Daughters of Ruin

by K. D. Castner

  It was truthism, too obvious.

  A king without a queen was a kingdom without a mother.

  But is it also an appraisal?

  Are motherless countries somehow less?

  Rhea knew she would rule in converse—a maiden queen.

  None of the noble boys—with their fancy pomade, house-proud regalia, and their petty hierarchies—interested her.

  Rhea was certain they wanted her only for her crown. Actually, in truth, she wasn’t certain they wanted her at all. But if they did, it would be for her power. Why else would they compliment her on paper but in person stare constantly at Cadis?

  Rhea had decided long ago that she would share a bed, but she would never share a throne.

  She was completely numb to their presence. Except for Endrit.

  And he was no possibility.

  She could keep him, perhaps, at court.

  They could find some private arrangement, a secret affair.

  If she could stave off the demands of the lower houses.

  If she was strong enough.

  “I, Cadis, next in line to sit in the first chair of the Archon Basileus, among the equals of the guildmasters of the Findain Mercantile Exchange, daughter of Hector and Agathe, both lost to the endless sea, do so pledge.”

  As always, a few nobles snickered at the humble titles of Findish traders. Cadis stood eye level to the king nonetheless.

  Pantarelli, the jester, had been censured the previous winter for a song about Declan lusting after Cadis. Many a scandalous rumor passed between the eligible noblewomen of Meridan, that the king was grooming her to be his own—that the Protectorate itself was an elaborate mating ritual.

  It was a disgusting idea for petty nobles to gossip about.

  Rhea paid no attention to the whispering as Cadis received her ring from Declan. It could have just as easily been about the carriage of her shoulders.

  Did she hold them back to push out her chest?

  Or her blue dress.

  Would any Meridan lady wear something so plain? Or so fitted?

  Her face was battered still. The makeup couldn’t cover the swelling. But even so, the men had plenty else to admire. Her valiant show with Iren had worked. The people seemed impressed; some seemed to have forgiven her entirely. Rhea had a begrudging respect for such expert maneuvering.

  To Rhea it proved only that she was a secret rebel and a dirty traitor.

  But for good or for ill, Cadis was always the one they talked about.

  Rhea glanced at Endrit and caught him staring at Cadis.

  Is he, too, obsessed with her?

  Rhea almost missed her cue. She stepped forth and spoke, “I, Rhea, daughter of Declan the Giver, king of Meridan, champion of the War of Epiphany Rising, hero of the Battle of Crimson Fog, author of the Treaty of Sister Queens, and creator of the peace for all Pelgard, do so pledge.”

  A raucous cheer erupted from the nobility and the king’s guard, filling the vaulted ballroom. Rhea instinctively laughed—an expulsion of nerves, really.

  And as her father approached with the signet ring of House Meridan, she could swear he smiled.

  Rhea almost skipped as she returned from the dais, past her sisters, and toward a grinning Endrit. Of course, she didn’t.

  Her armory of jewels would jangle. And, of course, she didn’t leap into his arms, though she wanted to. Too many heads would turn.

  As if he had read her mind or body language as she bounded toward him and then pulled up short, Endrit scooped Rhea into his arms and gave her a long hug.

  Did he hug anyone else as he hugged me?

  Rhea felt her neck and cheeks flush, as doyennes all around the grand ballroom cast their aspersions.

  Does it matter?

  He smelled like jasmine and bituin oil. His shirt was the coarsest leather in the room, but warmed by his skin and softened by age. Rhea breathed as if for the first time all day, first even in a fortnight.

  The Revels were finally over.

  The one previous was finally behind her—or at least, the long year of shame and disappointment could begin to scab.

  “Well done, Princess,” whispered Endrit.

  Only a few hours ago, they had regaled everyone with the exhibition of the grimwaltz. No false steps and no misses.

  They were a spectacle.

  Their bodies moved in perfect motion together.

  Rhea wondered if Endrit felt the connection as strongly as she did.

  He must have.

  It was as if they were two marionettes connected by the same strings.

