From Ruins

by M. C. A. Hogarth

  The Lord of the Twelveworld was coming here. To accept her as his mistress. How could she possibly command him?

  Holding her goblet of tea-wine, the Queen asked, tentative, "Maia? Can you hear me?"

  A heartbeat. Another. "Lady?"

  "You said... you spent time on the Twelveworld Lord's flagship. I find I need to understand him better. Could you tell me what you know about him?"

  "Oh, could I," Maia replied.

  A child delivered her raiment and offered to help her don it, but she sent him away because its familiarity begged privacy while she struggled with her memories. The garb the harem females had draped her in had obviously been modeled on this far less cumbersome robe, and the jewels were the same: the chased silver rings for her fingers and toes, the delicate anklets and bracelets, the intricately carved armbands and tail bangles. Once again she found herself holding horn-rings, this time with dependent diamonds, scintillant with cold fire, and caps for her wing claws, which were no longer blunted; the Change had given them back their points.

  This outfit lacked the cruel chains that had bound all the pieces together, and no more would she thread a chain through the holes in the scalloped edges of her vanes. This clothing belonged to a female with power, and that it might look so similar, even to the white and silver fabric, and the gossamer pierced with pearls and diamonds....

  The Queen covered her face and allowed herself a single moment of pain, or was it joy? That she had come so far, so very far that she was all the way around and yet in a completely different place.

  Then she dressed. The robes. The bracelets and anklets and all the silver rings. The horn dangles and tail ornaments. The wing claw caps she left for last, rolling them between her fingers before deciding to use them. She had not accomplished all that she had through violence, or the threat of it. Her survival was proof that sometimes endurance trumped cruelty and abuse. She would not pretend to believe in violence now.

  The only thing she missed was her collar. But best perhaps she appear before the Twelveworld Lord without one, lest he misinterpret it.

  When she arrived to the receiving room the Keeper had offered for her use, she found the Chatcaavan she'd sent for already present, which satisfied her. As she seated herself on the padded bench and the bellringers took their positions on either side of her, she studied him and found him just as reported: a castrate with gentle eyes, widened now with anxiety, wearing the livery of the Twelveworld. Though not all cruelty left marks, she saw no obvious sign of maltreatment. He was afraid but not cowed, and his body was hale.

  He obviously wanted to ask her why he'd been summoned, but he was too well-trained to speak. A castrate was very nearly the lowest kind of servant.

  The Keeper and the Senior Ranger entered next, and behind them strode the Twelveworld Lord. From Maia's report, the Lord knew her identity, but he was not allowing that knowledge to shame him. Or so she thought until she met his eyes.

  "The Lord of the Twelveworld, Holy One," the Senior Ranger said. "As you commanded."

  "Thank you," the Queen said. "You may go, and the Keeper also."

  That surprised them, but they did not argue. They bowed, wings dipped, and departed, leaving her with two children, the Twelveworld Lord, and his lover.

  "My Queen, may I speak?"

  "You already do," the Queen said. "And without permission. And to call me Queen, at that. I was your Queen when you delivered me to pirates, Lord of the Twelveworld, but that did not weigh much with you."

  To his credit he flinched. Also to his credit, he didn't speak again. That surprised her, that he interpreted correctly that she'd been serious about him needing leave to do so.

  "The mission of the Twelveworld Lord was to find the Breath of the Living Air," the Queen continued. "A winged female capable of the Change. And yet you thought of me as chattel. I find it difficult to understand this paradox. Explain, please."

  The castrate was looking at his lover with a slight frown, and the Twelveworld Lord, the Queen judged, was quite aware of it. That male said, "My Queen, I always assumed the Breath would have to come from the Empire's fringes. The culture in the more heavily populated areas... it was crushing. It didn't produce females capable of autonomy. I had never seen, nor could imagine, any female surviving it to become a person of any will or courage."

