Upon the Flight of the Queen

by Howard Andrew Jones

  The three watchers departed. One image in particular stayed with Sansyra—the sight of something popping out of one man’s head as he dropped in a spray of blood. As the Naor had laughed she’d realized it was an eye.

  They saw far fewer patrols on their way back. Sansyra wondered if the Naor had deliberately scaled down their numbers so witnesses could return to their hiding places and spread word of what they’d seen.

  On the outskirts of the temple district, as they neared the edge of the roof, they heard footsteps below. They waited for the threat to pass, and then crept to the edge. They saw the back of four helmeted heads as Naor watchmen walked the empty street.

  “Let’s get them,” Iressa hissed.

  Denalia put a hand to her arm as she reached for the edge, as though she meant to drop over on the instant. She hissed: “They’ll kill more if you do that! Is that what you want?”

  Iressa seemed to wrestle with those words for a while. She stared venomously at the retreating Naor until they turned the corner, then all but slumped in resignation.

  Quietly, they returned to the tunnels.

  Varama was roused to meet them. Her curling hair was bunched up wildly on her left and flattened on the right, so that she looked absurd. She must have tried lying down after Enada left. Despite the terrible news she bore, or perhaps because of it, Sansyra struggled not to giggle. She knew it would not only be immensely inappropriate, but that it would sound strained and mad.

  The alten sat upright at her desk, listening with very little change of expression, firing questions at them as they went. She made no comment upon the tragedy, and seemed especially interested in the distribution of the Naor soldiers. Before long she’d produced paper and set to work on an image that ultimately spread across multiple sheets, sketching what proved a more and more accurate depiction of the surviving buildings around the square. Varama was a skilled artist, if not a truly expressive one, but was phenomenally gifted with matters of scale and extremely precise with measurements. As she worked she occasionally asked the three of them for verification about the height of a house or its proximity to its neighbor.

  “And the stage remained?” Varama asked.

  “It did,” Sansyra said, then explained further: “They were still standing on it when we left.”

  “It was quite sturdy, Alten,” Iressa said. “I don’t know why they’d remove it. They’ll probably want to shout at more people from it, or speak to their troops.”

  Varama walked around the drawing to make an adjustment.

  Sansyra wondered very much what she was thinking, but it was Denalia who asked. “What are you planning, Alten?”

  “I’m judging the best place to locate archers. The next time this happens, we can target the general. Here, or here, I think. Possibly here.”

  She was so matter-of-fact, even now. So focused. Sansyra’s admiration welled up. Varama let nothing cloud her judgment.

  “But the Naor won’t assemble again without another attack,” Denalia objected.

  Varama fixed her with a brief, sober look. “We can’t stop the killing, but we can put it to our advantage.”

  “Put the killing to our advantage?” Denalia asked.

  “Yes. If we know where the enemy is going to be at a certain time, then we can strike.”

  Denalia shook her head. “They’d have no reason to assemble so many. Not unless we do something.” She spoke quickly. “I mean, they might kill a few, sometimes, but not like today. Not if we don’t provoke them.”

  Varama set down her stylus and turned her full, unwavering attention upon Denalia. To her credit, the Alantran archer didn’t flinch.

  “The Naor believe us perversions of the proper order,” Varama explained. “Slowly, or quickly, they mean to kill us all. There is no middle ground with them that preserves some of us. We must eliminate their power to enact their genocidal ideology if any of us are to survive. Which is why we’ll kill Koregan when next he speaks.”

  Sansyra heard Iressa gasp beside her. She nodded, understanding now what Varama intended, and knowing that the Naor commander’s death would set off a scramble for power among his subordinates that would weaken the enemy substantially.

  “Do you know how many people they’ll kill if we kill him?” Denalia asked. “They’ll murder thousands! Who are you to make that kind of choice? These are my people, not yours!”

  Varama blinked at her, dispassionate. “Alantris is not the city of my birth; I was born in a tiny village in Kanesh. I would defend either with the same conviction, for I am Altenerai, and I am sworn to defend all the people of all our lands.”

