Queens (The Wielders of Arantha Book 2)

by Patrick Hodges

  “I'm glad you find this funny,” Vaxi said, pouting. “If Grandmother saw me in this getup …”

  “What?” Sen asked.

  Finally, an ironic smile formed at the corners of Vaxi's mouth. “She'd hate it. With a passion. Which means I'll probably grow to love it.”

  “That's the spirit,” Mizar said. “Do you still have that dagger I gave you?”

  She nodded. “It's in my boot. So what now?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I gather you don't want me wandering the castle alone; is there anything I can do to help?”

  Mizar looked at Sen, who shrugged. “Evening meal isn't for a few more hours, so if you're tired, feel free to use my bed,” Mizar said.

  Vaxi's hand fell to her waist, and she absently rubbed the healed wound in her side.

  “Are you in pain?” Sen asked, concerned.

  “No, but I think you're right. The journey from Thage took more out of me than I thought. I guess I'm not back to full strength yet.”

  “Go rest,” Mizar suggested, “I'll wake you for the evening meal in a few hours.”

  “All right.” She gave Sen a nervous smile that he couldn't help but return.

  Seeing her standing there, in that dress, with her hair done up like that, sent his heart racing. Her smile made his earlier humiliation melt into nothing.

  He should say something. Another verbal token of appreciation. Something that would get her thinking of him. His mind raced frantically for such words.

  Then she was gone, her boots making soft scraping noises as they faded away.

  “Sen!” Mizar had resumed his seat at the work table, and was gesturing at the opposite chair. “Sorry to interrupt, but the King expects us to have this completed by the time he returns, remember?”

  Sen shook the stupor out of his head. “Sorry, Master.” He took a seat, pulling the cipher text close to himself with one hand while opening to the first page of Merdeen's third and final volume. Thankfully, the first set of symbols was very clean and legible, amazingly so for a century-old book; translating them should be fairly easy.

  As he picked up his quill, dipped it in a nearby inkpot, and set to translating, he noticed Mizar staring at him over his steepled fingers. “What did you two talk about last night? After I left the inn?” Mizar asked.

  “Master?”

  “When we left Ghaldyn, you could barely look at Vaxi. Even at dinner in Thage, you treated her like she was a total stranger. And then, the following morning, you were staring at her as if she were your betrothed.”

  Sen's face went as red as a ripe manza fruit, and the quill fumbled in his fingers. “We just … talked.”

  “Sen, your gift of healing is impressive. Your gift of deception is rather less so.” Mizar chuckled. “It's all right, you don't have to tell me. I'm just curious to know how your relationship is progressing. After all, it did get off to a rocky start.”

  Sen sighed, wondering if he should reveal Vaxi's confessions to Mizar. He desperately needed advice, though, and there was no one else on Elystra he could turn to. “You know those scars we saw on her body when we healed her?”

  “Yes. She's a huntress. I assumed she got them hunting.”

  Sen shook his head. “I made that same assumption. Turns out many of her wounds were inflicted on her by her grandmother. Deliberately.”

  Mizar leaned back in his chair. “She told me her grandmother was old and crippled. I wondered why a girl as strong as she would obey such a person so blindly, even journeying to Darad by herself on her grandmother's whim. If she's been abused since childhood, it would explain a lot.” He angled his head at his apprentice. “It also explains why you've made such a strong connection with her, seeing as how closely your childhoods parallel each other.”

  Sen picked up the quill again, continuing to translate as he spoke. “I don't know what to do. I've never felt like this before about … anyone. I mean, I know we barely know each other, but …” His shoulders slumped. “What difference does it make? When all this is over, she'll probably go back to her people. And I can't go with her, can I? So that's that.” He lowered his head, continuing to write.

  Mizar didn't respond; instead, he thumbed through a few scrolls stacked on the end of the table.

  Sen was glad his master didn't press him for more information. Perhaps Mizar saw the futility in his relationship with Vaxi as well.

  With a heavy sigh, Sen set to work.

