor. Though I wanted to reach out and offer some comfort, I sat stiffly by, awaiting his reaction, while Shea examined him with wary interest.

  “She’s dying,” he repeated. “Of what?”

  “I don’t know. But she’s certain. The Great Redwood predicted it.”

  For an instant, it felt like the whole world was holding its breath, then Zabriel’s posture relaxed and he grinned. Appalled, I shifted farther away from him, his response hitting me like icy shrapnel. Shea’s head swiveled back and forth between us, her jaw clenching and unclenching until finally she cracked.

  “What is wrong with you? Didn’t you hear right? Your mother is on her way to the grave!”

  “Sorry, but the Great Redwood also predicted I would die on the Bloody Road. And yet...here I am.” He slapped himself irreverently on the chest.

  “Did Ubiqua tell you that?” I asked, dumbfounded. I’d only been told of the Great Redwood’s age and wisdom, never that it had failed in a prediction.

  “As a matter of fact I did get this news from the Queen herself, and I’ve been calling that tree the Great Deadwood ever since I danced across the boundary. But if my mother insists on perpetuating this nonsense, well, at least her funeral arrangements will be made early.”

  I gaped at him in horror, seeing all the features that were recognizable to me but not the Prince I’d known. He was flippant and sarcastic and talking blasphemously about things that were sacred in Fae lore. I wordlessly shook my head. Shea, ever more direct, spoke my thoughts out loud.

  “That’s just not right.”

  “Oh, come on now.” Zabriel crossed his arms, and temper flared in his dark eyes, his brows poised at an angle every bit as sharp as his cheekbones. “My mother has no reason to believe the Redwood’s prediction, if indeed the hollowed-out stump even made one. How about we try to be honest about her motivations? She expected me to have had my fun by now and come home, like any other Faerie on his Crossing. But I haven’t, so she’s doing whatever’s necessary to get me to return so I can become the Prince of Interracial Relations that she conceived me to be.”

  It felt like he was spitting on me with every sacrilege that fell from his lips. I’d left my home and my family, journeyed across the Territory, risked my life, lost my wings to bring him this message, this joke-worthy message that he didn’t think merited the breath I’d used to deliver it. And he justified himself by mocking the Queen I revered, the Queen I believed to be dying. Had I really at one time thought him compassionate and selfless? Had living in the human world changed him this much?

  His expression dared me to lean forward and smack him, betraying his assumption about what I would want to do. But I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, although it looked as though Shea might do it for me.

  “You really have been gone too long. You’ve managed to justify what you did by re-creating history, re-creating your mother into some manipulative shrew who only wants to use you. But the truth is, you’re having fun playing the part of a filthy, murdering pirate because it’s everything you weren’t supposed to become. But there’s one thing I already know about your life out here, Zabriel. You’ve created a court for yourself, complete with enemies, allies, a city, and a sea to rule. Whether in Sheness or in Chrior, you’re a prince because that’s the only thing you know how to be. The problem is you want it on your own terms. You want the perks without the responsibilities. You’d rather be a self-styled prince than a real one who helps people.”

  Zabriel regarded me with one brow raised, his thoughts unreadable, while Shea’s normally cherubic face was lurid. Then he clapped, slowly and deliberately.

  “That was quite a speech, Anya. My mother chose the right heir if she wants to be succeeded by herself.” I had forgotten how deductive and observant he was, the remarkable way in which his mind accounted for his senses, processed details most people dismissed, and turned them into an arsenal. In this case, it was simple reason that had led him to the conclusion about my appointment by the Queen. I saw Shea bristle on my behalf out of the corner of my eye as Zabriel went on listing my faults. “Self-righteous, single-minded, pointing out flaws and making it your business to fix them. In truth, not such a terrible set of traits for a ruler.”

  He leaned forward, his fingers twined, his eyes glinting at me in the light from the gas lamps outside, and lowered his chin without conceding our staring contest.

  “I can even respect that, Anya. But I start to have a problem when you come to my city and try to tell me what to do with my life. You think right from wrong is a single, straight-edged standard, defined by your ideals. Here’s the truth, and trust me when I say I’m giving it to you gently. I don’t give a damn about your standards, and neither does most of the world. Just because you believe in something doesn’t mean it’s going to happen, or even that it should happen. Right and wrong don’t exist—not in the way you see them. They are relative concepts, not absolutes. Tell me, who cared about Thatcher More’s personal moral code when he angered the people in power?”

