Queen of the Unwanted

by Jenna Glass

  The lessons were irregular, thanks to the demands on Falcor’s time, but Shelvon had found she enjoyed the physical activity so much that she practiced the drills—ever more advanced, as her skills progressed—every evening after dinner. She had adapted the garden behind her house into a practice field, creating a good-sized circle of grass in its center while all the bushes and flowers were pushed to the outskirts—conveniently also adding a little bit of cover so that anyone who wanted to peek in could see only through a screen of branches and leaves. It was hardly a perfect barrier, but it was at least adequate for her purposes.

  Shelvon always began her evening practice with a set of stretches to limber up. She was in the midst of a series of toe-touches, her sword in its scabbard resting on the grass by her feet, when she was suddenly struck by the sensation that she was being watched. Sure she was imagining things, she stood up straight once more and glanced around the edges of her practice area. She needed very little light for her drills, so she had only two luminants glowing nearby. That light was enough to make the edges of the garden into a wall of near-impenetrable darkness.

  Shelvon bit her lip, seeing no movement nor any other sign that anyone was watching. She wanted to dismiss her suspicion as self-conscious foolishness, but one of the lessons Falcor had hammered into her—and to the dwindling handful of students who occasionally joined her lessons—was to listen to her instincts. “Better to feel foolish than to be killed,” he’d said over and over, to the point that Shelvon could practically hear him whispering the words in her ear right now.

  Already feeling foolish, Shelvon picked up the scabbard by her feet, keeping her eyes up as she drew out the sword. She could combat the feeling of foolishness, she decided, by skipping the rest of her warm-up exercises and proceeding directly to the sword drills.

  There was a rustling sound off to her right, and she turned toward it even as she backed closer to her house. Probably just the wind, her self-consciousness whispered at her, but she had felt no touch of breeze. Or an animal. There were small mammals, such as rabbits, in Women’s Well, but there was nothing much larger than that.

  She brandished the sword in the direction from which the sound had come, angling her body so that the house provided some cover for her back. She continued to feel ridiculous—right until she heard a soft masculine chuckle.

  “Who’s there?” she cried, her heart suddenly pounding as she caught a glimpse of movement among the shadows. Without taking her eyes from that patch of shadow, she calculated her odds of making it to her door, getting inside, and throwing the bolt before whoever was lurking in the darkness caught her.

  She did not like her chances, and if she turned her back to run, she would have no defense. Mouth dry, hands shaking, she assumed a ready position, her weight on the balls of her feet, her stance wide enough to provide a stable base as she angled her body to give her potential attacker the smallest possible target.

  A grinning man emerged from the shadows. He was tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a dirty jerkin. His hair was greasy, and his unkempt rat-brown beard was stained nearly black all around his mouth. Once upon a time, Shelvon could have identified every resident of Women’s Well by sight, but the town had grown much too large for that. Even so, Shelvon doubted the slovenly grinning man was a resident. He looked too much like a cutpurse—or a mercenary—to have been accepted as a citizen.

  “Aren’t you just adorable,” he said, the grin turning into a sneer. “But you’ll want to put that pig-sticker down and come quietly.” He made a big, meaty fist, smacking it loudly into his opposite hand. “I’m no fan of beating women, but I’m not especially opposed to it, either.”

  Shelvon gritted her teeth and held firm, feeling her suspicion that he was not a resident of Women’s Well had been confirmed. If he’d lived here, he’d be unlikely to threaten a sword-wielding woman with nothing but a fist.

  Then again, she’d never been in a real fight before, and though she had mastered a number of drills and even tried a little sparring, she knew it would be foolhardy to trust too much in her own abilities. The sword was visibly wavering as her whole body shook with nerves. She sucked in a deep breath.

  “Don’t even think of screaming,” the brute snarled at her, “or I’ll make you regret it.”

  The most embarrassing lesson Falcor had taught his small class of ladies was how to let loose a proper scream, the kind that could be heard over the longest possible distance and that in no way resembled anything playful or humorous. It sounded ridiculously easy—how hard was it to scream, after all?—but Shelvon had been shocked at what a challenge it had been for some of the women. Especially herself.

  “Society expects women—especially ladies—to be quiet and demure and unobtrusive,” Falcor had said when he’d taken them all a mile outside of town for the lesson. “It goes against everything you’ve been taught to let loose a scream of the sort you need to draw attention unless you’ve been pressed past your limits—at which point it might be too late.”

  And then he’d made each woman scream as loud as she could, and their efforts had been almost laughable. Which was why he’d made them do it again and again and again until their embarrassment faded and they put their whole bodies into the effort to produce as much sound as possible.

  In the end, they’d all been so hoarse they could barely talk, but each had managed to bring forth a scream that met with Falcor’s approval.

  Shelvon let loose with such a scream just now, the sound escaping her lips a heartbeat before the villain flung himself at her, hands reaching for her throat as he all but ignored the blade. The sound shattered the quiet of the night and set a neighbor’s dog to barking.