  * * *

  Page after page, symbol after symbol, Sen heard the scratch of his quill upon the parchment grow louder and more annoying with each passing minute. Finally, he forced the white plume into the inkpot and sat back in his chair with a deep exhale. “That's it.”

  Mizar looked up from his own documents. “You've finished?”

  “Yes, Master. There's nothing of consequence here. If I'm reading this right, he mentions a conflict that could be the Vandan uprising from thirty-five years ago. He seems to indicate that the Vandans will continue to plague our borders –”

  “Which is already happening,” Mizar said.

  “Yes, and he says something to the effect that 'Sardor's grandson will face many trials', which is also happening. Whatever information Merdeen wanted us to find, it looks like we found it too late to do anything about it.”

  “So it would seem.” Mizar took the volume from in front of Sen, turned it around, and started flipping through it. The book was thick, but only the first few pages had writing on them. When he reached the last page, his eyebrows went up. “Hello, what's this?”

  Sen craned his neck to look at the page, which seemed to be as blank as all the ones preceding it. “I see nothing.”

  Mizar turned the book around so that it faced Sen. “Look closely. There appear to be indentations in the page. They're very slight, but they're there.”

  Sen brought his face so close to the page, his nose practically touched it. Grabbing a nearby lit candle, he illuminated the blank sheet of paper before him. There, so faint it could barely be seen with the naked eye, were the shallowest of depressions etched into the page.

  “You're right,” Sen said. “It looks like Merdeen scratched symbols onto this page without the benefit of ink.”

  “That is correct.”

  Sen felt a mixture of excitement and dread fill his stomach. If Merdeen knew he was dying, then whatever was on these pages could be the last thing he ever wrote. If he truly was the wisest of all High Mages, it would make sense that he would hide them in plain sight, at the back of a mostly-empty book. “What can we do, Master?”

  Mizar stood and moved to his cabinet, rooting around inside it. After a frantic minute of searching, he produced a small vial containing a black, grainy-looking substance. “Aha!” Mizar said, holding it toward Sen with a smile and a flourish.

  “What is that?”

  “Skaldic dust.” Mizar pulled the glass stopper from the vial as he sat down again. “Step away from the table, Sen, you don't want to breathe this stuff in.”

  Sen quickly obeyed, rising to his feet and watching the procedure with keen interest.

  With the calculated movements of a surgeon, Mizar tipped a small amount of dust into his upturned palm, which he then held next to the tome. He took a deep breath and let out a sharp exhale, blowing the substance onto the surface of the page.

  Sen's eyes widened in amazement as the dust, as if guided by the hand of Arantha himself, settled into the minute crevices pressed into the page. A whole new set of symbols, just waiting to be translated.

  Mizar exhaled again, blowing the remaining loose dust away. “Merdeen was a wily one, wasn't he? I doubt anyone in the last century with cause to inspect this book even had a clue this was here.”

  Master and apprentice exchanged a brief look of satisfaction, then set to work again.

  What felt like several hours later, Sen stood back from the table, looking down at the parchment, which bore the completed translation of Merdeen's final prophecy. He felt
his breath grow shallow as the full weight of the previous High Mage's prognostication sank in. “Great Arantha,” was all he could push out.

  Mizar looked as shaken as Sen had ever seen him. His master's face, normally on the ruddy side, had gone deathly pale. He'd folded his hands as he sat back in his chair, staring unblinking at the parchment. He did not speak, and Sen could see the turmoil in his eyes.

  “This explains everything,” Sen offered.

  “Almost,” Mizar whispered. “Between this, my visions, and what Vaxi has already told us, I now believe I know what has transpired, and what we must do to prevent it.” He looked at Sen with haunted eyes. “If we even can.”

  Sen pointed at one particular symbol on the final page. “Do you know what this 'Bird of Heaven' is, Master?”

  “No. Hopefully future visions will reveal that to me. I think it would be wise to consult Arantha again before the King returns.”

  Sen nodded, his face scrunched up in a sad frown. “We're not going to be able to keep the Ixtrayu's existence a secret, are we?”