  Rhea wished for a god to turn them both into stone at that very moment. Instead Endrit put her down with a grunt. He rubbed his neck and said, “That necklace wasn’t made for hugging.” He nodded at the onyx sunrays, each a sharpened stake.

  My very own chastity belt, thought Rhea. She turned and stood beside Endrit as her father gathered attention for the closing of the Revels.

  “Good ladies, good men of Meridan, let us celebrate the end of our revelry.”

  He was a perfect king from the storybooks, a man of the prime age—not a boy king and not a graybeard. He had a soldier’s bearing and a scholar’s presence. Hair the color of tar, with feathery white streaks.

  “And welcome also to the emissaries of Findain—”

  Rhea looked around and for the first time noticed a group of sun-browned men and women, all blond and unfashionably dressed, standing behind Cadis.

  A diplomatic envoy?

  They seemed uncomfortable to hold the attention of the room. Behind them lurked Magister Hiram, no doubt already begun in his maneuvering and negotiations on behalf of her father.

  Endrit leaned over and whispered, “Here to take her home?”

  Rhea snapped around to face him. Their noses nearly collided. She said, “What?” And then, with her volume under control, she added, “They can’t take her. My father wouldn’t let them.”

  Her father continued his speech about each of the girls’ achievements over the course of the year. He began with Cadis, notably, either to please the envoy or because she had the longest list.

  Endrit and Rhea stared ahead but conversed from the sides of their mouths like conspirators, or children at the temple.

  “They’ll petition for it, certainly,” said Endrit.

  “How would you know?”

  “We low-living creatures all share a gutter—didn’t you know?” He bumped her. His arm touched hers and made gooseflesh rise.

  “I didn’t mean that.”

  “I’m only guessing,” said Endrit. “Word of a rebellion has spread. Everyone outside the keep is jumpy, and Findish caravans have diverted away from the midlands for fear of reprisals and mobs.”

  “All the more reason for Cadis to stay,” whispered Rhea, “where the guards can protect her.”

  “The Meridan guards are the worry,” said Endrit.

  “Maybe they’re here for another reason,” said Rhea. Endrit laughed under his breath. Rhea hoped he would bump her again, but it didn’t come. She ventured a look. He caught her eye and winked.

  “Maybe they’re here to choose her suitor,” said Endrit.

  “Can’t be,” said Rhea. “In Findain, they marry for love.”

  “Then maybe they’re here to bring yours.”

  Fear struck at Rhea’s chest. The conjecture felt true. She gazed at the envoy, searching for one who might be suitable.

  Would my father really match me with a Dain?

  Is there some truth to their joke the night before? She would prefer the noble Dain to the river rats, but just barely.

  Endrit’s snickering told her she had been played a fool.

  Of course, he would never.

  “I hate you,” said Rhea.

  He didn’t respond. Does he think I meant it? Of course not. It was an obvious joke.

  Her father commended Iren for her domestic arts and calligraphy. Rhea felt a hand push her to the side, away from Endrit. It was Suki, wedg
ing herself between them. “Hi, Endrit!”

  Doyenne Sprolio turned to give them a silencing glare. Next to her stood Don Sprolio, and beside him, Lazlo Sesquitaine, a pauncy young lord from the neighboring lands to House Sprolio. He had proposed once to Rhea, when they were nine years old, playing chase on the outer walls of the keep. She had laughed in his face. He had called Rhea’s father a usurper. She’d slapped him. He’d pushed her. She’d demanded his head for her next birthday.

  Her father only laughed, but House Sesquitaine had sent apologies by the wagonload.

  Now Lazlo was as tall as a maypole, as thin, and with a beaky nose perfect for looking down. Surely he had come to court to ask her father a favor. Could it be marriage again? Does he remember our fight so long ago?

  Endrit made room for Suki and said, “Hey, Susu. Quite the tribute fire you blazed with Helio.”

  Suki laughed a bit too loudly. “You saw it! I thought you were in the conductor’s pit.” Her whispering was just a bit too loud for a ballroom full of nobles and a king midspeech. Endrit leaned over her so she would bring her voice down. He whispered, “Wouldn’t have missed it.”

