by Rey Balor
“Escort them to their quarters, Claymore,” the Queen of the Summer Isles commanded.
“The shield’s duty is only to—” The Queen of the Pillared Lands’ words cut off as the Queen of the Summer Isles removed Claymore’s arming-sword from its sheath with both hands. The blade looked wrong in her delicate grip. The only training the woman had acquired was basic defense by the Aegis years prior, but the Queen didn’t need extensive training to cross a few feet to the throne. She didn’t need extensive training to swing the blade in a wide arc, connecting with the other Queen’s leg. The sound of metal hitting bone hung in the air for a loud, unending second, but it was pierced by the Queen of the Pillared Lands’ screams. Always, she had been the one to do what had to be done, what the others would not even consider; now, she felt the same flash of pain she had given to so many others.
The Queen of Stone stumbled back from the rush of so much blood, and the defiance in her faded. Had Claymore not been clinging to the tattered remnants of their scripture which so praised neutrality, they would have felt dark satisfaction as she backed into her throne. From servant to something greater — was that not what the Queen had promised? Was it not what Claymore should want?
“Now then, if they try to run, do rid them of their legs, my darling,” the Queen of the Summer Isles said to Claymore. “We might be strangers to Death, but we are intimate with pain.” She returned the sword, wrinkling her nose in distaste at the crimson staining it. The brilliant red shade was smeared across the floor, but it was the scent that nearly caused those around to gag. It was stronger than iron and far more wretched than any verbal threat she could have made. “I would much prefer they live out their time in harmony, but should they try such an act again, desperate measures must be taken.”
“If it is what must be done,” Claymore nodded. They returned Oblivion to its sheath, but the gesture was utterly surreal. The other Aegis carried similar expressions on their faces, but they did not move to help either the captain or the Queens. The watching was almost worse, but knowing they could not just stand there, Claymore snapped the shields to attention and gestured to the Queens. “Take them to Machina’s old prison tower — and bind the Queen’s wound. Now, or you shall join them.”
The Aegis scrambled to obey, none looking directly at Claymore. Maul picked up the Queen of the Pillared Lands, murmuring comforts as he carried her out. Her cries had faded to whimpers, but it was no easier to hear. Falchion gripped lightly onto the Queen of the Range, and the pair followed behind, as if in a dream. Beneath her veil, it was clear the Queen of the Vanguard had tears falling down her cheeks, and Shishpar helped her to her feet with a matching expression. Glaive hovered nearby, uncertain what her job was.
It was the Queen of Stone whom worried Claymore. She had fallen back onto her throne, and when Glaive tried to usher her quietly away, she made no attempts to move. Her head had fallen forward into her hands, but she showed no other signs of distress.
“For your efforts, I give you that which I promised.” The Queen of the Summer Isles stood on her tiptoes to reach Claymore’s ear, ignoring the scene unfolding behind her. She was so close to what she had promised, and the flush of victory had turned her cheeks pink and the hazel of her eyes bright with happiness. “My name is Alycia Cromwell, and I am the rose of the world.”
She was the flower one craved to smell, but it was only upon closer inspection that they realized she was a poisonous plant to sniff — and by such a point, it had proven too late. She was theirs, and they were hers. Rose of the world, indeed. The power of the name flooded Claymore, and suddenly, they were no longer on uneven footing with the woman; the pair were equals, and the captain had made their choice.
“What changed, Isles?” They had almost forgotten that the Queen of Stone remained, and the sorrow on her face shone brightly as she lifted her head once more. “Revolution lives in my veins. I had hoped to overcome it when I became Queen, yet it infected you and the captain somehow. For that, I’m sorry. Listen to me when I say you’ll only bring suffering. The end of something is tumultuous, even if we forget that in history. Just look to the stars, and you’ll see it.” With a flash, something appeared in the Queen of Stone — purpose, gleamed through the face of her pain. She reached into her boot and pulled out a small hunting dagger and lunged forward toward the other Queen.
