The Crimson Queen

by Alec Hutson

  The genthyaki was propped against a rock near the edge of a stream. It was motionless, its head slumped forward, an impossible tangle of scales and thorns and sharp angles. Alyanna brought her wizardlight closer, and clucked her tongue when she saw the state her servant was in.

  What scales were left on its hide glistened wetly, but most had been sloughed off by some terrible heat, leaving charred black patches across its body. Under one of these wounds, which spread over much of its left shoulder, Alyanna could clearly see bone beneath the blistered flesh.

  To her surprise, the creature stirred as she approached.

  “Mistressssss,” it hissed, with great effort lifting its ruin of a face.

  “Slave,” she replied, shaking her head as if in great disappointment. “You have failed me.”

  A harsh, wet coughing wracked the creature, until it finally spat up a wad of black phlegm that landed in the grass near her feet. Wrinkling her nose in disgust, Alyanna stepped farther away.

  “Mistress, it burns . . .”

  “I should think so. It smells like someone’s bathed you in dreadfire.”

  “Burnssssss . . .”

  A frozen wind gusted, and she knew that they were no longer alone. Three ragged shapes now crouched among the rocks, watching.

  mistress, the false man dies.

  “I can see that,” she said. “But I need to know who did this.”

  Alyanna moved closer to the genthyaki and bent down beside it, trying to ignore the sickly-sweet smell of its burned flesh. She found the thin chain around its neck and ripped loose the other half of the riftstone, a crescent of black rock that fit perfectly with the white circle she already held.

  “Tell me what happened,” she said firmly, tightening her grip on the creature’s will.

  “The Shan you sent me to kill . . . is dead. The fool thought the Chosen he was hunting . . . were in Dymoria. The warlocks of Shan . . . had heard of the Crimson Queen, and must of thought . . . she was the one who had stolen them away. But there were others in the caravan . . . a boy, untrained but with Talent . . . traveling with a wizard to Dymoria . . . I sensed his gift, but did not appreciate the depth of his power. He lashed out with dreadfire.” The genthyaki gasped, laboring to breathe through charred lungs.

  “An untrained boy summoned dreadfire?” she murmured, standing again. Was it possible? Dreadfire was one of the strongest weapons wielded by the wizards of the past, but she had thought all knowledge of it among mortals had drowned with the Star Towers. A true Talent, even untrained, might accidentally in a time of great duress bring forth such magic, but a Talent like that had not been born for an age. This would be the first in a thousand years – or possibly second, since it seemed that Dymoria’s Crimson Queen was similarly gifted.

  Not so long ago she had thought there were only three such sorcerers in the great wide world. Now it appeared there may be five. Interesting times had come again.

  She turned away from the genthyaki and began to pick her way carefully back towards the shimmering portal.

  “Mistressss . . . you would abandon me . . .”

  Alyanna paused, turning again. Idly she stroked the smooth riftstones, considering. “You don’t think this fitting? The first time we met was in a place such as this, was it not?” She spread her arms, gesturing toward the pine trees and jagged rocks. “I could have ended your life then, if I had wished. I gave you a thousand-year reprieve – you should thank me for my mercy.”

  The creature gurgled. Was it trying to laugh? “Mercy . . . I was your dagger in the dark, the means to your endlessness.”

  “You were a tool, nothing more. And after many years of service you have broken. I do not know what sentiment you are trying to reach.”

  “Mercy. You speak of it, mistress. I will pass soon, and my race will end. And when you die even the memory of my people will be lost. As if . . . as if we had never been.”

  Alyanna shrugged. “Such is the fate of all living things. We can only strive to hold back the darkness for a time.”

  “The last . . . I should not die chained. Free me, mistress. I beg you. Let my soul rejoin my ancestors unclouded by your taint. Please. Pleassssse.”

  Alyanna chewed her lower lip as the huddled creature extended a shivering arm in supplication. She sensed the rapt attention of the Chosen.

