Queen of the Blazing Throne

by Claire Legrand

  “Artem, you will accompany me to the palace,” she said. She heard Yeva cry out, but the girl could have thrown herself at Obritsa’s feet and torn her own heart from her chest, and it would have changed nothing. Artem was hers. Artem had always been hers, and would be forevermore.

  Artem bowed low. What a fine sight he was, her polished, frightening guard. The nearest thing to family she had ever had, but even better than family, for the bonds between them were loyalty and honor, stronger than mere love. If she ordered him to throw himself into a pit of fire, he would do so without question and salute the revolution as he did it.

  “It would be an honor, my queen,” said Artem, his voice hushed and reverent.

  Then Obritsa accepted the Grand Magister’s hand and walked with him out of the home she had known for the last five years, into the streets of the kingdom she had been raised to destroy.

  * * *

  She heard the exact moment the crowd’s adoration shifted to something darker.

  Outside the carriage that bore her and Artem through the city to the palace, the cheers of the people lining the streets of Genzhar changed, sharpening. Only twenty minutes had passed since they had left the courtyards outside the temple, but such news would travel fast.

  The Magisterial Council had chosen a human commoner to be the new queen of Kirvaya rather than a firebrand girl from the Temple of Her Own Daughters, as had been done since the selection of Saint Marzana’s own successor.

  This choice would throw the entire country into chaos.

  A chaos, Obritsa thought, that they richly deserve.

  The crackle of elemental magic seared the air outside the carriage. Light and shadow shifted on the drawn velvet curtains. Cries of pain met her ears.

  Artem, seated on the opposite cushion, glanced at her. “The holy guard will not allow any harm to come to you.”

  “Nor to you,” Obritsa added.

  The sound of her own voice startled her. She had not spoken since entering the carriage, and now her throat felt dry, her tongue brittle.

  Something slammed into the side of the carriage, sending a shudder through its gilded frame. The shrill cry of one of the carriage horses shook something loose inside Obritsa’s ribs, and a tiny gasp burst out of her before she could contain it.

  Artem looked at her sharply. “What is it, my queen? Are you hurt?”

  She shook her head, unable to speak and furious because of it. She was Obritsa Nevemskaya, the Korozhka, daughter of the revolution. She would deliver those born without magic to freedom. She would destroy the elemental tyrants who kept their country in chains.

  She should not be afraid, and yet she had to blink back a sudden rush of tears. Her traitorous body reacting to the stress of the day. She possessed no elemental magic, but her insides crackled hot, as if woven together with snapping flames.

  “I’m frightened, Artem,” she said, holding her shoulders as straight as she could. “For as long as I can remember, I’ve been preparing for this day, and now that it’s here…” She inhaled, exhaled. “I’m terrified, in fact. What if I fail?”

  She glanced at Artem’s familiar face—­his light brown skin and gentle brown eyes; his shaggy dark brown hair, combed back neatly; the tired lines on his brow; his familiar battle scars. One near his mouth, one on his neck, one disappearing beneath his hair.

  “Are you angry with me?” she asked him.

  Artem raised his eyebrows. “For being afraid?”

  She nodded once.

  “No, Korozhka,” he replied softly. “I am so proud of you that my heart feels fit to burst.”

  Obritsa had not embraced Artem since she was a very small child—­Sasha had beaten that particular urge out of her, along with many others—­but suddenly, she found herself wanting to do so more than anything.

  He placed his hands on hers. “Without fire or metal or raging waves,” he began reciting.

  Obritsa clenched her jaw, desperate for her eyes to dry. The small, scented world of the carriage glimmered as though sculpted from liquid gold.

  But Artem was waiting. And the revolution’s prayer, once begun, could not go unfinished.

  “Without shadows that mask or light that saves,” she whispered.

  “Without earth that shatters or wind that flies—­”

  “Still we burn—­”

  “And still we rise,” concluded Artem.