Claymore expected strength from how often the woman took hunting trips; they expected speed from how successful such trips usually were. What they had not expected was the strategy behind the Queen’s attack. It was not a blind fit of passion, but neither was it the same attack she would deliver onto an animal. It carried the careful precision of a warrior. Claymore did not have time to parry. They were forced to step between the two women, and the small blade pierced just below their ribcage.
Gripping hold of the woman’s wrist, they twisted her arm until the loud pop signified her shoulder had ripped out of place. To their surprise, the Queen only offered a grunt and punched them with her other hand. The captain stumbled back, but they did not yet feel the full pain of their injuries as adrenaline pumped through them as sweet and thick as honey. Instead, they whispered a short prayer, “Hand of devotion, spirit of Death, do you accept this offering?”
They did not pull out Oblivion for defense. It was the metallic gleam of their gun that they reached for, and the loud BANG that followed as they shot off a bullet created a new symphony of sounds — a whisper of cloth as the Queen of Stone tried to jerk out of the way, a gasp as a red flower blossomed on her shoulder instead of her skull,67 the sounds of Alycia rushing forward,68 the weight of the gun falling to the floor. Death smiled at them, grateful for the sacrifice it had been offered.
Chapter 26: The Wilds
“Perception is a prison.”
Death’s Lament, 31.9
ARISTA:
Illias Rivers told them he was the son of King, come to help mend their bridges. The Aegis dragged him into the prison tower without returning a word.
He felt naked, stripped down to his bones and bared for the Aegis to mock. None of the five Queens came to see him personally, of course; they were far too busy to humor a wolfling boy pretending to be a prince.69 Every now and then, a guard would travel up the stairs to slip food into his cell, and he knew they did not disbelieve him enough to starve him. They simply wanted his spirit broken when negotiations came, and he was certain they would come. Why else keep him alive?
On the first day, he tried calling out, tried to escape, and tried to overcome one of the guards who brought food. Nothing seemed to work. He settled for pacing the length of the small cell, leaving prints on the dirty concrete. On the curved back wall, there were dozens of dashes from the last person who had stayed, and he traced his hand over each one of them. The only other things in the space were a dusty, torn mattress and a chamber pot. He went over every corner, just to be sure.
On the second day, he heard the individual in the cell beside him wake up abruptly, and having thought he was alone, he moved closer to the bars in an attempt to see. Darkness met him, not even interrupted by the flicker of a torch, but he squinted all the same and reached his hand out of his cell.
“You alright over there?” he tried, but there was no response to his question. Whoever was beside him simply rolled over and ignored the world.
They were content to waste away, and he was not. On the third day, he heard movement once more, and he called out a greeting.
“I’m Roam.”
Nothing.
“Is it normal for diplomats to be treated with cells? And why would they build the damn place in the center of their castle? Do you think they’re proud of all those they’ve got locked up?” Still, there remained no answer — only a slight movement of cloth to signify the barest threads of life. “There’s a way out of here. Aye, there’s always a way out. Might not be how I want, but I’ve got to talk to ‘em. Convince ‘em not to be idiots. Yeah, yeah… It’ll still work out.”
The k
nowledge that another human was beside him made the claustrophobia of the prison lessen, if only slightly, and out of boredom, he spoke to them throughout the day. He told them about what brought him to the Citadel, about Lye and Pan and the others who had so trusted the Queen, and about how he didn’t understand what was going on, no matter what he pretended.
“I don’t blame those guards — the ones who thought they were helping me. Not really,” he said. “They put their faith in me and their rulers. Should have worked out just fine. They don’t know much better than that… Fools, yes, but not evil. I wonder if they know I’m here now. I wonder if it’d matter one way or another.”
There was no response, but he hadn’t expected one.