  “How did you—” Shea started, but Zabriel cut her off, still addressing me.

  “Who cared about your values when your wings were cut off? Who gave a thought to the upbringing and beliefs of that kid in Tairmor whose father was executed while he stood helplessly by? Preaching and judging are the habits of people who haven’t lived, Anya. So you shouldn’t begin your effort to convince me you know best by proving that you have no idea what the world is really like.”

  My thoughts spun, and I grappled for a response, but Zabriel didn’t wait for one. He swiped his hat up from the bench, preparing to depart, then held up a hand, sighing as though with a pang of apology.

  “Here’s another truth, Anya. You may view me as a disgrace, but in my mind, I’m exactly what I’m supposed to be. And for the record, I haven’t abandoned the Fae. On the contrary, I’m doing everything I can for them. Just not the way you’d like.”

  He locked eyes upon me, and in that moment I realized he was pained—maybe a victim of his own cynicism, definitely of his own impulsive mouth. Ubiqua’s scolding voice rang in my head: Irresponsible. Self-indulgent. Childish. You’re too intelligent to be that thoughtless, Zabriel. You’ll destroy someone with your words someday.

  He could have been reliving the same memory, in any of its myriad incarnations, but I would never know. With a crooked half smile, my cousin swung the door of the hansom open and hopped onto the street without thought to its movement. I scrambled across the seat and stuck my head out the window, not wanting to lose track of him, but he was gone.

  “Well, he’s precious,” Shea said, shocked. “Are you certain he’s what the Fae need?”

  “He’s the Queen’s son.” I shrugged, not meeting her eyes. I didn’t want her to see the doubts that were stirring in my heart and creeping over my hopes like poison vines. “There is no one else.”

  Shea’s piercing gaze told me she suspected I wasn’t telling her everything, but she didn’t press further. We rode in silence the rest of the way to the inn. The encounter with Zabriel felt like a raw sore in my gut, and I was terrified I’d seen the last of him. He hadn’t wanted to hear anything I’d said about Ubiqua, about the need for him to leave Sheness, about the Faerie crown. But without him, Chrior could have a fourteen-year-old queen, and a second, perhaps even more violent, war with the humans. While changing his mind and his attitude might be difficult, the Faerie people still needed Zabriel, the only Prince of the Fae in our world. I also couldn’t help but think that, regardless of his protestations, he needed us.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  PIRATE HEAVEN

  Despite the warmth and luxuriousness of our second-floor room at the lodging house—the best Dementya money could buy, with its separate be
ds, private bathroom, and large windows overlooking the street—I couldn’t relax and enjoy myself. Shea tried once to provide a modicum of hope for my Realm by inquiring after Illumina’s qualifications for the throne, but I gave her a short summary of my younger cousin’s naïveté and inexperience and left it at that.

  I couldn’t believe it had come down to Illumina. I wouldn’t, not without significantly more convincing. But even with this prospect sneaking nearer, I was relieved by Zabriel’s promise that she was all right, that he had people looking out for her. Whatever else was the case, no one was dead, and I truly did want Illumina safe. But what sorts of people might those be? I grimaced, imagining the sordid folks Zabriel might be associating with these days. Before I made any other plans, I needed to find my younger cousin. That was something I could manage, something on which to focus in this miasma of worries.

  It was strange to think of Chrior as all the way on the other side of the Warckum Territory, enclosed by miles of protective woods. The Faerie Realm seemed like a cradle from which I’d been thrown like a baby bird before I was ready. Zabriel had left willingly when he’d been younger than I was. Whatever reassurances I could conjure about our earlier exchange, no level of dramatic inclination attributable to his character could belittle that reality.

  I struggled to sleep that night, at some point falling into a shallow slumber, only to be awakened by the sounds of Shea moving around the room. I sat up, squinting in the morning sunshine pouring through the window, my eyes as tired and dry as if I’d propped them open all night. She was already dressed and standing in front of the mirror, combing her fingers through her hair, and I tumbled out of bed and over to my pack on the floor. There was a note, rolled and tied, on top of it, and I held it out to my roommate as I rummaged for clothes.

  “Is this yours?”

  “No, never seen it before.” Shea’s curiosity engaged, she came to my side.