  "And yet, you asked for me," the Queen said. "When the Usurper stole the throne and Second decided to dispose of me. They gave me to you because they said you'd long desired me." The skin around his nostrils and eyes had flushed. She noted it and said, "But then, you appear to like your lovers winged."

  "My Queen-," the Twelveworld Lord began, embarrassed enough to interrupt.

  "Is that why you sold me to our enemies?" the Queen said. "You found me attractive when I had wings, but what Second delivered to you was a mutilated creature. One you couldn't bear to look at, so you put me in a cell where you need not see me, and at the first opportunity you sent me away."

  "My lord?" the castrate whispered, quivering. "Did... did you do these things?"

  "They were our allies!" the Twelveworld Lord said to her.

  "They were thieves and murderers," the Queen replied. "A lawless rabble you deluded yourself into believing you controlled. Do you know how hard it was for one alien female to convince them to turn on us instead of the targets you designated? Do I need to tell you? Because they did turn on us, and you have seen the results."

  The castrate had drawn apart now, his wings trembling hard enough to tap at the edges. The Twelveworld Lord lifted a hand toward him. "Attendant..."

  Before the castrate could speak, the Queen drew his attention back. Both their attentions. "You wanted war with the aliens so you could gather them up like so many jewels for your harem. Because collecting aliens and spending yourself in other bodies is how you entertained yourself while waiting for the Breath. By all accounts, you are a good manager of your estate. The Keeper and the Senior Ranger tell me that the Twelveworld prospers. That you maintain the security of the sector, ensure healthy trade, attend to disasters and the needs of your peoples." The praise stopped them both short. "All people are flawed, Lord of the Twelveworld. You were born a male of the Chatcaava, one with power and the means to defend that power from those who would take it from you. That you lack virtues you have had no chance to develop is not a failing." She paused. "It is not a failing... yet. Because the worlds have changed, and the Empire you once lived in is gone. In this new empire, females are not chattel. Aliens are not slaves. You cannot dismiss their suffering or assume they exist to please you. I tell you this because I have some hope of you." She looked at the Attendant. "Come."

  The Attendant's head jerked up. He glanced once at the Twelveworld Lord, agonized, then walked to her, every step dragging. When at last he stopped before her bench, the Queen said, "You love him."

  If it was possible for him to pale further, he did. The skin around his eyes was bloodless. "M-m-mistress, I... you... it is not...."

  "Said, I know. We say we do not love, but we do. And you love him."

  The Attendant's whine was harrowing. To answer would be to condemn someone: himself, his lord, their society. But she had watched the scenes Maia had played for her, and she sympathized with the Attendant's pain. She knew the contortions of a heart forced to seek sustenance wherever it might, greedily clinging to what beauties and comforts it found. If what these two had was real...

  "Mistress," the Attendant said. "I would die for him."

  The Twelveworld Lord's eyes closed, head sagging.

  "You trust him."

  "Yes, Mistress."

  "Even knowing what he's done to me?"

  The castrate shuddered. "I cannot conceive the trials and agonies you've suffered, Mistress. That my lord should have perpetrated them on your helpless person is staggering to me. But... you sound almost as if you forgive him."

  "I don't," the Queen said. "But I will not condemn him either. Not yet. In the empire he lived in, what he
did to me was no crime, and punishing him for it is a whimsical act. But he knows now that things have changed. And I do not believe him to be a stupid male. If he conducts himself with honor as honor is now accounted, I will not only trust him, he will remain my deputy here."

  The Twelveworld Lord gasped in.

  "You... you would do that?" the Attendant whispered. "But why?"

  "Because he loves you," the Queen said. "And love is rare among us. Love between a male and one so far from him in estate?" She canted her head, her hair sliding down the silk over her shoulder. "He treats you well."

  The castrate's eyes softened. "He is all that is kindness."

  She inclined her head. "Wait outside."

  After the Attendant had departed, she leaned back on her bench, folding her hands on her lap, and waited. She was pleased by the Twelveworld Lord's silence. "You do learn, I see."

  "Mistress," the Twelveworld Lord said. "To fail to do so is to die."