On the fourth day, he offered them his food, sliding the plate to their cell’s general direction. Whether they accepted or not, he could not be certain, but within the next few hours, the plate was moved. The bread and grapes were gone. So far as he was aware, he was the only prisoner given regular meals, but he didn’t mind passing it along. He was familiar with a hungry belly.70
That night, he laid with his back against the hard ground and with his palms pressed against his eyes to keep out the image of the walls closing in around him. His breathing was shallow, and he hated it. He hated this cell, this city, and these Queens. Oh, he put on a good show, but put windowless walls around him and he could feel his edges cracking. He swore the cell was getting smaller, and there was heat on the back of his neck as he tried to ignore it. In an effort to calm himself, he started talking to the quiet prisoner again.
He talked and talked, and then, he made a mistake.
“One way or another, I refuse to do things their way — to die or live by their permission alone.” His hands pressed down harder. “You hear me? I’m Illias Rivers, son of King and Mata. They won’t win me.”
He told them his name.
A cackle answered him, the first response he had heard. He sat up in his spot, blinking into the emptiness of the air around him. The laughter continued for a moment, and he could hear them opening their mouth in preparation to speak — ah, a woman. Both her cackle and her breath were distinctly feminine. Unable to help himself, he leaned forward.
“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” she began, and her voice was as raspy as her laugh had been. “Of all the fuckers the Queens coulda stuck me beside, they put me next to a boy sharin’ the name o’ my mate. Did dear ol’ Da call you that in honor o’ some dead legend with the promise you’d be one too? Legends always die, boy, and they leave those o’ us who tell the stories behind to mourn alone — did Da mention that part? Fuckin’ shit, this is a new low, even for the ole Queens.”
Illias found himself completely silent for perhaps the first time in his life.
“You been chatterin’ away for damn near a week, and suddenly, you’re feelin’ shy? Oo, who’s this lady, claimin’ she’s the mate o’ a man who’s been dead longer than not? You gave me your name, and I give you mine. Ain’t how this works?” She laughed again, and Illias couldn’t decide if he was angry, appalled, or intrigued. “Caliana Sekhon. I don’t get a name in ‘is legend — not a trueborn name and sure not a known one either.”
“…Didn’t you die with him?”
“Aye, a piece o’ me did, but a piece o’ me was too damn stubborn to cut my life short for a fool like ‘im. Machina’s a better name for me now, not Caliana. I’m back to doin’ what I did before he ever found me. Back to the life of the Citadel’s engineer.” He strained to hear the rest. “Think ‘e’d be proud o’ me? I couldn’t escape, so I might as well do what he never could — helpin’ destroy the Citadel, one way or another.”
It was the sweetest news Illias had heard.
“So you fight for freedom then?” he asked.
“I fight for my goddamn life, and that’s it. That’s what Illias couldn’t understand, and it looks like you’re followin’ in his footsteps there. You know what his trueborn name was? Adan Law — nothing remarkable about that, aye? But he takes the name o’ the ship he stole, ‘e flies to Death willingly, and ‘e’s a legend. A fuckin’ legend. You know who spread his tale? Me. You know who spent the past half century rotting because of it? Me. He went up in the air, and I passed the news along to anyone I could find. That’s how the Queens found me so easily. They found me cryin’ for him on the ground. Never saw a day of freedom alone. That fair to you?”
He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He was dizzy. Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe he would be sick. Finally, he managed to croak, “You say he was your mate. You made that choice. It might not be fair what happened, but you live with the consequences of your mate’s choices, good or bad, just as they live with yours. Do you think he regretted choosing you when you stayed behind?”
She let out a snort. “I don’t care what he felt. I was happy on earth. He wanted more. Oh yes, I know, little wolfling. Us mates accept our partner’s crimes and victories and take both as our own. But I’m not a true Erie-folk. I’ve only ever had the illusion of choice, so I’m not a chained-folk neither. I’m just damn tired.”
“I don’t believe you,” Illias decided. With hands curled around the bars of his cell, he had stopped looking in the direction of her voice. He looked beyond it, trying to see past the walls to where the old Erie-folk king had taken the ship that bore his name. He looked past her, trying to understand why she would choose a cage over death. Death for a good cause was the purest form. “The mate of a man like that would have to be strong, and all I’m hearing when you speak is the voice of a coward. No, I don’t believe you one bit.”
