by L M R Clarke
“You’re right,” Bandim said. He grasped her chin and tipped her head up. He held her gaze. “What would I do without you, my Johrann? You’re the voice of reason in my passion. You temper me and keep me even.”
Unable to bow her head in humility, Johrann closed her eyes instead.
“I am but your servant, and the servant of Dorai,” she said. She opened her eyes again. “And soon enough, you and Dorai will be one and the same. At the gathering of the pious in three days, I’ll help you to finally fulfil the will of the goddess. Dorai will return, living in you.”
Bandim released Johrann’s chin and slid his hand to the side of her face. He caressed her armored cheeks with his thumbs, staring into the deep grey of her eyes.
That was his next step. First, he had sought to seize the crown. It was his hatchright, taken from him by his mother’s wretched love for his brother. Taking the throne had been easy, thanks to Johrann. No one suspected his hand in Mantos’ death. How could they? There was nothing to suspect. The young male had collapsed in his grief. That was what they all thought, because that was the story Johrann had seeded in them. Her cleverness knew no limits, Bandim thought. She primed a few servants, some merchants, and even a handful of nobles loyal to the Dark, with more details to spread. While it was tragic to lose the emperor and the heir so quickly in succession, had it actually revealed a weakness that was now gone? If Mantos could succumb to grief so easily, would he have made a good ruler? He’d been known for his bravery in the battles of his father, but had his toils in war spread cracks through his strength? Had it drained his resilience?
The answer Johrann provided for those mouths to spread was yes, he was weak. No, he wouldn’t have made a good ruler, and wasn’t it better that this weakness was exposed before he ever took the crown? While Bandim may have believed in things most folk found difficult to accept, wasn’t it for the best that a strong and true ruler was to wear the crown? Those few mouths spread her words through their circles, and soon enough, the entire court, city, and country were agreed in the idea that Mantos would never have been a good emperor. It was much better that Bandim, the true heir, was plucking up the mantle of rule. It wouldn’t be long until he was crowned. By the time he was, Bandim fully expected Mantos to be a distant memory.
That was only the first part of their plan. The second part was the most important, and the part that would allow Bandim to achieve everything that he’d always dreamed of. Within days, Johrann promised to fulfil that which was promised in the Book of Divine Tears: The One of Two, pushed aside, will rise like flames, and the goddess will inhabit him.
“I am the One of Two,” he said.
Johrann laid her palms flat on his hands, still pressed to the side of her face.
“And I am the True Believer,” she replied. “I will ask for the return of the goddess, and it will be granted. Now is a time of destiny and triumph. Dorai will return to this world and live within you. You will become her, and you will know no bounds.”
Bandim leaned forward to kiss her. Johrann’s lips felt as they always did; soft and welcoming, yet cold. At their touch, the memory of his mother’s disappearance seemed like an ancient tale.
“We will succeed,” he said, kissing her again. “You’ll bring me everything that I want.”
“I live but to serve you,” Johrann said. “I will deliver you power and glory. I will crown you with Dorai’s power, and once I have, no one will be able to stand in your way. They can steal your mother, but they cannot stop you from spreading the truth of Dorai across the world.”
“I’ll make them all see,” Bandim said. “And I promise you, I’ll be the ultimate winner. And I will have my mother back, and I will kill her.”
Johrann grinned. “Nothing can stop you.”
Bandim grinned back. “Nothing can stop me.”
CHAPTER TEN
Phen
The journey to Kubodinnu, the Althemerian capital, took many days. At all times, Phen stayed with her son’s body. Strangely, it didn’t grow foul and mangled like unburned corpses did. It remained cold, as if frozen.
Fonbir stayed with Mantos too, grief etched into his young face. He and Phen sat on either side, eyes fixed on Mantos’ prone form. They stayed silent in their grief for some time.
When Fonbir broke the silence, he spoke his own language. “We were in love.”
