Two Queens (Seven Heavens Book 1)

by Holden, Ryan

  “What am I going to do with you?” Paris sat to a cold luncheon of meats and cheeses, holding up the last apple with one bite out of it. Orion couldn't guess. He'd spent the last ten minutes dodging flying apples with his hands bound behind him then was made to beg like a dog for his first food of the day, flying grapes.

  His face stung and he was sure he must be missing a tooth. He felt like a herd of kardja had run over his back.

  “Come, come, you must be more entertaining than that.” A quick wrist flip sent the apple flying his way. “You want to live, don't you?”

  Orion sidestepped and turned. His foot came down on one of the half-smashed previous projectiles and slid. He arched his back, balance half lost, and put his face right back in the path of the apple en route. He fell hard.

  Paris roared. “Much better!” He clapped three times then Orion heard the sound of plates and smacking as he went back to his meal.

  Orion jerked like a fish, trying to remove his chin from the mushed apple. One foot hit the leg of the table. Dishes knocked against each other. His eyes caught sight of a tall goblet flipping stem over lip. With a tinkle of shattering crystal the blood red wine splashed on the floor.

  The chair scraped back. Orion was on his knees now and wriggling away as fast as he could. “Country boor!” His nerves tingled. Something hard hit him in the back of the head and fell over. It fell right next to him.

  It was a book. It lay open, the binding torn and several pages loose. An elegant typeface filled it with row upon row of letters, enough to make Orion's head spin. He flipped to the front, seeking a title. He didn't find one but a fine scrawl caught his eye, finely written in golden ink.

  “For my daughter Astra...”

  Raw emotion coursed through Orion's veins. His body stiffened, as if fearing Paris's interference, and he snatched at the words eagerly. He heard Paris walking over and fell over the book.

  “Give it here. Now!”

  Orion froze. Paris stooped and shoved him aside. “You want this, beggar?” He looked suspicious.

  Orion started sweating. He stared at the book in Paris's hand. Where it hung open a full page print of a man in full armor stood next to a white horse. “I want the picture of the horse.”

  Paris tore the page out and stared at it. “This?” His brow darkened. “This isn't a horse. You know what this is? A distraction. What the boys did who weren't outside learning to fight. That's right, they colored these.” He flipped through the book. He showed Orion another. “See here? This is inscribed 'Queen Greta.' Looks nice, doesn't she? Very beautiful, so fitting for a queen of the pearl of all cities! Wrong!” his voice crashed down. “My father met her. She was as ugly as a worm and twice as fat. The picture's a lie, same as your 'horse.'”

  He threw the book into the fire. “No!” Orion cried out.

  “Shut up. You know, I had half a mind to tell you something. But I won't. Leave me.”

  There was no resisting that glare. Hands still meekly at his chest he walked out, eyes open, into the room that held him when Paris was not amused at his presence. The steward laughed coldly and locked the door behind him.

  Orion breathed a sigh of relief and, from under his cloak, drew out the dozen or so pages he'd torn from the volume.

  Cora's talk with Adara was pleasant enough. “Miss” did not appear in the conversation once, unless it were a verb, and all formality was lost. Adara's only annoyance was how she misunderstood Orion entirely: “of course he said that, what young lads come up to tickle a pretty girl's fancy.” Adara challenged this, saying she didn't think that was the case. Cora took her to be denying her own beauty and the conversation diverted and left all things Adara's heart longed to have answered.

  Cora showed her every mirror in the house, then had her wear the red dress—“what a shame Evandor has the carriage, else we wouldn't have to wait for that lazy shop boy to bring your new clothes”—and look at them all a second time, and more that had missed the first look.

  “You may be right to keep silent as to your beauties, my dear,” for such had the familiarity become in a few short hours, “for they speak for themselves. Also, not all mirrors tell the truth.”

