Death's Queen (The Complete Series)

by Janeal Falor

  The room has more landscapes of Valcora on the walls, a clock, no windows, and two bodyguards posted on either side of the door, both women. More are waiting outside, a mixture of genders. There's a long table surrounded by chairs, but the only two seats occupied are mine and—across from me—Ranen’s. And he’s still talking.

  None of it seems to have anything to do with being queen. More like bossing me around. Stuff about how to sit, what utensils to use when eating, and how to give a proper curtsy. He says I’m to let him take care of the nitty-gritty, boring things, while I focus on putting up a good front.

  I think on my almost-death and why I didn't let myself die. Instinct, I guess. Nothing else can account for it.

  If only if I didn't have a death wish, then I would still be on the streets alone instead of listening to this moron prattle on. Of course, I'd be cold and hungry, but I'd also be by myself.

  He's saying something about dancing now. Knives forbid he makes me practice. If he tries, I’ll pull out the daggers I stashed on my person. I won't be going anywhere without them again. I shouldn't have gone without them in the first place, I know better than that. But then, it's hard to care when all you want is to no longer be around.

  Maybe if I can find out who wanted me dead, I'll feel free to die. It's a hard question. I don't know who to suspect, so I suspect everyone.

  A group of frilly and refined girls enters the room. Some sulk, others glare, and two are expressionless.

  Some are familiar. Why?

  I place one then. A blur of a memory, but it's enough. These are the girls I burst through when I made my dive for the Mortum Tura.

  What are they doing here? Could any of them have something to do with the assassination attempt? I doubt they are all innocent. No one is without mistakes. I learned that while bloodying my hands, if nothing else.

  “You'll need to thank each one of them,” Ranen says.

  “Who are they, and why do they need to be thanked?” Daros taught me not to be grateful for anything. Ever.

  “They are those who trained to become queen. Those who went the proper way about it.” His tone holds a blade of reprimand.

  Like I care about proper ways of things, except the upkeep of lifesaving tools. “Why didn't they drink it before me, then?”

  “Because you shoved your way in.” His blunt manner would take me aback if I wasn't used to it from Daros. I thought as queen I would have less of that, but perhaps things are different than I expected.

  Another question finds its way to my lips. “Why didn't they take it in the weeks before I came?”

  “Because, Your Majesty”—more like nitwit, by his tone—“they weren't prepared until this day.”

  Apparently, neither was I. “Why do I need to thank them?”

  “For their service, of course.” His voice implies that any idiot could figure that out.

  It doesn't make sense to me, but I'm used to following orders.

  As the women come nearer, they don't look all that happy to see me. If they went the proper way to becoming queen, and I came along and took it, they have a right to be angry.

  As each one comes forward, I thank them, though I still have no idea what I'm thanking them for.

  It’s the last girl’s turn, and her eyes flare like she wants to take me out this very moment.

  I'd like to see her try.

  She's short and well rounded. They all are chubby. Must have been well fed, getting trained to become queen. She has a dainty mole above her lip and to the right. I bet she thinks it's beautiful and becoming. Who knows? It may even be fake.

  “These women will become your ladies in waiting,” Ranen says.

  “My what?”

  He clenches his jaw. “Your ladies in waiting. They will attend you at functions. Keep you company. Run errands for you. Things of that nature.”

  “I see.” I don't really. Those are things I either don't need or can do myself. Why would I have someone else do them for me? “Why them?”

  He gives an exasperated sigh. “Because they trained the right way. Not to possibly become queen, but also to serve her, should the chance arise before they die or become royalty themselves.”

  Does that mean I saved some of their lives? They didn’t get the chance to drink. Never tasted the sweet bitterness of the Mortum Tura. Then again, maybe I stopped the next girl who was going to drink it from becoming queen.

  No wonder some are glaring daggers at me. I hope the few who didn’t want to die, who unlike me, are thankful, though. “And this is how it's always done?” I ask.