  Mizar rose to his feet. It looked like all the strength and vitality had gone from him. “I'm afraid not. King Aridor has demanded answers, and if I attempt to obfuscate or omit certain details, he'll know. I cannot put the welfare of a few hundred women above that of all of Elystra. If Elzor fulfills his quest, all will fall.”

  Sen shot a quick look at the door. “Wh-what are you going to tell Vaxi?”

  “I will tell her what I must. I am prepared to negotiate for her people's safety and, with luck, the King will oblige. If this Kelia is as powerful as Vaxi says, she's far more useful as an ally than an enemy. I pray Aridor and the other leaders see it that way.”

  There was only one window in the room, near the top of the high wall. Sen surmised, based on the fading light illuminating the ceiling, that it was near sunset. Perhaps a good meal would be in order before they had to break the bad news to their young guest. He suggested to Mizar that they head to the main dining hall for dinner, and his master agreed.

  It only took moments for Sen to reach the door to Mizar's bedchamber. He rapped gently on its wooden surface. “Vaxi?” No response came, so he repeated his call. And again. Still no response.

  Assuming Vaxi had just fallen asleep, he pushed the door open, poking his head in. The room was dark; no candles had been lit, and the only light was provided by the final rays of the sun that filtered in through the room's only window, a narrow vertical slit set into the far wall.

  Sen gingerly approached the bed. She wasn't on it.

  “Oh, no.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Kelia jerked to a sitting position, the lyrax pelts spilling off her body. Mouth agape, she exhaled frantic breath after frantic breath. Had she screamed? Her eyes flicked toward the entrance to her bedroom, but neither Nyla nor Liana came rushing in to check on her.

  She clambered to her feet, moving toward the basin of water in the corner. After lowering its temperature to a refreshing coolness, she used her hands to scoop water out and splash it on her face. She gripped the edges of the basin, trying to steady herself. Her breathing had not slowed.

  Another nightmare. The same one as before, only much more vivid. Her shared consultation seemed to have the effect of making the ghastly images crisper, more lifelike. Harder to escape, impossible to forget.

  She spoke a soft prayer, as doing so usually gave her comfort. Not this time.

  Was it Arantha tormenting her so? Or was it her own fear, her own weakness, that was driving her to this state of near-madness?

  Could Eloni be right? Was the destruction of her people set in stone?

  Why would Arantha lead us to this fate?

  They'd let their fear, their distrust of men, of all outsiders, blind them. Instead of seeking allies, they'd sequestered themselves from every society on Elystra. They'd convinced themselves that their way of life was better. But it wasn't, and now they were paying the price for their paranoia.

  She moved to her window, tearing off the shade that covered it. In the light of the early morning sun, she could see much of the village, the River Ix, the Ixtrayan Plateau, and even a sliver of the farmlands beyond the northern entrance.

  “No,” she whisper-shouted, her hands clenching into fists. “No.” She repeated the word over and over again.

  She would not let it happen. She was strong, well trained, and in complete control of her elemental abilities. With Maeve's help, she would be even stronger, and so would Nyla. Her people would not end like this. Arantha would protect them. She would protect them.

  She'd never used her abilities to kill, but that was not a luxury she had anymore. She would likely have to kill many men to win the day, perhaps even the children of one of her fallen sisters.

  Kelia pictured her mother's face on the day she'd ordered a halt to all Sojourns. The tribe had thought her command was the product of a delirious mind on the cusp of death.

  Now it made sense. Onara knew the Ixtrayu would end. The reason she'd stopped the Sojourns was so the Ixtrayu wouldn't have to bear witness to the death of their children.

  Kelia cast her eyes to the cloudy sky. “Arantha, please protect us,” she murmured. “If you deem us worthy of survival, I swear to you, I will do everything in my power to represent my sisters, my family, to all of Elystra.” She recalled the words Maeve spoke during their argument in the mountains, words whose truth both tightened her chest and steeled her resolve. “I will lead my people out of this Dark Age.”

  She shrugged off her sleep robe, donned a clean, russet-colored tunic, and descended the steps leading from her home.

