by Janeal Falor
What better way to ease myself out of life than with the famous drink? I could kill myself a million ways, but this way would be brave. The way all women are supposed to try. No more waiting for death to find me. I'm coming to it.
Chapter 2
I push my way through those moving toward the palace until I'm almost at a run. The white of the building blurs together in a mesh of colors as I rush inside. People tumble around. Elbows are thrown. Legs try to tangle me.
Nothing can stop me from getting to my goal.
I dart through the huge open doors, past the guards, and to the first chamber I come to. It's a huge room, with mirrors for walls. The floor is a gleaming oak with numerous people treading on it. There are still others about, but the crowd isn't as thick.
Up ahead, I see a chalice up on a pedestal, surrounded by a bunch of girls, women, and one man. That's my destination.
A flicker of doubt goes through me. Do I really want this? I push it aside. Of course I do. I've never been so sure of anything before.
As I make my way to the back of the group of girls, the man says, “I am Ranen, the Head Advisor of the late queen. I'm in charge of the Mortum Tura this day. We will begin shortly.” His voice is reedy, and he has a tasseled hat and well-rounded body. His dark eyes take in those gathered but glaze right over me. He’s the type of man that thinks he's above anyone else by the way he holds himself and ignores me.
I push my way forward. I haven’t drawn attention to myself like this before. I was always a whisper, instead of a shout. But now I have to shout if I'm to get the drink. What's more, I won't wait.
I need it now.
Some of the girls glare as I move past them. Some look relieved, while others try to bar my way. Much stronger than them, I shove my way through. When I get to the front of the group, where Ranen is standing next to a dais, I yell, “I will take the Mortum Tura.”
Ranen sends a thick glare at me. He opens his mouth to speak, but I ignore him. Nothing will stop me. Not this man. Not all the pristine, well-dressed girls around me. Not my own fears.
I take a step up. The dark stone pedestal is etched with the names of those who came before me and failed. I will soon join them.
With a huff, Ranen says, “Fine. Drink.”
And then it's up to me.
One taste—that's all that's between me and death.
Failing to become queen now means I’ll never fail again. Which is what I want. It gives me some comfort, albeit the coldest kind. The crowd around me watches eagerly, hungry for my death, yet hoping for my life. Hoping for the next Queen. There are many of them in the grand hall of the palace. Enough to almost fill the entire room. Despite their number, those gathered are silent. Everyone's waiting to see what happens.
They’ve been without a queen since the last one died a month ago. She reigned for almost five years, and her death was a mysterious one to the general public. The palace hasn't released a reason for it.
Typical. Queens' lives are often threatened by one force or another. Another reason not to become a royal, though I don’t need more.
My choice is to die.
The anticipation of having a new, long overdue ruler doesn't diminish the crowd's excitement. The prospect is not nearly as entertaining as that of my agonizing death—the slow, torturous kind.
Why am I picking this again?
Right—because even a slow, torturous death is better than letting Daros have me. Better than living life as a ghost, alone and cold.
For a few long moments, the world cares about what I'm doing, and then it will be over. I'll have gone out trying to fulfill a duty all females have been asked to do but few try, because of the fear of death. We are free to choose whether to drink or not, despite being asked.
If I had a name, it’d soon be etched into the stone pillar holding the chalice of death or I could be given full control over a country. Things have been like this as far into history as I know. When one queen dies, another is found through the Mortum Tura, to take her place. Many die, but one lives and becomes our new ruler.
And now it's my turn for one or the other.
Either way, I will be remembered.
“It's time,” Ranen says, the tassel of his hat swinging in rhythm with his irritation. Past time, he means. He doesn't want me to try; urchins off the street shouldn't dirty the chalice with their touch. They shouldn't try for the Mortum Tura. Of course, he has no choice but to let me. All unmarried women have the choice—even dirty ones.
In my defense, I would have cleaned myself, had I realized what I was doing.
I grasp the pewter stem. This is for the best. I'm done with life, and there's no better way to go out, despite the fact it’s painful.
Only thing is I'm having second thoughts. Not about death, but about torture. How bad is it going to hurt? I'm used to pain, but there are quick, painless ways to die. I know many. Why'd I have to pick this one?
They say the last girl to try to become Queen screamed for a full day before she finally gave in to the next life.
It’s not exactly the end I have planned for myself, but I should have thought of that before I came before this crowd. I won't be a coward and back out now.
Death, I'm coming.
I press the cup to my lips and swallow the maroon liquid. It's sweet, like the pomegranate seeds dipped in chocolate I once stole when I was a child.
Who knew death would be such a treat?
Trying to be as graceful as I can in my last moments, I set the chalice back on its pedestal. The pain will be coming soon, and the cup will refill itself, readying for its next victim—the next to try and claim the throne. Not that I ever wanted the throne; having everyone watching me is enough. And I don't like it as much as I thought I would.