  “It is.” An unspoken and you will respect it hangs in the air.

  It's all a bunch of hooey. Still, I hurry and thank them to get Ranen off my back. Anything to get rid of him faster. The women don't seem to care about my thank yous, though. I'd be better off not opening my mouth at all.

  “I will leave you now so you can get to know your ladies-in-waiting, but don't forget what I have taught you so far. You will have more lessons tomorrow, but now I have better things to do.”

  More lessons? How long am I going to have to sit and listen to their petty concerns? I should have picked a different way of death. Or just let the man kill me.

  Ranen leaves the room, and all that's left are these thirteen girls and women who look as if being in my presence is torture. They know nothing about pain.

  Most look to be about my age or a little older. Some are middle-aged, and one woman appears grandmotherly. They all look prim and proper, despite being angry at my presence.

  The girl with the mole asks, “Why did you drink from the cup?”

  I narrow my eyes at her. “What is your name?”

  “Jem,” she says with a curtsy, then spits out, “Your Majesty.”

  “Well, Jem”—I say her name as sarcastically as I can; if she can be rude, I can certainly dish it back—“why did you want to drink from the cup?”

  She scoffs. “As if you have to ask.”

  “Exactly my point.” Which is all they're getting from me on the subject. There's no way I'm telling them more.

  “I heard you staved off an attacker,” says the grandmotherly woman. Why she wanted to be queen is beyond me. She has so many wrinkles, her time as the ruler would be short—if she made it in the first place. Now I suppose she won’t know. It's just as well for her.

  “And your name is…?” I ask

  “Faya.”

  “Well then, Faya, yes. Someone attacked me.” I glance at Jem. “Anyone who attacks me is dealt with accordingly.”

  The room grows quiet after that, as if no one dares speak.

  The ladies pull out things to work on, like little sewing pieces stashed in their voluminous skirts. If I pull out what’s stashed in my skirts, some of them will faint on the spot. Like my daggers.

  “Excuse me, Your Majesty,” Faya says. “We would like to know where we can find your family, to move them into the palace.”

  “Why would you want to do such a thing?” The closest thing I have to family is Daros, and having him here is not going to happen.

  “It is one of our duties, as ladies-in-waiting.”

  “Well, it is one duty you won't have to worry about.”

  Jem narrows her eyes, and a few others look on curiously, but none of them contradict my words.

  “What about your name?” Faya asks. “What can we call you, My Lady?”

  “It seems you have plenty of names for me as it is.” I don't want to admit to being nameless. I've never wanted to before, and I feel even less inclined to now.

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but we need to call you Queen Something. What can we fill that in with?” Faya persists.

  “Nothing. You will call me only Queen.” I put sufficient bite in my words that the ladies-in-waiting shouldn't ask more questions.

  And they don't, but they do give each other bewildered glances. It's not like people such as me exist. Everyone has a name, unless they belong to Daros, and I'm the only one who be
longs to him.

  They continue sewing. It makes me want to pull out those daggers to gouge my own eyes out. I can't handle this boring busywork.

  A while later, I've had enough. There's only so much sitting around a person can do. It doesn't matter that I was taught to emulate those around me. There's no reason to, and I'm more bored than a knife can be dull.

  I stand, and the ladies hurry to their feet, putting away their sewing.

  “Is there something you need?” the oldest one, Faya, asks.

  “Yes. Take me to my room.”

  “I wish I could, my lady, but it's almost time for the feast to begin.”'

  “What feast?”

  “The one in honor of you becoming queen. Lord Ranen should have told you all about it and what to expect. It's always held the afternoon after a new leader is chosen.”

  Either he didn't, or I was paying less attention than I thought. “When should I attend this feast?”

  She glances at the clock. “In another twenty or so minutes.”

  I clamp my teeth together and sit back down. This is ridiculous. I thought I'd left my mandates behind, but it seems not. Even as queen, you're subject to others.