Phen could understand him well. She knew many languages, for it was part of her training. House Yru had betrothed her to Braslen Tiboli from the moment she’d hatched, and Phen spent her whole life working towards that goal. When she gendered, it didn’t matter if she was male or female. Either way, she was to marry the future emperor. That was the way of the Masvam empire. Male-female unions were more desirable, for they made having younglings easier. But there were always ways around these things, and once an emperor decreed than an egg was his, that was all that mattered.
A wan smile crossed Fonbir’s lips, muted behind his veil.
“We visited one another, and shared letters, and we knew we had to be together.” His smile faded. “That was before the great schism between our countries. Your husband wanted to marry my mother,” he said, casting her a sidelong glance. “But Mother knew that you weren’t dead. No matter what Braslen told her, Mother had an insider. She knew you were still alive, if incapacitated.
“When she said no to his request, your husband suggested a different union. He wanted my sisters to marry your sons. Again, Mother would have none of it. She wouldn’t let her queendom fall to Masvam rule.”
Phen gave a brief nod. Listening to Fonbir transported her back to her youngling days, spending hours in lessons, being lectured on great histories and empires. Before she had slipped away from the world, Althemer had been an ally of the Masvams, despite their differences. Now it seemed everything had changed.
“Mother severed all ties with the Masvam Empire, and forbade me from seeing Mantos,” Fonbir went on. “I wasn’t even allowed to send letters.” His face softened, and he touched Mantos’ shoulder. “It didn’t stop us. We made a codex, exchanged secrets, told lies so we could kindle our flame. And we did, and I think we grew deeper in love because of it.”
Phen grew bold and placed her hand atop Fonbir’s.
“I wouldn’t expect any less from my young,” she said. “I would have done the same.”
The idea that her son was in love with another male wasn’t a shock to Phen. Those great histories she had learned of were full of all kinds of unions. Two males, two females, a male and a female, and the complicated weave of consorts when partners were joined in union by marriage bonds, but not by passion. Such was the way when younglings were betrothed to one another before they gendered.
“I’m sorry that our countries are now enemies,” Phen said. “I knew your mother, briefly, many cycles ago.”
Fonbir nodded. “It’s a great shame, but it’s reality.”
For the remainder of the journey, the two huddled in the cabin with Mantos. The coast of Althemer eventually appeared through the murk of darkness and fog. Fonbir slipped off, his belt-chain clinking, leaving Phen alone with her son and her weariness. Eventually, they docked.
Bomsoi returned, a clatter of Althemerians with her. There was something long and dark draped across her hands. Phen stilled, narrowing her eyes.
“Your Grace,” Bomsoi said. “It’s time to leave. However, neither you nor your son can be seen. No one is to know you are here.” She held her hands out, letting the length of dark fabric drop. “Wear this so no one will see you.”
Phen accepted the garment—a heavy cloak with a deep hood—and turned to Mantos. “What of my son?” she asked.
Bomsoi gestured for the Althemerians behind her to come forward. They approached the body and worked their claws underneath it. Together, they lifted him. Phen reached for her son, but they carried him away.
“He will be brought into the palace within a crate,” Bomsoi said. “He will be safe, I assure you.”
; “I don’t want to be parted from him.”
Phen went to follow her son’s prone form, but Bomsoi stepped between them. She placed her strong hands on Phen’s shoulders.
“He will be safe,” she repeated. She drew the hood over Phen’s horn crest, arranging the fabric so it shrouded her in shadow. Then she reached into her pocket and withdrew a veil, attaching it across Phen’s face. “For now, you must come with me. It’s dark, and there are few folks about. Still, keep your head down and say nothing.”
Phen remembered little of the journey from boat to palace. She was bundled into a carriage and, despite her fears, the rocking of the journey made her sleep. She dreamed of Mantos and Bandim, the younglings she never knew, playing and fighting.
She awoke with a jolt. The carriage door was opened, and Bomsoi reached out a hand to help Phen down. Light was spreading from the horizon.