  "Yes. You know what I am asking of you?"

  "Yes, my Queen."

  "Are you capable of it?"

  The Lord of the Twelveworld quivered once. "I would like to find out."

  "So would I."

  "This sensation," he said. "It is like the sensation when I touch the Attendant, and he touches me. There's something true in it, and it whispers like the Living Air."

  "What you feel is grace, the grace of mercy," the Queen said. "I have received it so infrequently in my life, Twelveworld Lord. But I am not alone. The Chatcaava are dying for want of mercy."

  "And love," he murmured.

  "That also."

  He stared at her, awed. "I don't know how you can trust me."

  "I trust you by trying it." She smiled slightly. "And by surrounding myself with those who will punish you horribly if you betray me."

  Startled, the Twelveworld Lord laughed. "Ah! Yes." Sobering, "You learned that lesson well."

  "So do we all who live here. But I would like a better way, and so would the Emperor to whom you will now swear your loyalty."

  "Are you loyal to him?" he asked.

  "He is my Emperor," the Queen said, quiet. "And I love him."

  "Then I will pledge to him, because I am your servant, Mistress. Your causes are now my causes." The Twelveworld Lord bowed, so low she could see the bottoms of his wings as he dipped them forward.

  "Rise." As he stood, she said, "You have served me poorly, and that lies between us still. But the past remains fixed as we move into the future. There will be many opportunities for you to redress that wrong."

  "Tell me, Mistress, how I may begin."

  "The throneworld," she said. "We go there, and bring all the fleet that can be spared from pirate-chasing. There we will give our strength to the Emperor to use as he sees fit, to secure the realm. I will travel on your flagship with my aliens. Their vessel, if it cannot be repaired, will be transported in one of your bays."

  "It shall be done, Mistress."

  "As soon as possible," she added, watching him.

  "I will send the call to muster now," he said. "And bring the Chief Ranger with me to the flagship to report to you on my activities."

  Not poorly done, she thought, particularly since he didn't know that the Queen had a spy of her own. She didn't trust him, and he knew it. Enormous changes had grown from smaller seeds. "Very well. Tell me when we are ready for departure."

  "Within three days at the latest," the Twelveworld Lord said.

  She nodded. "You are dismissed, my servant."

  He bowed again and headed for the door, where he stopped. "Mistress?"

  She lifted her head.

  "Thank you. For not poisoning my lover against me."

  "I am no destroyer," the Queen said. "There is power in growth and life, my servant, that we have long denied."

  He touched his hand to his breast and dipped his head low.

  After he left, the Queen sent the children away, but didn't move from her bench. She savored the silence in the receiving room. When she felt ready, she said, "Maia?"

  "Here, my lady."

  "You heard?"

  "Yes."

  The Queen nodded. "Tell my sister we are going home."

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Jahir woke.

  Truly woke, as if the events of the past weeks had never happened, had been some fever dream from which he'd finally risen. If he had recognized the room around him, he might have believed it. But no Alliance Medplex looked like this. He'd been in enough of them to know. Cautiously he rose to an elbow, where no force-field repelled him. From there, sitting up was only a little more effort, and it was a revelation to be capable of it without aid. He touched his face and found smooth skin; held his wrists out and no frays marked where the shackles had held him for so many days on the Usurper's wall. He did grimace at the sight of his abdomen. There was not a person who loved him who would not instantly chastise him for his physical state and insist he eat.

  That he wasn't hungry was also astonishing. Astonishing, and welcome.

  He expected physical weakness, and his legs did tremble when he slid off the bed, but he felt better than he had in a very long time. He found clothing folded on the table beside the wall, Alliance scrubs in a size long enough to fit him, so he dressed and tried walking out of his room to see what would happen next.

  The hall his room opened onto led to a larger chamber, with five tanks full of green liquid, each holding a single Chatcaavan. Before he could study the tableau further, three people at the end of the room looked up. The Chatcaavan of the trio said, "Oh good, you're awake. We could use the help."