  Obritsa listened to the roar of the capital beyond the walls of her carriage, itching to touch her back. Though the birthmarks had long ago been cut out of her body, her flesh mended by Sasha’s cunning, rotten-­toothed healers to look as whole and smooth as any young girl’s, Obritsa still felt their imprint like the press of a steaming brand—­dark wings that framed her spine and kissed her shoulder blades.

  The wings of a marque.

  Her body ached with the echo of the day Sasha’s knives had carved her flesh clean. It always ached, a dull pain she had learned to live with and now hardly noticed. She set her jaw and gave Artem a small smile so he would stop frowning at her in that worried, dear way.

  She peeked out a crack in the curtains at the glittering capital, at the palace that would now be her home, at the gleaming gold-­capped towers from which she would launch the assault that would free her people and bring the elementals’ reign to an end at last.

  In a whisper, she repeated, “And still we rise.”

  2

  In the largest tower of the glittering white palace called Zheminask, inside the grandest room of the opulent royal suite that had now belonged to her for eleven weeks, Obritsa read Sasha’s note until she had his meticulous ciphered instructions memorized.

  Then she tossed the curled slip of paper into the fire and watched it burn.

  Her eyes watered as she stared at the flames. Sometimes she toyed with the idea of touching the empirium—­not as a marque, but as an elemental. With her mind, she would reach for fire, or water, or a chunk of earth and attempt manipulation. Stoke the fire. Spill the water. Shatter the earth.

  But the power that allowed her to transport herself across distances in the blink of an eye did not allow her to control the elements, no matter how many times she tried.

  That night, however, she did not reach for the flames. She was distracted. She sat on the plush scarlet-­and-­gold carpet, her crimson silk dressing gown pooled around her. Fiddling with her robe’s gold tassels, she let her eyes glaze over, watched the fire spit and pop.

  For eleven weeks she had lived in Zheminask as the chosen queen of Kirvaya. For eleven weeks she had sat at court, attended Magisterial Council meetings, sipped coffee with influential merchants. During each meeting, she had taken silent note of drink selections, nervous tics, favored legs, preferred servants. People are knowledge, Sasha had often reminded her, and knowledge is our greatest weapon.

  But in recent nights, Obritsa’s disciplined mind had begun to wander from her mission. During the past week in particular, she had spent very little time thinking about Sasha and the revolution for which he had trained her.

  Instead, she often found herself thinking—­she couldn’t stop thinking—­about all the missing children.

  * * *

  The rumors had not interested her at first.

  So a few elemental children had gone missing from the common districts near the mouth of the Astreka River. So their wailing parents came to petition the Council every day, begging for help, roaring for justice. So they knelt at her feet, far below her flame-­capped throne, weeping as they beseeched her to turn the city inside out until their children were found.

  Well, it served them right. As elementals, they benefited from a government and culture that favored them and persecuted others.

  Let all the elemental children vanish into the night, Obritsa thought, watching a sobbing father fall to his knees before the Grand Magister of the Baths
. Even the poor ones.

  For even the poor elemental children enjoyed kinder lives than their powerless peers.

  And marques?

  Obritsa knew from experience that those children knew the cruelest lives of all. She had the scars to prove it. Korozhka or no, the once-­wings on her back made her, even in the eyes of the gentlest revolutionary, nothing more than a tool.

  Except for Artem. Only he saw her as something more, as a person in possession of her own mind and heart.

  The fire snapped, making her jump. Irritably, she began stretching on the carpet, waking up her muscles, forcing her rebellious mind into order.

  Had it simply been a matter of vanished elemental children, Obritsa might have been able to dismiss it entirely.

  But the odd thing was the carnage left behind at the site of each disappearance—­an adult sibling with a slit throat, a grocer with his head cracked open, a disemboweled mother.

  Even that, though, could have been dismissed: a murderer who was not satisfied with only violence, whose perversions extended to stolen children.