  Upon such remembrance, nothing would stop her until she had filled her cooking pot with water—“no one would enchant such a thing, not a bit of silver in it”—and soaked Adara's hair in water in her attempts to find the perfect angle for her reflection in the water. Of course it was hard, her hair splashing it so often, but Cora was determined.

  In one of the back rooms she grabbed a silver necklace and set it on Adara's neck. Adara, bored at seeing herself once again, was watching the maid fiddle with it behind her. Cora looked into the mirror and her mouth sprung open but no sound came out. A look of shock crossed her face.

  “What's the matter?”

  “Nothing, nothing.” Her eyes teared up. She just looked at Adara, or rather her reflection, and sighed.

  Adara couldn't make out her expression. She was about to ask when bells chimed in the background.

  In an instant Cora was off to the kitchen, loudly blaming the sun for having sped through the day faster than it should and keeping her from finishing her duties. Adara heard sniffles not fully hidden by the exclamations. Her eyes flicked back to the mirror. Her concerned half-smile amused her for a moment then she felt icy chills go down her back.

  She spun around to look behind her but all looked the same. She looked back in the mirror. The necklace caught her eye. It was merely a linked chain of silver, a little tarnished. A horrible suspicion likened the workmanship to the silver handcuffs she'd worn yesterday morn. She reached her hands back to unclasp it but her fingers couldn't manage the delicate catch.

  Oh well, Cora can take it off later. It was too short to pull past her jaw. She wandered through the room seeing much to interest in the moment but not much worth remembering. She went on to the next. It was delightful to wander in the cool half-light. She no longer heard Cora and Evandor was not even in the city. She entered the next room, and the next, slowly making her way back.

  It was in the fifth room when she realized she had not entered any hallways and was entering directly from one room to another, some sitting, some bedrooms. Something felt strange about the room. It was familiar, yet not. She walked around it, looking intently. Yes, she'd seen the chest of drawers before. And the chair. And the rich tapestry of bursts of yellow.

  She went into the next. She recognized all the pieces and began to get a headache. Walking faster she tried the next room. The same thing. Three rooms later she was back in front of the yellow tapestry but it now hung behind the chest of drawers which was now on the opposite wall.

  She pressed her fingers to her temple and sat on the floor. She couldn't bring herself to touch any of the furniture. What kind of house was this? Did it burrow all the way back through the city?

  She got up quickly and, after a moment's hesitation, returned the way she came. Four rooms later she had entered the first, as she thought, room with the yellow-tapestry. Now there was no chair: a day bed, not seen before, looked up at her mockingly. She screamed for Cora. She ran on and passed through the same rooms. She screamed again.

  Minutes passed and there was no answer. She sank to the carpeted floor and cried.

  Twenty

  My dear Astra,

  It is, at present, the fashion among the great to make a habit of keeping an empty book by them and therein writing matters of the moment. They so create a treasure trove of experience in surety for the ever-fickle brain, even those as smart as you, my daughter.

  I once began this but soon gave it up. And for that I would have much regret except for my volume of Cities, rescued from my tutor. Its failing in his eyes—that of leaving out half the facts and reporting the rest in a sensational manner—was the sum total of its initial wonder to me.

  The heroes in this book—many of them our forebears, names well known to you—have been my lifelong friends. They have counseled me in dis
tress, celebrated with me in victory, and with me endured long nights far from home.

  I wish for you to know them, as I have known them.

  Your loving father,

  Greer

  My grandfather. Greer. Orion's finger slid down the page, touching each line. He didn't recognize all the words—“fashion,” “fickle,” “sensational,” among others—but knew enough. His fingertip thrilled at the rough touch of the paper. The rest of the room fell into shadow. He saw a man's hands give a girl much like Adara the book. She opened it and read, then looked up. Orion could not see her expression but felt it in the poise of her shoulders and the line of her hair. She set the book aside and embraced the man. He was taller than her but stooped that he could not see his face for her hair.