  Finally she sighed. “Very well. I am not a monster.” Concentrating, she dissolved the sorcerous noose she had long held around the genthyaki’s mind, surprised by the emptiness she suddenly felt as their wills separated.

  It moved faster than she thought was possible. Uncoiling from the ground, lunging toward her, a blur of spines and flashing claws.

  The sound of it striking her wards echoed in the empty forest. Its fangs splintered against an invisible wall only a half-span from her face, its talons scrabbling uselessly as it tried to reach her. She watched it, without emotion, as it gathered itself and flailed one final time against her power, and then slid to the ground, exhausted, black fluid smearing the air in front of her.

  “I am not a monster. Nor am I a fool.”

  With a final, pitying glance she turned away. “You may do as you wish,” she said, but not to her ruined servant. The Chosen’s surge of excitement prickled the skin on her arms.

  The genthyaki’s screams followed her as she stepped once again into the pleasure gardens of the emperor.

  He did not dream of monsters or fire or dead men scattered in long grass. Rather, there was moonlight on water, his mother’s hair unbound, flowing around him in silver rivulets as she held him in her lap and sang. The words hung shivering, mysterious, yet still they could summon forth such an aching longing in his chest, and he knew that if only he could concentrate a little harder their meaning would become clear. He reached up with a tiny hand to brush her smooth warm cheek.

  Slowly Keilan surfaced, coming awake on a bed so soft he felt he was sinking back down again into his dreams. Cool silks swaddled him, and over those sheets was another blanket of thick, deep fur. Swallowing away the dryness in his throat he tried to sit up, but it was as if his bones were made of iron, and he could only shift his shoulders and twist his neck weakly.

  He was in a large chamber of dark stone, a bedroom lit by tall candelabras with a fire burning low in a recessed hearth. Several small, dark windows were arrayed along one wall, and decorating another were canvases covered with lashings of color, paintings of some kind. All the furniture in the room – his huge four-poster bed, the shelving, the table and chairs near the fire – were meticulously carved of the same dark wood, so black it seemed to drink the room’s light.

  She stood so quietly he did not see her until she gave a little gasp. A young girl, perhaps no more than ten, in a shift of fine gray wool and carrying a silver tray piled high with small orange fruit. When she saw he was awake she hurriedly slid the tray onto the table and scuttled for the chamber’s only door, casting a nervous glance back at him before vanishing.

  “Wait!” he croaked, but she was already gone. Keilan struggled to sit, and after what seemed like an eternity of effort managed to prop himself against the headboard. He pulled his hands from the sheets, and laid them on the dark fur of the topmost blanket. His hands looked unnaturally white. How long had he been sleeping?

  The door creaked, and he glanced up to find that a man now stood in the room, watching him. He was about thirty years old, with fine, sharply etched features and a mop of unruly black hair. His pallor was unusually pale, which contrasted starkly with the rich black doublet and breeches he wore.

  “Do not be alarmed, Keilan. You have woken among friends.” The man’s voice had an almost musical lilt to it.

  “Who . . . who are you?”

  The man approached the small table near the fire. He plucked a fruit from the tray and popped it into his mouth. “My name is Qwellyn Pelimana Chount-Adreth. You can ca
ll me Lyn. Or Prince Lyn, if we’re constrained by formality.”

  “Prince Lyn? Of Vis?”

  The man flourished a bow. “Indeed. Welcome to my city.”

  Vis. His mother had spoken of it, many years ago. How she had wished someday to visit the Poet’s City and walk its legendary iron walls, to listen to its fabled players declaim upon the stage, or its bards compete in its mead halls. An ancient city, as old as any in the world, renowned throughout Araen for its song and art, for its celebration of beauty. And, Vhelan had told him, recently sworn to the Dragon Throne of Dymoria.

  Keilan struggled to rise, floundering in the heavy blankets. “My prince. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  Prince Lyn motioned for him to sit back. “Easy, Keilan. You’ve been lying in that bed for three days, and from what your friends have told me you’ve been sleeping for nearly a week. I don’t expect you to hop out of bed and throw yourself before me.”