“You sound like a fuckin’ child. Things ain’t so black and white.”
It was his turn to fall silent, ignoring her as she had him. If what she said was true, there was no telling what information she had given the Queens about the Erie-folk — maybe everything, maybe nothing at all. For one interested only in survival, there was no knowing who she would sell out if it meant she might live to see another day. Or… Or she was lying. If what she said wasn’t true, then he had no idea who she was — nor why it was she said these things. There was a longing in her story for something, but he didn’t know what. He was lost, but he was beginning to think he believed a part of her. The mate of a King sat beside him, and all the Queens in the world wouldn’t be able to convince him that it was anything less than fate. It meant something; it had to.
It was several hours until he spoke again. “How were you captured?”
She laughed again, and for a few minutes, he wasn’t sure if she would answer or not. “Escapin’ the Citadel’s reach is easier said than done. The only way my Illias managed was on a damn ship. Think I could get away with bein’ linked to ‘im on foot alone? Naw, I was captured because that’s what the Queens are good at — cagin’ the world.71 Don’t matter. This cell’s nicer than my last. I think I’m gettin’ used to it. Why the fuck does it matter now?”
“I wanted to know if you were serious about what you said. You mean to destroy the Citadel?”
“Aye, and I’m not alone,” she returned, and he could almost hear the grin in her voice. “I’m not destroyin’ the Citadel itself, only its way of life. You know ‘ow the saying goes: so long as the walls o’ the place hold, the Old Ways remain alive. Some people are tired o’ ‘em. I expect I’ll get released in a few days’ time. They’ll think they’ve beaten the fight out o’ me, and maybe they’ll be right, but I’m doin’ it for my own reasons.”
“What’s that?”
“Survival, Illias Rivers. Survival’s all I’ve got left.”
The next day, her words proved true: they came for the woman and took her away.
SPICA:
In Olena’s dreams, a warning bell sounded. Even in the dark recesses of where her mind played, her mood spiraled into some place she had never been. Mustiness, cold cement, the gleam of a hammer. Walls caving in, crushing her. Loneliness and blood, blood, blood. When she clawed her way free of such violent images, she awoke with a start. A
faint sheen of sweat trailed down her forehead. Dark hair spilled around her, and she quickly secured it once more. The jingle of her steel bangles comforted her. She needed some semblance to hold her to the earth, but when she reached for the dagger in her boot, it seemed to be coated in blood for a moment.
No scream fell from her; she simply stared as she tried to decipher what her eyes saw, and gradually, the red vanished. Moonlight was the culprit, giving the metal a gleam it did not have in daylight.
Although it was Hops’s turn to guard, a slight snore came from where he sat, and his chin rested almost against his chest. A flash of anger rushed through Olena, but when she rose to kick him awake, Ranger shushed her and waved her back down.
“I swear, if I have to live with him glaring at me another minute, I might rip his eyes out. Just let him sleep.” Ranger was curled onto the ground, legs pulled to her chest as if she could hold herself together. Darkness had turned her into something small, but it was an illusion not meant to last. Even without the sun, Olena could see the mad gleam that radiated so clearly from her. “I was thinking how best to kill you. Would you prefer decapitation or a live burial? There’s some respect in that last one. I mean, you have to respect someone who carries the strength to be buried alive. I shudder at the very thought! Granted, that would require a bit of creativity on my part, but I have nothing else to live for, am I right or am I right?”
Olena heard the threats and felt only mild exasperation toward them. At this point, she would expect nothing less of the strange woman, and she carried some fantasies of her own — her favorite being that she left Ranger for the real wolves. “We reach the Citadel tomorrow. Do you imagine I’ll be dead by then? You still owe me the secrets and stories you promised, and no matter how clever you think you are, girl, you aren’t getting out of this promise.”