  Shelvon swung her sword on pure instinct, moving as if to parry the head-on thrust of an opponent’s sword. Only instead of her blade meeting an enemy’s steel, it met a fleshy arm, biting in deeply until it struck bone.

  The man yelled in pain and surprise, jerking away as his blood splashed on the blade. Shelvon felt as if she’d been split into two people—one who was terrified and fighting for her life, and one who was nothing but a passive observer. The observer spoke to her with Falcor’s voice, noting that she had slowed her stroke at the last moment, which was why the blade had been stopped by the bone.

  “Another lesson you must unlearn if you are to be able to defend yourselves,” Falcor had taught his students, “is that women are sweet, gentle creatures who must take pains never to hurt anyone. If you are fighting for your life, you must not only be willing, but eager to hurt your attacker.”

  He was, of course, right about that as well, as Shelvon had learned when she’d tried two-person drills, and later when she’d tried a little light sparring. Instinct commanded her to hold back, to use only the barest amount of force, to flinch away just before her sword made contact. She’d thought she’d overcome that instinct, but again, sparring and fighting for real were two very different experiences.

  The ruffian’s eyes were wide, his mouth open in shock as blood soaked the bottom part of his sleeve. Shelvon hoped that now that he’d learned he could not take her as easily as he’d thought, he would do the sensible thing and run away. But the look in his eyes hardened, and he made a guttural sound of pain and fury.

  Shelvon let loose with another scream as the ruffian surged forward again. His eyes were fixed on the sword this time, and her observer-self noted that he was trying to come up under her swing and grab her arms. She took a couple of quick, shuffling steps backward to give herself more space and time, and once again brought her sword around.

  Surprise had given her the edge with her first swing, but her attacker was no longer treating her like some helpless woman with a toy sword, and while she was swinging at his arms, he struck out with his foot, sweeping her legs out from under her.

  With a scream that was more like a choked cry, Shelvon went down, losing her grip on the swor
d. The breath whooshed out of her lungs as the bleeding ruffian kicked the sword out of the way, then aimed a kick at her rib cage.

  Something gave way with a sharp crack. Her vision went white with pain, her entire body frozen as she tried to absorb the agony. Her observer-self was still there, urging her to move, to roll, to evade whatever her attacker planned to throw at her next, but her body refused to obey even the simplest command.

  So this is it, she thought bitterly. All Falcor’s lessons, all the training, all the confidence she had built…All of that shattered by one unarmed man who hadn’t the sense to run away after she’d wounded him. She did not know what he wanted with her—though the fact that he’d urged her to come with him quietly meant it wasn’t just a quick murder or robbery he had in mind—but it wasn’t anything good.

  “Fucking bitch,” the ruffian spat. “I’ll teach you to bloody me!”

  Shelvon tried to suck in a breath, but the searing pain in her ribs prevented it, and the best she could do to protect herself was to curl inward around the pain.

  The ruffian cursed again, and over the pounding of her pulse in her ears, Shelvon heard raised voices coming from the other side of the hedges the intruder had broken through. Someone shouted “Don’t move!” in a voice that said he was used to being obeyed.

  The white haze of pain faded from Shelvon’s eyes just in time for her to see her attacker disregard the order and start to the far side of the garden, no doubt to burst through and keep running. But the order had been shouted by one of the night watchmen who guarded the town’s streets, and when it was not obeyed, a crossbow bolt struck the running man in the back of the leg. He screamed and fell, and soon Shelvon’s garden was all but swarming with watchmen and concerned neighbors.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Mairah had expected Norah to creep back into their room, sullen and angry and frightened, within a half hour or so of storming out, but that did not happen. At first, she’d assumed the old woman was having an epic sulking fit, but when a full hour had passed and Norah still hadn’t returned, Mairah felt the first tingle of alarm. There was nowhere for Norah to go but the common room, and Mairah couldn’t imagine what she’d do there for a full hour. Abruptly filled with foreboding, she ventured down the stairs.

  When she reached the common room, she found that Norah was nowhere to be seen—and both of their escorts for the evening were sitting in a corner booth, fast asleep. The barkeep glanced up at her, then pointedly looked at the guards. The man shrugged and winked at her, which Mairah took to mean he had no qualms about her wandering out of the inn without her keepers glued to her side if she chose. Unless she missed her guess, he would report on her movements the moment she was out of sight, but at least he didn’t seem inclined to stop her.

  Mairah forced a smile even as her mind raced.

  Where would Norah have gone? And what did she plan to do?

  Mairah left the inn, wrapping a dark gray shawl around her shoulders to protect her against the chill of the night. It was not especially late, but though Women’s Well had grown remarkably in the short time it had existed, it was hardly a bustling metropolis. There was very little nightlife to be had. The small inn and an even smaller public house were the only businesses open at this hour, and the streets were practically deserted. If there were any Women’s Well spies watching the inn, they probably had followed Norah when she left. Whether that meant she was unobserved or not, she didn’t know.

  Having no other idea where Norah might have gone, Mairah found herself heading toward the Academy, which should have been closed for hours by now. But when she turned the corner and the Academy came into view, Mairah could see that lights were glowing in several of the first-floor rooms. Her footsteps quickened, even as she kept an anxious lookout up and down the street to be sure she was not observed.