The people’s eyes are black with hunger for entertainment of the cruelest kind. The girl that survives the Mortum Tura to become queen will have a trial getting such people to follow her rule. Or maybe they'll be so eager for leadership, they’ll drop whatever they’re doing to worship her.
I will never know, as I won't be around.
Is that a pricking in the back of my throat? Is it the start of my drawn-out death? Hurting would be feeling something, which is better than the hollow ache eating away inside me.
But no, it's a tickle in my throat. Nothing else happens. No hurting. No crumbling to the floor. No blood pooling out of me. No screaming.
I only want torture.
Pain.
Release.
Perhaps it hasn't been long enough?
When I glance at the plump Ranen, my thoughts change. He widens his eyes with each passing second, as if he can't believe what he's seeing before him. The crowd's gaze has changed from hunger to awe. First one man kneels, pressing his face to the wooden floor. Then another. And another. Soon, everyone is on the ground. Even Ranen.
A mirror on the far wall shows me why they hold me in such awe.
I am glowing.
Golden and bright, my entire being radiates magnificence. They think me a goddess.
But I am not.
I'm just an assassin, ready for death.
Chapter 3
The crowd stays prostrate before me for a time that's hard to fathom. The only sound I know is the drip, drip, dripping in my head. I don't know what it is, but it's the most determined thing that's ever been in my life. I’m determined to go back to seconds ago, when I thought this was still a good idea, and change my mind. Before I survived the Mortum Tura.
What am I to do with these people? I can't rule over them.
I cannot be Queen of Valcora.
This can't be happening.
The stunned silence creeps over me like fog stealing through the night air. How does a death wish, a guaranteed death sentence, turn me into the ruler of a nation?
I should have picked another way to die.
Still the people remain prostrate before a girl who moments ago was only entertainment. And before that? Nothing worth remem
bering.
But I do remember. The harshness remains at the forefront of my thoughts. If the people knew, they’d have even less of a reason to bow before me. I've been trodden on my whole life, Daros demanding whatever he wanted of me. That can't change now, just because of the Mortum Tura.
Why do they remain bowed? Why don't they get up?
It dawns on me I haven't given them permission to rise. Of all things, they’re waiting for me. This doesn't seem possible.
“Get up.” I don’t know what other words to use, though those two feel clumsy and wrong for this purpose of commanding the people.
As one, the people do so, but they do not disperse. They stare at me as if waiting for another command.
What am I supposed to do? I know nothing but stealing and stabbing. And poisoning. And sword fighting. Fine—I know more than I like to give myself credit for, but I know nothing of such things as leading a people.
I’ve no one to go after now. I’m the one who wants death.
I want them gone. I want to be out of the light. Out of their lives. “You can all leave,” I say, silently pleading they do so.
Not one of them moves. Their gazes stay riveted on me, until finally those farthest from me begin to trickle away like a stream that babbles until it rushes away. Though unlike with a stream, there are too many backward glances.
I give nothing away.
I’m expressionless.
Emotionless.
Empty.
When everyone’s left except Ranen and a few men and women around him, Ranen says, “Forgive us for not obeying.” Despite his words, his voice tells me he’s used to being the boss and expects to remain so. “We would like to guide you through your new role and help you understand what to do next.”
Whether I should be relieved or not remains a mystery. I think not. He disliked me the moment I declared I was going to try the Mortum Tura. Why would my becoming the queen change that? Besides, I distrust his shifty eyes.
Queen. That's what I am now.
It doesn't seem real.
I realize he’s still waiting on me for an answer. “Go ahead.”
He bows his head. “If Your Majesty would follow me.”
I grit my teeth over the honorific. Ranen leads me out of the chalice room and through a blank hall. Even the floor is oddly white, though at the next corridor we reach rugs are on the floor, plusher than any I've ever felt before. There are pictures on the wall—lovely landscapes of Valcora that barely hold my interest. The only beauty I see is cold. Calculating. The steep slope of the mountains around us trying to keep us in. To close us off from the rest of the world. Keeping us cut off when the famine abounds.
“It would be best if you came to me when you need something,” he says. “In fact, it would be even better if you left everything up to me. I've been taking care of this country since our last queen died, and I know how to run it properly.”
I have a feeling I'm going to dislike this guy more than I already do. I don’t care about running a country, but I do care about his attitude. I've had enough of Daros in my life; I don't need another like him.
The palace is ornate, filled with drapes of highest quality and pictures of nobility. The hallway is airy and bright, with lots of windows and a tall ceiling. The stone walls seem to amplify the light instead of absorbing it.
“The first thing we need to do is clean you up. Dress you in something befitting royalty, instead of a…” He looks me over, face scrunched. “Your rooms are down a few more hallways, where your servants will be waiting. They are new. No one has stayed in them before.”
I have servants? I can't imagine what that’ll be like. I've always taken care of myself. I'd prefer it remain that way. Others can't be trusted.
We pass several servants, dressed in light blue and scurrying through the halls, who aren't as plump as Ranen, but are clearly well fed. I think of my bony body matching most of the Poruah class and can't help but keep my gaze down. Daros kept me fit enough to do my job, but nothing more. Starved only sometimes. Mostly, I was fed protein. It left me thin but strong. At least I have that on the lowest class of people.