  We wait, them doing their handwork and fussing over me for what seems more like forty minutes before Jem stands. The others follow suit, Faya more slowly than the others. At this point, I'm so grumpy of doing nothing at all that I stay in my seat to be contrary.

  “It's time for us to go, Your Majesty,” Jem says.

  “I'll go when I'm good and ready.”

  Jem gives me a shocked look, like she doesn't believe what I said. The others look just as horrified.

  “You can't do that,” one of them says. “We have to be on time.”

  “I'm the queen. I can do whatever I want.” And if they're going to bore me for hours, I can make them wait for me. I couldn't pull such a ploy with Daros. Being able to do so now has me hiding a smirk.

  I sit here, casually thinking of the best poison to use on annoying twits. There are so many wondrous options. Not that I would really do it to such innocents, but it’s entertaining to think on.

  They all stare at me, aghast. I haven't enjoyed myself this much in a long time. Maybe having to sit here for hours, doing nothing, was worth it. Fifteen minutes later, I stand. The others look relieved and lead me to the door.

  As we make our way to the feast, I can't help but think I may figure out a way to fit in here. Until I find out who sent the assassin, that is. After that, I will see if I choose life or death.

  Chapter 6

  My earliest memory is of being on the street.

  Cold.

  Hungry.

  Alone.

  Strangely enough, that's how I feel now, though I shouldn't. The room’s the perfect temperature, and I sit in front of a table full of food, surrounded by people. There’s food to feast on for weeks, and I get sick looking at it, knowing how starving I was yesterday. It's all here, nonetheless—a celebration in my honor.

  But there's nothing to celebrate. My plate is filled for me, my glass kept full, yet all I can do is sip and remember those days on the streets. I was mostly numb, but there were times when I badly wanted something like this. And now that I have it, I no longer want it.

  Don't deserve it.

  I pick at my food, hunger forcing me to eat but despair making it dry within my mouth.

  Jem and the other ladies in waiting are close by, along with Ranen. This is the most uncomfortable meal I've ever lived through, and I've lived through some very uncomfortable meals, with Daros threatening people and once going further than a threat. Eating on the floor as punishment when I did something wrong was preferable to being at his eye level and risking his wrath.

  At least no one here tries to talk to me. For having a party in my honor, they don't seem to care about me.

  Everyone here appears to be part of the Kurah class—fine clothing, fancy hair, makeup for the girls. It's all a little over the top. Lots of gold and jewels being flaunted about. Where are the rest of the people I'm supposed to be queen of? Or is this some sort of show for the cream of society?

  “Your Highness.” A servant bows low, holding a serving tray out toward me with one hand. On it sits the very same chalice I drank from and became queen.

  I grab it, eager for its contents. If I drink from it again, the spell may be undone. I may die like I was supposed to. Like I couldn't let myself before.

  I lift the cup to my lips.

  “Your Highness,” the screechy man sitting next to me says, “if I may be so bold, you are to give a speech before drinking.”

  A speech? What in all of Valcora would I say? There are no words left inside me. Nothing left but a tumble of emotions I can't deal with. Guilt stings me with the blood, cold on my hands. Hatred toward myself and the daggers and poisons I use. Shame for ever listening to Daros.

  Forget protocol.

  I chug down the contents of the cup without a single word. The room is silent. Some of the liquid spills out and rolls down my chin. As soon as the drink is gone, I slam my cup down, waiting for pain.

  Of course, just like before, it doesn’t come. Instead, something tickles at me. It’s almost like the thread of a memory, but I can't imagine what type of memory it could be. It’s not familiar.

  The crowd watches me with a mixture of confusion and disgust as I grab a linen napkin and wipe the spill on my chin. When they continue to stare at me and do nothing, I say in my loudest voice, “I am the queen.”

  I stand, and the entire group stands as well. They bow low to the ground. What is with these people and bowing? I stride away from the room, putting as much anger as I can in each step. This was the worst possible feast I could attend.