  “My friends . . . they are all right?”

  The prince’s smile wavered. “They are alive, though not all are whole, it grieves me to tell you. I have called Magister Vhelan here, and he will tell you more.”

  “Thank you, my prince.”

  Prince Lyn waved away his words. “Please, it is I who must thank you. Without your heroics a caravan bearing a high-ranking scholar from the Reliquary and a Dymorian magister would have been lost just outside my city – you’ve saved me an endless amount of diplomatic trouble, truly.”

  “Keilan!” Nel burst into the chamber, flinging the door wide. When she saw the prince standing there she offered a deep bow. Vhelan followed a step behind her, lost in conversation with Seeker Garmond, but his eyes darted to the bed, and his grin could not be missed. Both he and the scholar also paid their respects to the prince before approaching Keilan.

  Nel hurried beside him and tousled his hair roughly. The sight of her dimples made Keilan’s chest feel heavy.

  “Your head? Are you fine?” he managed, coughing to try and hide his sudden blush.

  Nel touched the thin white line on her brow. “It’s nothing. Won’t even scar, the healers say.” She winked at him. “Three dead wraiths, and I don’t even get to keep a memento from the fight.”

  “If it was a keepsake you wanted,” the prince interrupted, sauntering closer to stand beside Nel, “you could have done what the Skein do. They shrink the wraith’s heads and wear them as necklaces. A charming accessory, and it would be quite the topic of conversation at any dinner party in Herath.”

  Nel ducked her head. “I’ll remember that for the next time I’m ambushed by wraiths, my prince.”

  “Rub iron that it will never happen again, my lady.”

  Vhelan came to stand at the foot of the bed, leaning on one of the intricately carved posts. “Jesting aside, Keilan, how are you feeling?”

  “Tired,” Keilan admitted. “And thirsty.”

  “Of course, of course,” Seeker Garmond said, materializing on the side of the bed opposite to Nel and the prince. He held a cup out for Keilan to take. “We dribbled water mixed with honey into your mouth as you slept, but certainly it would be the first thing your body demanded.” Keilan accepted the ceramic cup and drank deep. He could almost feel his strength returning as the water trickled through his body.

  “Slowly, lad. Your body is still weak.”

  Keilan paused; the cold water pooling in his empty stomach suddenly made him realize how hungry he was. He passed the cup back to the scholar and rubbed his face. “Is there any food?”

  The prince clapped his hands, and the girl in the gray shift slipped into the room. “Mila! Bring supper for our guest.” The girl sketched a quick bow and vanished again.

  “While you are waiting,” Prince Lyn said, retrieving the tray of fruit from the table and setting it on the bed beside Keilan. “Tangerines from my own garden.”

  Keilan had never tried these small firm fruit before, but he quickly decided that they were the most delicious things he had ever eaten. Soon his fingers were sticky with their juice, and the ache in his belly had subsided.

  “What happened?”

  Vhelan sat on the end of the bed and patted Keilan’s legs. “You drained yourself by somehow conjuring up one of the lost sorceries. Dreadfire, it’s called. A river of green flame that burns anything it touches. The histories of Min-Ceruth and the Imperium are full of tales of wizards melting stone fortresses with the stuff, armies of steel-armored warriors running like wax when struck by its power.”

  Keilan swallowed hard. “How did I do that?”

  Vhelan flashed a crooked smile. “The same way you touched an Ancient with a sending. The truth of it is . . . I don’t know. But your importance to the queen and our Scholia just rose even higher in my eyes, and I was able to impress this upon the good prince, who is a recent but stalwart ally of the throne.”

  Keilan considered Vhelan’s words. How was he able to summon forth these great magics when a magister could not, even with all his sorcerous training?

  “And the ambush on the Wending?” Keilan continued. “Why did that happen?”

  “We have the same question, and we’ve been turning it over between us since the wraiths appeared. Certainly it was no random attack, but the reason and the true target are still unclear. What I am certain of is that if you hadn’t struck down that monster we likely all would be dead. So you have my gratitude.”