  “Wanna dance later?”

  “Yes. Yes. Shh,” said Endrit.

  Is she being rude on purpose?

  People all around them shifted in discomfort. Rhea thought she saw her father’s lips quiver in irritation. “Why are you shushing me? It’s the final speech.”

  “Susu, please,” said Endrit.

  Does the selfish brat not realize what it took to secure an invitation for Endrit? Of course she doesn’t. And she likely doesn’t care anyway. Nor does she realize the jeopardy she is putting him in.

  What made it worse was that her father was speaking of Suki at the moment, drawing even more attention to the fact that she was outwardly dismissing the king. “No one cares, Endrit. We already put on their precious show.”

  Has she stolen into the wine cellar again?

  Endrit was visibly agitated. Magister Hiram moved from behind the Findish envoy, toward them, with murder in his eyes behind the placid exterior.

  Rhea grabbed Suki’s elbow. “Stop it,” she hissed.

  Suki wrenched away. “Don’t touch me.”

  The entire ballroom quieted as if a page had shattered a tray of goblets. Rhea was stunned by the scorn in Suki’s expression. Hiram emerged behind them and intoned, in a deep whisper meant only for them, “This is not the place.”

  “—and blessed be Anant.” The king finished his speech and the nobles clapped. From the dais, the royal musicians began directly with a song, and the crowd split off into pairs. Rhea had missed her father’s account of her own accomplishments. Out of all the damage, this was the one Rhea felt most deeply.

  As quickly as he’d appeared, Hiram disappeared into the crowd, perhaps to find the envoy again. Rhea could finally speak aloud. “What is your crisis?”

  “Nothing,” said Suki. “Come on, Endrit. Let’s dance.”

  Both of the future queens rounded on Endrit, who suddenly found himself the ham bone stuck between the clutches of two shinhounds.

  Rhea entreated him with a look, that such petulance should not be rewarded. And if she were honest, she hoped he would choose her anyway. Couples danced around them. Iren approached, eating a mushroom-filled tart. “We could hear your squawking from across the room,” she reported.

  Cadis was still on the other side of the ballroom, with a half-moon of lords around her imagining the magnificent highborn children she could give them, even if she was a Dain with a swollen eye and a cut lip.

  Endrit still hadn’t made his choice.

  Suki pulled at his hand. It was rare to see Endrit unsure of anything—especially in the field of love. Is he worried for his position? For his mother’s? Does he think so little of us, that we would punish him somehow?

  His sandy brown hair had been parted and combed. Rhea noticed his shoes. He must have borrowed them from Hiram. He knew no one else who could afford such clothes.

  The stable boy with obsidian eyes.

  He said, “Save me a waltz, yeah?” and then he let himself be dragged away by Suki, who glanced back over her shoulder to turn the knife.

  Iren stood beside her and watched them dance. “Should have never put him in that position,” said Iren as she chewed the last of her tart.

  Rhea noticed Lazlo Sesquitaine walking toward her now that she was unattached in conversation. Before the young lord could say anything, she exhaled her frustration and marched out of the ballroom.

  The air in the hallway was cool, not cycled a thousand times through the mouths of old drunk men. Rhea stepped on the hem of her dress in her haste to exit and tripped. She caught herself on a statue of King Kendrick and looked around to see if anyone noticed. Only the royal guardsmen stood in the long hall—at each of the doors to the ballroom and along windows—stiff suits of armor they were taught to ignore, much like the statues of the kings and queens of yore. They were part of the furniture of a castle keep. This night, her father had overdecorated.

  Rhea straightened herself. Her necklace was beginning to press on her collarbone.

  Should I go to my chamber? Will Endrit follow to have that dance he promised?

  Maybe leaving is the power position—if by leaving, I can also take my prize with me.

  But no, in the presence of the guards, he would never be allowed. And yet she couldn’t go back in. Suki would love that. It would be as if she were pleading. Her father would scold with a look. Queens should not flit about like beetles.