  I don’t stop when I pass the guards. Don’t stop when I get to the hall. Don’t stop even when I lose my way. I stretch my legs, my skirts rustling as I go. Footsteps follow me, but I ignore them. I'm not going to have a moment to myself as queen, it would seem.

  I try to outrun the feelings jumbled in my chest. My eyes sting in an unfamiliar way. The thing that finally makes me come to a halt is a dead end. I slouch against the wall and rest my forehead on the cool stone, wishing it would fall atop me.

  Why do I never have good ideas?

  It would be better if I gave a speech. If only I wasn’t so eager to drink from the cup that made me queen. I should have known it wouldn't kill me. That I'm stuck in this position.

  Why did it choose me? Why couldn't it have chosen one of those other girls, like Jem or Faya, after it killed me off? A burning desire to understand fills me, but as far as I'm aware, no one knows how the cup works.

  When I turn around, heat sears my face. A guard is watching me. I knew he was here, but I didn't expect him to be staring at me.

  He's young, though a couple years older than my seventeenish years, I think. He's several inches taller than me, with brown hair several inches long. He's strong, evident by the muscles where his shirt doesn’t cover, though his armor prevents me from seeing much. His armor is like everyone else’s of the guard. A light steel vest with black breeches, high black boots, and a black cape so they can blend in if needed. He has a sword on one side and a couple knives strapped to the other.

  Mostly, it's his eyes that capture me. They’re hazel, with hints of blue. He lowers his gaze making me miss the view. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I didn't mean to intrude. I'm to keep you safe.”

  A heavy sigh escapes me. There's one benefit to this. No longer being lost, though I’d almost rather stay here at this cool, dead end. Almost. “Would you please take me to my room?”

  He gives a short bow. “Of course.” He turns and walks away, though he looks over his shoulder every once and a while.

  I move next to him, though I’m in no hurry to do so. We wind through more hallways than I've seen in all my life. I suppose I saw them on the way out, but I was too angry to really see them.

  When we've been walking a full minute or so, th
e guard slows. I linger behind him, but he doesn't continue on. He faces me, gaze still lowered. “It's not my place to say anything—I know I could be put to death for it—but I want to know. Why would you risk your life to become queen?”

  I can't help the smile that tilts up one side of my face. Finally someone here who's not a coward or rude. “What's your name?”

  “Nash. What is yours, my queen?”

  “I have no name.”

  He widens his eyes, and his mouth tilts open.

  I clench my jaw. “Show me the way to my room.”

  He bows yet again and moves forward, like he didn’t ask the question to begin with. There's no apology in his movements. No sorrow in his steps. We pass other people, who bow as I walk by. I ignore them.

  When we reach what I believe to be my rooms, Ranen is waiting for me with a retinue. I grit my teeth. I'm already sick of him.

  “My lady,” he says, “we were worried about you. Especially after the attack. You need to stay where we can find you.”

  I open my mouth to explain myself, but then realize if there's anything good about being queen, it's that I don't have to explain myself any longer. “Leave.”

  “My lady?”

  I turn to the other admirers, still bowing to me. “All of you, leave now.”

  They stare at me, aghast. They'd better get used to it. As a matter of fact, I'd better get used to it.

  “Except you.” I point to the guard who helped me find this room, who is turning away. “You come with me.”

  Without watching to see if they will obey or not, I turn the knob on my door and hurry through. The guard, thankfully, follows.

  “Shut the door,” I tell him.

  Once he does so, I take the time to look around the first room. I was here earlier, when I bathed and dressed, but I passed through the sitting room quickly and didn't stop to look at the details, of which there are many.

  It's a big room—much bigger than my bedroom at Daros's—and gaudy, with gold clinging to every place I look. Real gold, if I had to guess, taken from one of the man mines in Valcora. Cluttered with the furniture as it is, it holds no appeal. The chairs and sofas look more uncomfortable than a torture device, and I know my torture devices. I wince and focus on the walls. Landscape paintings are all there is, besides a window.