  “What was that thing?”

  Vhelan shrugged. “From the good scholar’s and Nel’s descriptions it sounds like nothing the wizards of Dymoria have seen before. Something new.”

  Garmond cleared his throat. “Or something very old. There are legends, from well before the Sundering, of creatures that vaguely resemble that monstrosity. Fragments in ancient texts, just veiled allusions, really, as if the writers themselves were not clear of what they wrote about. A race of monsters that could wear the skins of men like cloaks – the Reliquary has always treated such tales as folklore, to be honest. When I return to the archives I plan on collecting all the information I can, and seeing if it matches what we witnessed. In any case, that creature was the most remarkable I have ever encountered, in all my years of studying the beasts of this land. We do not even know if it was a monster in the form of a man, or a man who could become a monster.”

  Keilan rolled the last tangerine between his fingers. “Was it just a random attack? Were we simply unlucky?”

  Vhelan shrugged. “It’s possible, of course. But we know the creature you killed was intelligent, so I think we must assume it would only ambush a heavily-protected caravan if there was a compelling reason. And remember, the monster had been with us since Theris, in the guise of a traveler. Everything was very carefully planned.”

  “The last group with cause to be upset with us would be the Pure,” Nel said.

  The wizard rolled his eyes. “We’ve discussed this before. The mendicants of Ama tend to avoid employing demons.”

  “But its man-shape was that of a Menekarian merchant,” Nel continued, pressing her point, “And it likely traveled west out of the empire with that other caravan.”

  Garmond drummed his fingers on his chin – a sign, Keilan knew, that he was thinking deeply. “That is an excellent observation. But I can’t believe the same zealots brandishing their copies of the Tractate and spewing venom about wizards would consort with such a creature.”

  “Are we sure it was us that the demon was after?” Keilan asked.

  Vhelan nodded towards Garmond. “How about it, seeker? Insult any denizens of the Void recently?”

  The scholar looked mildly affronted. “Not unless they took umbrage with my most recent treatise on Blightwood fungi.”

  Keilan struggled to remember those last chaotic moments in the clearing. “What about the Shan? I think . . . I think the monster may have known him. They spoke, briefly. About something called the C
hosen – or maybe it was the Betrayed? And the monster said he’d seen the wraiths dressed in clothes, a long time ago. I don’t know; it doesn’t make much sense.”

  The prince had watched this exchange with obvious interest. “I have my own resources we can consult – the Barrow of Vis is one of the world’s great libraries, and our lorists remember in poetry and song things that have faded everywhere else from the memory of man.”

  “You would allow us into the Barrow?” Garmond said, clearly impressed, his bushy gray brows rising.

  The prince nodded. “Under supervision, of course, for the library’s protection and also your own. I would be a poor vassal of Dymoria if I did not extend my help to the loyal servants of the queen. Now, we should probably let the boy rest. Perhaps with a bit more sleep and a full stomach he’ll recollect more.”

  As they began to move away from his bed, Keilan concentrated hard, trying to scour his memories for any clue he could offer them before they left. The creature had spoken to the Shan, then killed him, but before that he’d said something to Xin about his brothers . . .

  Keilan blinked. “Where’s Xin?”

  He couldn’t miss the quick glances shared by the four around his bed. “Is he all right?”

  Their solemn faces made his chest tighten. “He is alive,” Vhelan finally said, slowly, “but he is not as you remember.”

  A short while after they’d departed, the serving girl returned with his dinner, and he managed to drag himself over to the small table to eat. The meal was the finest of his life: a braised leg of lamb so tender it seemed to dissolve in his mouth, swimming in a rich mushroom sauce that went equally well with the buttered carrots, potatoes, and leeks piled next to the meat. He sipped from a silver goblet a blood-dark wine that was tarter than the firewine from Gryx he’d tried before, though equally delicious. When he was finished his head was reeling from the richness of the food and the strength of the wine, and he collapsed back into his bed, asleep before he could even get under the blankets.