  She stood in the empty hall with mute guards all in a row, feeling silly. Maybe she could—

  The door behind her opened, and the noise and the stale air of the ballroom lapped over her. Rhea spun around, hoping for Endrit but willing to settle for Marta, or even Iren. Perhaps Magister Hiram had come to draw her back, to introduce her to the Findish envoy, who were, after all, the ambassadors to her court.

  It was not the magister.

  “Hello, Father,” said Rhea, with a curtsy.

  Behind the king, she could see a roomful of eyes, glancing and pretending not to glance as he exited. He strode into the hall, waving back his personal guard. They stood facing each other, mostly alone, until the door closed behind him.

  She could see in his face one half of her own features—the sharp nose, the high cheeks. By substitution, she knew the rest of her must have been her mother—the black curls, the hazel eyes—and she wondered if that half of her was what made him cringe.

  Rhea didn’t know what to do, and so she hugged him.

  Is it too much?

  She heard the clang of a guard’s shoulder plate as he jolted from her sudden movement. He caught himself and stayed in position.

  Thank the gods the king slackened and returned the embrace.

  “Why did you leave?”

  Because we sisters quarrel. Because I would not dance with Lazlo Sesquitaine. Because I’ve lost a fight so petty—a dance with a boy who is my servant—that I am more embarrassed to have lowered myself to Suki’s jealous nattering than the fact that he did not choose me when given the opportunity.

  “I needed a moment,” said Rhea.

  The king turned and walked down the hall. He opened the crook of his arm. Rhea took it and walked beside him.

  “It’s nice to be finished for a year,” he said.

  It’s a giant’s boot off my neck.

  “Yes.”

  “Yours was the most praised,” he noted.

  Really?

  Rhea could have shrieked with such riotous rejoicing that all of Meridan Keep would tremble. “Oh?”

  “Indeed. The Findish envoy called it ‘alarming,’ ” he said. “You nearly impaled the boy several times.”

  “We’ve been practicing.”

  “The disarming of his sword—”

  “That part in particular.”

  Her father nodded. He was proud. She could tell. She felt such a rush in her blood that their strolli
ng pace seemed suddenly excruciating.

  “Hiram tells me a rematch next year would be unwise.”

  Hang Hiram and let him rot for his meddling.

  “I could beat her this time. Didn’t you see Iren outsmart her for most of the match? I didn’t avoid it, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I didn’t mean that,” said her father.

  “Cadis and Iren requested to fight each other.”

  “The envoy thought it was to be charitable, to spare you embarrassment.”

  Hang them all. Even my victories are now charity from Cadis?

  They walked in silence into the central chamber of the Protectorate, toward her room.

  “Do they think I’m afraid of her?” whispered Rhea, so a guard wouldn’t hear. Her father made an exhalation, a single laugh.

  Is it so obvious to him?

  He patted her on the arm. “Just . . . meet rumor with quiet, darling.”

  But it was no comfort to be silenced from defending herself.

  Rhea’s rejoicing seemed so long ago. The work of a year cast as nothing but a coward’s refuge. They reached the door to her chamber. A guard standing by opened it. Her father stopped, as if he had been ushering her there to keep her from further shaming the family. Rhea stepped into her room and commanded herself not to cry until he was gone.

  He took her hand and put it to his lips. Then he looked at the poisoned mouth of the dragon ring, with its ruby eyes that matched the centerpiece of her necklace. “It’s a beautiful ring,” he said. “Get some air. Have a rest.”

  Rhea’s vision blurred.

  “But come back later. They want to see the queen in full dress.”

  That was likely his way of comforting her. “There are three other queens for them to gawk at,” said Rhea. She turned and walked into her room so she could wipe at her eyes without him seeing.

  “Yes,” he said, “but none of them are mine.”

  Her chamber wasn’t nearly as cluttered as the others’. Iren had her embroidery and glasswork on separate tables. Cadis had her shelves of Findish plays. Suki had a menagerie of Tasanese art—paintings, miniatures, musical instruments.