  When she got closer to the Academy, Mairah caught sight of a pair of guards standing by the door, chatting with each other. One of them spotted her, and she forced herself to keep walking past as if she had some definite purpose in mind. One that did not include going anywhere near the Academy. The moon was only a quarter full, and she kept her head down, reasonably certain the guard could not see her face from this distance. Certainly she would attract attention if anyone recognized her, and that was something she must avoid at all costs.

  Chewing her lip in anxiety, she rounded the first corner she came to, then pressed her back against the wall in a pool of shadow as her heart pounded.

  Norah was gone; the lights were on in the Academy; and there were a pair of guards at the door. All of which suggested to Mairah’s worried mind that both Norah and Princess Alysoon were in that building. Which could not be good.

  Years of sneaking around the darkened hallways of the Abbey of Khalpar had given Mairah confidence in her own powers of stealth, and after peeking around the corner and seeing the guards once again conversing—showing no sign that they were made wary by the sight of her—she plotted out a route that would take her to the window on the far side of the building without being seen.

  Moving quickly, but as silently as possible, she hurried around the block and approached the Academy from a side street, creeping forward until she was pressed up against the wall by the window. A quick and careful peek showed her exactly what she’d feared—Norah and Chanlix and Princess Alysoon were all in that room together. Which meant Norah was even now betraying Mairah, trying to sabotage her one chance at happiness.

  Belatedly remembering the Trapper spell Kailee had given her—she made sure to have it on her at all times lest someone discover it—Mairah pulled it from her pocket. Staying out of the light that spilled from the window, Mairah opened her Mindseye and activated the stolen Trapper spell. It was a small one—rumor had it that the Women’s Well version of the Trapper spell could be large enough to hide a whole building, but she only needed one big enough to hide her person. She had not had the chance to test it. It was all she could do not to gasp when she closed her Mindseye and realized she could no longer see herself, even when she put her hands up right in front of her face.

  Holding her breath, she stepped boldly in front of the lighted window to see Norah crying great big tears as Chanlix and Princess Alysoon looked on in obvious pity. Mairah could not hear their voices, at least not clearly, but she found when she pressed her ear up against the glass she could understand them.

  “…the right thing,” Lady Chanlix was saying as she rubbed Norah’s back. She was speaking in Parian, as Norah had made no effort whatsoever to learn Continental.

  Norah shook her head, covering her face with both hands as her knees seemed to buckle and she collapsed onto the nearest bench. Princess Alysoon and Lady Chanlix shared a look while Norah’s face was hidden. The look was full of significance and meaning, but Mairah had no idea what silent communication passed between them.

  “My sisters and I will burn for this,” Norah was sobbing, her words almost impossible to make out.

  “Nonsense,” Lady Chanlix said stoutly. “We won’t let that happen.” But once again she and Princess Alysoon shared a significant look. This time Mairah was fairly certain the message was that they both knew they could not protect Norah from whatever fate awaited her in Khalpar.

  Mairah was certain Norah was betraying her, despite knowing she and her followers would suffer unspeakably for her decision. A suspicion Norah confirmed moments later as she raised her tearstained face from her hands.

  “If she’s truly created a seer’s poison that would allow her to see how the Blessing was cast, then it must be destroyed,” she said. “The poison and all knowledge of its existence.”

  Mairah’s hands curled into fists even as terror rocked her. Norah was not only actively betraying her, she was suggesting Princess Alysoon and Chanlix kill her.

  “Mairahsol must not be allowed to leave Women’s Well,” Norah concluded, and even with the tears and the
sobs, even with the distance that separated them and the distortion of the window glass, Mairah could clearly see the flare of malice and hatred in the other woman’s eyes. She might tell herself she was trying to protect the Mother of All’s Blessing, but what she was really doing was getting her revenge on Mairah for every slight, large and small.

  She was willing to be tortured and burned to death—and condemn her fellow worshippers to the same fate—rather than let Mairah win at anything.

  “No, I suppose not,” Princess Alysoon agreed with what looked like a regretful sigh.

  And every traitorous dream of escape that had lit the long-dormant fires of hope in Mairah’s heart was snuffed out.

  * * *

  —

  As soon as the door closed behind Sister Norah, Alys turned to Chanlix and said, “What do you think?”

  Chanlix frowned, her eyes mirroring the troubled feeling in Alys’s soul. “I think that Sister Norah hates Mother Mairahsol more than words can express. Having seen them interact over the past weeks, I have to say I wouldn’t put it past Norah to make up a story like this if she thought it would lead to Mairahsol’s death. She’s never openly said so, but I have the distinct impression that Norah had hoped to become abbess herself and has never forgiven Mairahsol for supplanting her.”

  “If she’s making it up, she’s an excellent actress,” Alys said, remembering the abject terror in Norah’s eyes when the woman had recounted Mairahsol’s threats against the Mother of All worshippers in Khalpar’s Abbey. “I can’t imagine anyone wanting revenge so much that they would submit themselves to torture and death by fire to get it.”