There was no pomp, no ceremony for the arrival of a foreign empress. Of course not, Phen thought. She was no empress. Not anymore. So much had changed, and nothing for the better. She followed Bomsoi and Fonbir from the carriage, through winding streets she didn’t know, eventually passing through a narrow gate in the palace walls. It was an ancient thing, half-hidden by gnarled vines, yet the gate didn’t creak when it opened. It was silent, and its silence spoke of how often it was used. Things weren’t so different at the bones of life, Phen thought. All kings and queens, emperors and empresses, had their secrets, their hidden ways.
Phen was such a secret now, hidden in the twisting lower vaults of the Althemerian palace.
She didn’t remember falling into bed. What she did remember was the glorious feeling of a feather mattress, then nothing.
When she woke, it was night again. There was a rolled parchment on the table, lying in a pool of yellow candlelight. It was sealed with blue wax, the sigil of the Althemerian empress: a twisted two-headed serpent, a crown above each head.
The floor rushes crunched beneath Phen’s feet. The wax broke in whitening shards. The parchment scuffed as she unrolled it. It was a summons to meet Queen Valentia. Phen held the scroll for a moment, glancing around. A secret she may have been, but she still needed to be presentable for an audience with the queen.
Fresh clothing had been hung over a screen, and within moments of her rising, an attendant entered with hot water in an ewer. He kept his eyes averted like a servant should, and left without a word. However, he stopped at the threshold and turned. This time he looked her straight in the eye; then he spat on the floor and left. In the world of her own empire, she would have had him struck for such impudence and sentenced to three weeks in a cell. But this wasn’t her world. She was a Masvam, and the enemy here. Even the water couldn’t take the edge from that chill.
Having washed, Phen dressed in the strange clothing. Instead of the elaborately wrapped and tied Masvam garments she was used to, she wore a fitted tunic over a finely woven shirt. The tunic was blue leather, stamped with the twin serpent motif. Her legs, so used to being free under her long robes, were trapped in fabric hose. In the empire, only commoners and soldiers wore hose. The empress would never have been permitted to wear such a thing.
As she pulled on the tall leather boots that had been left for her, Phen shook her head. She was looking at someone else. This wasn’t her at all. She turned to the long, polished plate, surveying the stranger inside it. It would have been easier if they’d given her clothes like Fonbir’s, long robes that covered the body from neck to ankles. At least that would have been similar in some way. But that clearly wasn’t the fashion on Althemer.
Turning from the plate, Phen breathed deeply and knocked on the door. It opened. She was flanked on both sides by guards, one male and one female.
Unable to help herself, Phen scanned their clothing. It was identical from the tunic to the hose, from the helmets to the dagger scabbards on their left hips. Phen corrected her earlier thought on clothing: it wasn’t the fashion for royals on Althemer. Her lessons came back to her again. On this island nation, the common folk and the military were mixed, male and female alike. For the royals and other high-status individuals, things were different. Males wore veils to protect their virtue, and chains around their waists to show deference to their mothers or wives. They were placed on pedestals by their families, required to be pure and perfect. They had to be. Males were the ones who were sent from their homes to other countries, to marry into royal families far from home. The females stayed behind, required to protect and preserve the queendom.
The female guard cleared her throat, pulling Phen from her thoughts.
“We are to bring you to Her Highness,” she said, eyes glinting beneath her helmet.
“Of course,” Phen said. “Lead the way.”
The female stepped in front of her, and the male stepped behind. Together the three wound their way through a warren of dark corridors.
The passages narrowed as they walked, and there were no windows. The darkness was lit only by the torch the female plucked from the wall outside Phen’s room. Phen’s heart quickened as they continued deeper into the palace. They met no one else on their journey—apt, Phen thought, for keeping her a secret. She knew she wasn’t going to meet the queen in a public space, or even somewhere in the palace proper. The darkness made it seem like she was deep underground, hidden from prying eyes.
Reaching a heavy wooden door, the female guard struck it twice, then stood back.
“Enter,” a voice said.