  She turned and looked at him and he saw his mother's face. But it was his face as he had never known before. No lines of worry tarnished her face. From it joy sprung radiant. He saw her, though she remained in her father's embrace, somehow hand the book to him.

  He looked at the book in his hands and felt its weight. He glanced up quickly but she was no longer there, just an empty grate with no fire. He sighed and flipped the page.

  On the left a single picture covered the full page. A young man stood dressed in the tunic of rough cloth with a rope for a belt. His right hand held an oaken staff and on his left shoulder a raven stood, wings half spread as if it had just landed. His hair was black and his eyes dark, a fiery dark much different than the raven's dusty blue-tinged hues. “Apollo” was inscribed below.

  Orion looked at the text. It was daunting, a full page of block print. His head throbbed warm with the rest of his body cold. This was no time to read. He flipped through a couple pages. A line caught his eye – it had been underlined.

  “I must live to bring freedom not only my sister but all sisters and all brothers, for only in doing so will I be free.” In the left margin someone had written, “Would that he lived again. We need him, again.” The script, angular like wood chips, matched the dedication from the first page.

  The next line was underlined as well, but with a different pen and less faded. “I swear I will die before I let myself be enslaved.” In the margin a note clarified: “Will anyone understand?” This script was different. The letters were round like water droplets.

  He flipped forward some more pages, seeing both forms of writing, both angular and round. Sometimes they sprung up apart; more often they nestled close to each other. He turned the pages back to see if he had missed any early on but before he made it back to the quote he saw another picture.

  This one was of a young woman. Her black hair fell straight and disappeared behind her shoulders. Her lips were redder than the apple in her dainty hands. A long red dress of many folds cascaded down to the short-cropped green grass. Half hidden by its train Orion noticed a chain, broken. He thought it odd.

  He heard a noise next door. Boots tramping his way. He grabbed the papers and stuffed them in his clothes, cringing as he crumpled them. The door burst open and he looked up, frozen.

  Adara sat in the dark. She heard Cora calling for her. She called back. Cora went on calling as if she hadn't heard. Adara's tears started once more. There was nothing worse than being halfway found only to remain lost. Lost? How could she be lost? Trapped.

  She rested her cheek on her palm. Something brushed her wrist, something cold and hard. She remembered the necklace. Was this it? Had this been enchanted? She shuddered at its touch. Grabbing it in her fingers she tried pulling it off her neck but she could not. It was too small. She kept on pulling anyways, seeing if brute force could break the thing.

  She gulped then coughed. A hasty pull had half choked her. She sputtered then breathed quickly, drinking in the life-giving air. Her distaste for the chain grew. She wondered why Cora had put it on her. She remembered the clasp. Her eager fingers fed the chain through and felt for the device but couldn't find it. She kept on searching. Adara tried holding the chain at one place with her left and feeling every link with her right. It was no use. The chain had become like the rooms: one long loop without exit.

  Cora had mentioned enchantment. Perhaps this chain was enchanted. It must be. Theo had told her stories of this and that sorcerer or enchantress. She didn't pay much mind as Simon found this annoying. He didn't put much stock in such things. But then again, wasn't her way a sort of enchantment? Was she enchanted, or her family? From what Orion said his mother—her mother—had it too.

  Had. Her mother was dead. And she—she had broken her enchantment, if that is what it was, somehow. Perhaps her gift had a condition. Everything did, it seemed, according to Theo. One small step awry and down came the wrath of the gods. What had she done? She couldn't remember much of that time, she thought she still did what she usually did. Her mind was occupied with Orion, wondering if Simon would let him go. If there was something she could do to persuade him.

  Then that cruel morning when Simon did change his mind. That her long service had purchased their ransom. That they were free, with his blessing. She was a fool to have believed him.