  The second individual was a Seersa who handed his tablet to his companion, a human woman. "Let's make sure he's not going to fall down first, shall we? Here, Andrea, if you would." Joining Jahir, he looked up at him and said, "Why don't we have a talk over my examination tools."

  "That sounds wonderful," Jahir answered honestly.

  The Seersa scooped up a kit and pointed to a door on the other end of the room. "That way. I'm Healer Dellen Crosby," the Seersa said as they entered another, smaller room. "Andrea and I stayed behind to make sure the Chatcaavan medical team had a touchstone in our biology. Have a seat, there. How are you feeling?"

  "Better. Very much so."

  "Not hard given what you went through." Crosby flipped open the kit. "I'm going to check your vitals. Consent, yes, no?"

  "Rather a little late for that," Jahir observed, smiling. "But yes, please. Proceed."

  "The Surgeon was adamant about not letting you die," Crosby said. "And the Chatcaava haven't signed any treaties with the Eldritch respecting your boundaries, so he took it out of everyone's hands when he dumped you in that regenerative tank." The Seersa held a wand over Jahir's chest, watching the results scroll down his tablet. "Which was for the best, because you were nearly dead when we got here."

  Jahir stilled his quiver before it could travel. "Yes. I imagine so. The roquelaure... you removed it?"

  "As soon as I got here and found out what happened to you." The Seersa shook his head. "Fleet Central's going to have conniptions when it finds out two people managed to share a roquelaure, no matter how poorly." He set the wand aside. "You're in fine health for someone recovering from trauma. I wouldn't go mountain climbing for a week or two, but there's no reason you can't do normal activities."

  "Including serving as healer-assist?" Jahir asked, cautious. The world had become so normal again that using his talent to discern anything as innocuous as the Seersa's aura felt... wrong.

  "We've got incoming casualties," the Seersa agreed. "A lot of them. Some are going to end up in the city hospitals, but the important ones are going to ship here where they'll be under the Emperor's eye. And the Surgeon's."

  "What... happened?" Jahir asked. "The last thing I understood was that there was fighting in the palace." His heart tightened in his chest. "My cousin...?"

  "Gone, I'm afraid," Crosby said. "Back to the Alliance with the rest of my team t
o tell them the Emperor's bringing his ships to help them as soon as he knows how many he has left." The Seersa smiled, lopsided. "The Ambassador spent a lot of time sitting in front of your tank. He told us to take good care of you, and tell you he'd see you soon."

  From Imthereli that was as much command that Jahir live as promise of their reunion. Jahir allowed himself the luxury of a small, private smile before considering the pattern. "So, the Emperor has retaken the throneworld."

  "With effort," Crosby agreed, sitting back with his arms behind his head and legs crossed. "Not this part, at the palace... he and the Ambassador went through the opposition like a buzzsaw through paper. They had to vaporize the interior of some of the halls to get them clean again. But the rest of the planet started having riots, which is where the Emperor had most of his work."

  "And not done yet," the Surgeon said from the door. "The upheaval we are experiencing will not be soothed in a day. Good afternoon, Voice, Silence, and Healer."

  Jahir smiled at the Surgeon, eyes bright. "Pick one, alet."

  "I will use your name, then, as I am told names have more meaning to you." The Surgeon set a foot on one of the stools and leaned on it. "It is good to see you lucid, Jahir Seni Galare."

  "Just Jahir is fine. Thank you. For... everything."

  The Surgeon made a face. "I did as good a job maintaining your health as I could, granted the limitations of ignorance and paranoid tyrants barring my visits. Even so, I almost failed. Thank you for not dying."

  "I did my best."

  "Your best was good enough," Crosby said, amused. He let his arms drop. "While the Emperor was busy here, his fleet was up killing the ships loyal to the Usurper. There were a lot more of them than expected, which is where the ‘incoming casualties' part comes in. Once we've dealt with that and the Emperor has a chance to count the survivors, he's going spinward to help the Alliance with their Chatcaavan problem."