  At the bottom of the long stone staircase was a smaller dwelling that currently served as lodging for Maeve and Davin. When Maeve was well enough to walk on her own, Kelia had asked the small house's current resident, Aarna, if she would be so kind as to lodge with her daughter Ryta for the duration of their Terran friends' stay. Aarna agreed.

  With the exception of the thick wooden barrier that now covered the entrance of the deposed Councilor Susarra's dwelling, none of the village's homes had doors. Instead, a thick curtain made from kova leather served as their only means of protecting their privacy from passersby. However, the Ixtrayu being the close-knit community they were, homes were generally open to all.

  Kelia poked her head through the curtain. On the far side of the room, next to a fire pit whose contents had all but died away, she saw Maeve. Her back was turned, and she seemed to be doing some form of stretching regimen.

  She looked on as Maeve balanced on her right leg, curving her left leg up from the ground into a slow, wide arc until it was in front of her face at eye level. Then she repeated the motion for her right leg. After this, she proceeded to do several other bends, lifts, and stretches, all while Kelia watched.

  Like she had when she first envisioned Maeve swimming naked in the mountain lake, she watched her friend's body with fascination. Maeve wore her usual black pants, but instead of her dark sleeveless top, she wore a grey cloth that tightly covered her upper back and breasts. On her exposed lower back was another skin drawing—tattoo—of a majestic bird with enormous black wings and an orange beak. A California condor, Maeve had called it.

  Not for the first time since Maeve's appearance in the village, Kelia wished she could read her friend's mind. Maeve had been devastated by the revelations disclosed to her by her husband. The shock had nearly killed her. However, Maeve's words to the assembled Ixtrayu had surprised her; she'd truly embraced the Ixtrayu as her own and that she'd accepted Arantha's path so readily was truly remarkable. It wasn't until afterward that Kelia realized Maeve had said those things for Kelia's benefit, to present a unified front for her sisters, to help smooth over the awkwardness of there being an alien woman—and a male—within their ranks. To what degree Maeve believed the things she had said, Kelia wasn't sure.

  One thing of which Kelia was sure: despite their disagreement, her admiration of Maeve had not waned. She was in awe
of the Terran woman's warrior spirit, her resourcefulness, her maternal warmth … not to mention her beautiful face, her lilting voice, and her toned, picturesque body.

  Before her thoughts could turn any more carnal, she stepped inside and cleared her throat. “Maeve?”

  Maeve turned around with a start, a smile spreading across her face. “Kelia! Good morning!” She looked down at her rather skimpy, midriff-exposing top. “Um, I was just doing my morning exercises. Helps get the blood circulating.”

  “I saw,” Kelia said, and then instantly found herself blushing like a smitten teenager again. “I mean, it's a good idea. Maybe we should introduce it to the huntresses.”

  “If you like,” Maeve said. She grabbed her shirt from the rim of the fire-pit, then balled it up and sniffed it. Her nose wrinkled in disgust. “Ugh. That's nasty.”

  Kelia gestured to a small clay protrusion next to the door. “If you hang your dirty clothes on that, one of my sisters will pick them up and launder them for you.”

  Maeve smiled, showing off her white teeth. “Room service? Really? Why am I only hearing about this now?” She laughed, and Kelia joined in, even though she was unfamiliar with the term. “I don't suppose you have any toothpaste.”

  “Toothpaste?”

  Maeve gestured at her mouth. “You know, stuff to keep your teeth clean?”

  “Ah.” Kelia moved over to a stone shelf on the other side of the room and rooted through several objects that lay cluttered on it. Aarna was definitely not the tidiest person in the tribe. Finally, she found a milky-white stone at the bottom of the pile. Several grainy particles sloughed off its surface as she picked it up. Palming the stone, she handed it to Maeve. “Try rubbing that on your teeth.”

  She examined the stone, moving it around in her palm. “Are you serious?”

  “Of course.”

  With a shrug, Maeve took the stone and scraped it across her teeth. Her eyebrows knitted in distaste as the stone's granules dislodged, removing the grime. After several back-and-forth motions, she spat out the substance in disgust. “This stuff works? It tastes like chalk.”