  And a fool still. Her fear of Evandor had decreased and she had almost forgotten Orion in her pleasure and shock at the extravagant new wardrobe. Had she forsaken him? She wondered who owned him now or if Simon still had cruel tricks to play. She dreamed she would meet him someplace, somewhere, in Avallonë. That their eyes could meet. That, no matter what had happened to her, she could smile to let him know that all was well.

  And if he could smile back. She knew he'd still be a slave, worked hard at whatever his master chose, but she'd believe the smile as he would believe hers. And so time would go on but life would have stopped, only bound in a few sweet memories, the last hurried look.

  She touched the chain. Perhaps it had a condition too. One she did not meet. Maybe it was not malicious will that trapped her here. She thought she sensed a whisper of a change in the chain. It seemed a hair lighter. But that was just foolish.

  She thought back to her gift. I am broken. Something about this pleased her. That no more Simons might use her for evil ends. It was all moot now: she had lost her brother. However petted or dolled up she might be there would be nothing but sorrow within. She could enjoy nothing, now.

  The thought struck her. Perhaps that is what broke her. Simon had used her, poured her out upon group after group of mistreated slaves. All of them she had delivered to Avallonë and, occasionally, Kyriopolis in full health. But she had been satisfied in the sacrifice. Orion's coming changed her. Broken her condition.

  She felt used, empty, and alone. Why try to escape the rooms? Physical hunger could not be worse than this soul-starvation. And it would bring the end. Her lips pursed into a tight line. In the very moment that she thought all was despair a chink broke in the darkness and a single shaft of light flowed in. She remembered Orion's promise and fully disbelieved it. What could he do? This was no game with a few men in the middle of the country. They were in a city of stone with thousands.

  But she believed it, all the same, as if someone other than Orion had said it. She knew not whom.

  The steward stepped in. He looked at Orion. “My lord Paris requires your attendance,” he mocked. Orion went.

  “What? No resistance? No sullen looks? Perhaps you've seen the error of your ways.” The steward left the door open behind them and guided Orion down a hall to another room, one Orion had not been in before. The steward opened the door. “My lord.”

  The room inside had dark furniture and paneling. The only light came from a seven-flamed candelabra on a large pine desk. The corner to the far left, the furthest Orion could see beside the open door, had two large chairs, padded and stuffed, of a sort Orion had never seen before. The whole far wall seemed covered in cabinets. But what caught his eye was a large brick chimney on the right and Paris, standing precariously upon a chair, pushing a brick into place.

  The steward grabbed Orion and pulled him back, at the same time shutting the door. His shoulder
felt strange with the steward's fingers pinching next to his neck. He shook him, looking down. He felt dizzy.

  He heard the door open. “Yes?” Paris's voice cut into the fog.

  “I'm sorry, my lord, I thought you expected us. I didn't mean to interrupt.”

  “Interrupt what? What's the matter with him?”

  Orion raised his hands to his eyes. “Dust,” he blurted out. He wiped his eyes and looked at them. The steward looked ashen, Paris inquisitive. He put what he hoped was a blank look on his face.

  “Fool.” Paris turned to the steward. “Call my carriage then help me dress. I have an engagement at the palace. If I catch you asleep on my return you will regret it.”

  “Yes, sir. What about the boy?”

  “What about him?”

  “Am I to watch him too?”

  “He can watch himself,” Paris thundered. “Why do you have to disturb me with your housekeeping?” A serene smile crossed his face. “My carriage, steward.”

  They walked out of the room. Paris turned to lock the door then muttered under his breath. “Where's that key?”

  “Shall I help you look for it, sir?”

  “No, there's no time. You can look for it later. The palace requires me.” He sailed down the hall, leaving them alone.

  The steward shoved Orion into a wall. “If you try any tricks, boy, I'll make you wish you hadn't. Get on,” he let him up and shoved him down the hall, “back to your room.”

  Orion went on. He wouldn't do any tricks, least ways not right now, and so he sauntered back to his cheerless room. He pulled out his papers. They were badly creased but not much worse for the wear. He smoothed them out and tried reading some.