If only I’d gotten a job as a servant when I was little, things would be so much different.
Not that I had a choice.
After a long walk in silence, with several twists and turns, we stop at a door.
“These are your rooms,” he says. “Your servants will attend to you, and then I will see to your training.”
He almost glares, which is unnerving, so I hurry through the door, only to be met by a woman who ushers me through the room to a second room. It is airy with a vaulted ceiling, and half a dozen well-rounded women are waiting for me.
My maids, apparently.
I've never needed one. Why would I need six?
“We drew a bath for you, and then we will head to the springs,” one of the oldest ones says.
A bath? When was the last time I had one of those? And what does she mean by springs?
I sulk to the tub and flick my hand through the water. Warm. But they’re all still here, staring at me. There’s been way too much staring in my direction today. How idiotic of me, to think I wanted to be noticed for once.
A couple of the women hold vases. Another holds a brush, and yet another holds a tray of what I think are soaps. I've never seen such tiny, elegant, colored soaps before. What's the purpose behind everything I’ve been through and what they want me to go through?
“I will do this myself,” I say.
As one, they nod—who trained these people?—and set their things down on a table by the bath. They file out of the room, except for the one who spoke before.
She says, “We will return in half an hour if that suits you.”
“It does,” I reply. I'll have this done in ten.
As soon as she closes the door behind her, I strip, grateful to get out of these sweat-crusted clothes, and get in the tub. The water feels good on my aching body. I grab a soap bar at random and a scrub brush and run them across my hands as if the past will go with the layers of skin if I scour hard enough.
It doesn't.
Ten minutes later, I'm clean and dressed. I explore the room, checking every nook and cranny. Every drawer and under the bed. The drawers are carved with intricacy. The four-poster bed is sumptuously soft. I wouldn’t be able to sleep on such a thing. Even the carpet is more cushioned than my bed back at Daros's. The curtains are a red velvet that matches the drapes around the bed.
As far as I can tell, this place is unoccupied. There are no personal belongings. Might as well be my room at Daros's house if it wasn't so refined and furnished.
Twenty minutes later, the women return. The one who spoke before glances at me, her cheeks pulled down in a perpetual scowl. She’s tall, easily the tallest one here, and thick boned. Her eyes are small on her face, while concentrating heavily on me. For a moment, I think she disapproves of the job I did. If she doesn't like how I clean myself, she'll have to get over that aversion quickly.
“Please follow me, Your Highness,” she says.
Not as bad as Your Majesty, but still not right. What do I want to be called? I don't know. Something not so… pretentious.
I haven’t thought much about not having a name. Once, when I was still small, I asked Daros why I didn't have one. His response was that I didn't deserve one. Calling me girl was good enough for him. It should still be good enough for what I am.
I deserve nothing more.
The woman leads me through the palace via a different route than the one I followed before, her steps in time to some rhythm I can't hear or follow. The area isn't unlike before, despite going all this way—drapes around huge windows; portraits of unfamiliar people or landscapes on the walls; and flowers here and there, on tables dotting the halls, in pots, or in corners. Beauty the likes of which I know of and have seen but haven’t owned.
The maid opens a door that leads to a muggy room, outside of which wait several guards
, male and female, dressed in steel and black. The room is large, with a pool of smooth marble in the middle and pillars on the sides. Everything is white and pure in here.
Everything except me. I’m anything but pure.
“This is the queen's bathing room,” the woman says.
“I already took a bath.”
She lifts a brow. “That was to prepare you for this experience. May I please assist you?”
I'd rather cut off my own finger.
She gets the message because she points at the vials and combs next to the pool and says, “Here are your bathing necessities.”
There are more items here than I've ever owned at one time. Not that it's something I'd tell her. Instead, I try to hide my surprise. “What are they all for?”
“Are you certain you don't want assistance?” she asks instead of answering.
I add an edge to my voice. “What are they all for?”
She inches back.
Good. She knows who she's dealing with.
She explains the items one at a time and slowly, but it's still more than I can handle. A soap with grit, to make my skin smooth. One to make me shine. One to make me smell like a queen. Why do I need a soap for that? And why does the queen have to smell a certain way?
She shows me fat-toothed combs to get out tangles. A strange-looking tool to massage the scalp. A brush. And more items that blur together. How am I going to remember all this?
Doesn't matter. No one needs this much for just a bath, let alone life. If it was something important like poison, I would remember every word she spoke.
Once she stops droning on, I tell her to leave, and she does so. I get a better look around the room. So many pillars around this place. Too many places to hide.
I burst into a run around the pillars, boots smacking against the marble. I quiet my steps as I go and check each place someone could hide behind. I can't imagine the palace people would leave someone in here with the Queen when I clearly want to be alone, but then again, minutes ago I couldn’t dream that anyone took two baths in a row. Especially in a pool of such elegance.