  No, the truly strange thing—­the piece of information that kept Obritsa awake at night, frowning at her fire—­was that for each of the last five known abductions, there was at least one witness who had glimpsed enough of the incident to see the bewildering truth:

  The stolen children themselves were the murderers. They attacked, they ran, they vanished. They did not kill with magic; they killed with knives, clubs, ropes.

  They killed quietly and efficiently. Like the eyes of the dead, one shaken witness had described it. The child didn’t even blink!

  A soft knock on the door made Obritsa nearly jump out of her skin, which launched her into a ferocious temper. She hated feeling ruffled, especially in front of Artem, whom she wanted always to impress and never to disappoint.

  She rose to her feet and lifted her chin. “Enter.”

  Artem did, with a bow, then locked the door behind him and joined Obritsa by the fire. He stood at her side, hands clasped behind his back, still and silent.

  Ordinarily, Obritsa enjoyed his deference.

  Tonight, his silence nettled her.

  “Well?” she snapped. “Have you something to tell me?”

  He cleared his throat, still not meeting her eyes. “We were to meet at this hour, Korozhka, and discuss the message you received.”

  Obritsa bit hard on the inside of her cheek. Of course. Artem was doing just as he should, and Obritsa had forgotten their appointment entirely.

  But Artem didn’t need to know that.

  “First, tell me this,” said Obritsa. “Have you heard anything more about the missing children today?”

  Artem blinked, the only outward sign of his surprise. “I do not think, Korozhka, that you should be concerning yourself with these children.”

  “And I do not think, Artem, that you should be concerning yourself with what I spend my time thinking about.”

  Artem hesitated. “In fact, that is one of the reasons why I am here. To protect you, yes, but also to guide you.”

  Obritsa fixed him with an icy glare, then turned on her heel and lowered herself into the gilded, scarlet-­cushioned chair behind her desk. “If I am to fulfill my duties—­the duties for which I have been trained, the mission upon which the revolution hinges—­then I need to know all the information I can about this city and what happens within its borders.” She glanced up at Artem coolly. “Does it seem so unreasonable to you, then, that I seek information about these abducted children?”

  Artem stared at the carpet for a few moments. Then, at last, his shoulders sagged, just a very little, and he looked down at her, resigned.

  Obritsa swallowed her smile. She had won. She always did.

  “In the Winter Hall,” Artem said quietly, “at a luncheon for Lady Faina, there was strange talk. Another child has gone missing—­this time, the daughter of a courtier. Lord Veliko’s eldest child.”

  Obritsa searched her memory. “The baron of Nayovo.”

  “Yes, Korozhka.”

  “His eldest daughter. Ivanna. Fifteen years old. A waterworker, if I recall correctly.”

  Artem nodded once. “Your memory is impeccable, Korozhka.”

  Obritsa raised an eyebrow. “Have I not instructed you, Artem, to address me by my given name when we are alone?”

  Artem stilled, then bowed his head. “Yes, you have. Obritsa.”

  She rose and walked around the room, her long robe trailing along the carpet. “Lord Veliko, I trust, is beside himself with grief.”

  “Indeed,” Artem replied. “He is arranging search efforts with the support of several other courtiers.”

  Obritsa’s laughter was sharp. “Of course, none of them cared to arrange such efforts when it was the children of peasants who were disappearing.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “From where did the child disappear?”

  “There are festival grounds,” Artem answered, “on the city’s eastern side, in the foothills. Along the upper banks of the Astreka.”

  “Yes, I know the place. A popular destination for young people who have nothing better to do than play with their money.”

  Artem nodded. “Young Lady Ivanna was attending a fete for Lady Sofiya’s naming day, and at some point during the early hours of the morning, her companions lost her in the crowd, along with another of their party—­Isaak Makar.”

  Obritsa said quietly, “Son of Baron Makar.”