The guard twisted the metal handle and opened the door. Phen followed her into a small room, the male guard behind them.
Light from torches danced on the stone walls, and against the wide wooden shutters that lined one wall. Shutters, Phen thought. That meant they were above ground after all.
The room was sparsely furnished, with a simple table decorated with dripping candles in stout metal holders. Around the table were six leather-padded chairs. Queen Valentia sat at the head. Around her shoulders was a thick and winding serpent. It slithered around her neck, but never tightened. It nuzzled its hooded head into the queen’s pointed ear.
On her left sat Prince Fonbir. He gave Phen a brief smile, while another female regarded her with cold eyes. She was younger than Fonbir, but alike enough to him that Phen knew they were siblings. Fylica, that was her name. It struck Phen as well that there was another princess—an older one—who wasn’t present: Valaria, heir to the Althemerian throne.
Queen Valentia was older than Phen, but likely younger than she looked. Kingship, queenship, the mantle of an emperor—all these things led to the same conclusion: premature demise. For some it was death in battle. For others it was the slow crush of power and responsibility. Valentia’s red fronds were fading, growing translucent with age. Her arms bore the outline of once-strong muscles, now weakening. Her brown skin was tight on her knuckles.
Dismissing the guards, Valentia bade Phen to take the free chair. Bowing, Phen did as she was told.
“My son tells me your son is dead,” the queen said, her voice level as she passed one talon down her serpent’s long body. “I also know that your husband is dead, and that your other son, Bandim, is on the throne.” She shook her head, her expression softening. “For all of these things, I am sorry.” She sat back, her horn jewelry tinkling as it moved. “In truth, I thought you were dead as well. I hadn’t heard anything of you in many cycles, since my spies were all ousted by your husband.”
Phen clasped her claws on her lap. “I suppose I was dead, in a way,” she said. “Now I don’t know what I am.”
Fylica leaned forward. She was the image of her queen, an echo of the past
“You are still responsible for your son’s actions,” she snapped. “Even before his father’s death rights, Bandim must have been planning his military campaign. He’s rolled his armies over Metakala, gaining more territory for your wretched empire. Even now, my sister is risking her life to save those countries your people would destroy, and—”
“Fylica,” F
onbir snapped.
The younger female tutted and shook her head. “Your love for the Masvams is well known, brother.”
Fonbir went to react, but the queen slammed her hand on the table, commanding silence and obedience in one movement. Phen jerked back.
“Enough of this folly,” the queen said. Her serpent stiffened and hissed. Valentia glared at one offspring and then the other. “You shame me with your actions.”
The prince and the princess sat back, the former more cowed than the latter. Fylica glowered. Fonbir looked away.
Queen Valentia leaned back and her serpent relaxed. She laid her claws on the table and drummed them. The torchlight glinted on her rings, which held jewels the same bright blue as her serpent’s eyes.
“It was not my choice to bring you here,” she said to Phen. “It’s best if no one knows who you are. Your late husband drove a deep wedge between our countries. Masvams aren’t welcome in our land.” Her eyes gleamed, grey and cold; then they warmed. “However, I trust my son and I trust my advisor.”
Phen narrowed her eyes. Advisor?
The queen called out, and a figure entered the room, tall and imposing with a cracked first horn, dressed in an embroidered black tunic. Phen turned.
“Bomsoi,” she said. “Of course.”
With a shallow bow, Bomsoi stood off to the side. Queen Valentia gestured to her.
“The Stranger—Bomsoi—has been in my service for many cycles,” she said. “She’s been sent to us from the gods. There are things she knows and does that I will never understand. But I trust that she has come from beyond the veil of death to help us, as is written in scripture. The Stranger asked if she could retrieve Mantos’ body as a holy work, and she told me you weren’t dead. And she tells me that Bandim, on the Masvam throne, will bring about our destruction. And therefore, you are here—as is your son’s body.”
Valentia leaned back and surveyed Phen for what felt like an age. Phen felt a sting of panic. “What are you going to do with me?” she asked.