  “Yes. When they found the two of them after an hour of searching, Lady Ivanna was standing in the river’s shallows, a knife clutched in her right hand, straddling Isaak’s body. One of her companions shouted her name. She dropped the knife and hurried away. Her companions heard hoofbeats and carriage wheels, but though they followed her as quickly as they were able—­and though their search had taken them to an older area of the festival grounds, where the crowd was thin and quiet—­they could not find her.”

  Artem paused. “Do you feel comforted, Obritsa, now that you have this information in your mind?”

  “I do not want to be comforted,” Obritsa declared. “I want to understand.”

  “To what end?”

  “If there are other plots in this city besides our own—­”

  “Which surely there are, in a city of this size.”

  “—­then I want to know about them. What they are, and who’s behind them. If they will help or hinder me.” She crossed back to the fire, frowning at the dying flames. “I should like the idea of elemental children going mad, killing each other, and vanishing, shouldn’t I?”

  Artem crouched with a poker in hand to adjust the snapping wood. “An odd sentiment in any other setting, but I see your meaning, Obritsa.”

  Obritsa smiled. Artem’s implacable humor never failed to amuse her. “And yet, it leaves a bad feeling on my skin. Like the shadow of a hunter whose strategy I cannot identify.”

  Artem sat on the carpet, legs crossed, watching her. It was an awkward and endearing sight, her battered old guard watching her as expectantly and quietly as a well-­mannered child.

  So endearing, in fact, that Obritsa could not help herself. She sat beside him, touched his hand. “Would you like to know what the message said?”

  A soft smile flickered across Artem’s face. “I would, Obritsa.”

  “You’ve been waiting patiently, answering my many questions.”

  Artem inclined his head. “I aim to serve and please you, Obritsa.”

  “Well, I shall tell you, then. Prince Audric Courverie of Celdaria is coming to visit Genzhar. He will be accompanied by his cousin, Lady Ludivine Sauvillier. And…” Here, Obritsa paused for dramatic effect. “And Lady Rielle Dardenne. Recently appointed Sun Queen by the Celdarian Church, as you know.”

  Artem’s eyebrows shot up toward his hair
line in an utterly satisfying fashion. “When will this happen?”

  “In three weeks’ time. Our spies tell me that the official message from Prince Audric’s advisers should arrive on Grand Magister Naverka’s desk by the day after tomorrow.”

  “Why are they coming? It has been some time since Celdarian royalty has set foot in this city.”

  “To introduce Lady Rielle to the Kirvayan court,” answered Obritsa, “which is not only wise but essential. There are many in my court who do not appreciate some girl they’ve never heard of being appointed Sun Queen after only a few trials conducted thousands of miles away, no matter how many tidal waves she stopped with her bare hands.”

  Artem nodded. “It will be considered an aggressive grasp for power by the Celdarian crown and Church.”

  “And my court will not be the only one with concerns.”

  “Some nations may demand that Lady Rielle endure elemental trials of their own design, should she wish to truly earn her title.”

  “All of this is true. But the most important thing for you and me to concentrate on is this.” Obritsa took a breath. A little thrill of excitement fluttered in her throat. “Sasha wants Lady Rielle. It is rumored that her power is incredible, and if we can somehow harness it for our own purposes—­harness her—­then the dawn of the revolution may arrive sooner than we’ve dared to hope.”

  Artem looked dubious. “If Lady Rielle is as powerful as you say, then it seems unlikely she will consent to being used in such a way.”

  Privately, Obritsa agreed. But she squared her shoulders nevertheless. “It is not your place, Artem, nor mine, to question the wisdom of the Fell Blade.”

  “Of course.” Artem ducked his head at the use of Sasha’s title. “Forgive me, Korozhka.”

  She nodded and rose, biting back further admonishment so Artem could retire to his rooms as content as possible. After so many years as her guardian, his senses were finely attuned to her, and she wanted him to sleep deeply.

  “Our instructions are to prepare for Lady Rielle’s arrival,” she said. “We’ll meet in the morning after breakfast to discuss further. A visit to the royal archives is in order, I think. My knowledge of Celdarian customs is limited.”