  “It’s not the same,” Denalia said, shaking her head.

  The alten spoke with strained patience. “I will attempt a final time to make the matter clear for you. If we kill Koregan, the remaining Naor will fight each other over succession. They will be weakened; we shall be well positioned to take advantage of mistakes that they make.”

  Denalia stared as if she had somehow misheard.

  “It’s likely many of us will perish before the end of this,” Varama said. “I assumed that you would wish to be involved in the attack, for you’re one of our finest archers. But if you would rather place hope in the Naor being more merciful if Koregan is left alive, you may remain behind.”

  “Here’s a better idea,” Denalia said. “Instead of setting our people up to die, why don’t we break in and free all the soldiers held in the pens? We can go in force by night and break them out.”

  Varama spoke over her. “We have one hundred and seven capable of fighting.”

  “Well, a bunch of the prisoners are soldiers.”

  “Hundreds of them,” Varama agreed.

  Denalia pointed to the wall, as if the prisoners were just on the other side of it. “If we give them arms, they’ll fight at our side.”

  Sansyra spoke, trying to sound compassionate and reasonable both. “How will we get all of them into the tunnels, safely? How will we get them out of the city?”

  “I’m not talking about getting them into the tunnels or out of the city! I’m talking about freeing them and using them to attack!”

  “That is unworkable,” Varama said bluntly. “There are more than eight thousand Naor well-organized to slay opposition among their captives. Even if we can succeed in getting to the prisoners, most would die before gaining effective arms or armor, as would their relatives whom they certainly would struggle to leave. We cannot house or feed so many here and our shelter would almost certainly be discovered in the process of moving so many to it.” She paused to allow these points to register, then softened her tone. “Perhaps, freeing some would serve as a diversion while the assassination is under way. Now. Consider whether or not you wish to play a part in the attack.”

  Denalia looked as though she wanted to say more but couldn’t figure out what it should be. Varama’s eyes flicked over to take in their overall appearance, as if noticing their condition for the first time. “You look terrible. Eat, and rest.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be able to do either,” Denalia said morosely.

  “The odds of our success rise if we’re better rested, and well fed.”

  “I’ll take care of myself,” Denalia snapped.

  “Will you?”

  Sansyra winced, wishing Varama would let the matter go.

  Denalia’s irritation had obviously grown. “I will.”

  “What are you going to do, Alten?” Sansyra spoke up.

  “I need to think.”

  “You need rest as well,” she warned.

  “You’re correct, but our next actions need to be planned immediately, as well as our counteraction when the Naor seek retribution. I will sleep presently. For now, leave me.”

  The squires saluted, followed almost grudgingly by Denalia, and then the three women left. Iressa said she wanted to go find a quiet corner and sleep, but she caught Sansyra’s eyes and motioned with them toward Denalia, as if to say Sansyra ought to calm her down.<
br />
  Denalia snapped at Sansyra as the two walked into the dark halls.

  “Listen to you. Telling her she needs to take care of herself. Are you always such a foot washer?”

  “She needs rest as much or more than the rest of us. She’s carrying all of our worries.” She put a positive tone in her voice. “She’s going to save Alantris.”

  “Not if she gets all Alantrans killed. What’s the point in driving the Naor out if everyone who lived here is dead?”

  They had reached the wide chamber they’d dubbed the fountain, although the underground spring was more a wide pool into which water trickled from a small fissure in the rocky wall. It was the largest chamber in the tunnel network, and the squires often retired there to rest beside the water, as the burble proved strangely soothing. The ceiling peaked over much of it at more than fifteen feet high, and that was a relief after walking the warren of tunnels, most of which topped their heads oppressively by only a few inches.

  The fountain chamber was empty save for a lone squire sleeping on a pillowed cloak. A dimly flickering lantern hung from a pole driven into the rock beside the wide oval pool, and it cast a dull orange glow across the dark waters.

  Sansyra sat down beside the pool’s lip, looking down onto the stones revealed in the thin circle illuminated by the lantern light. She really ought to go get some sleep, but she didn’t feel like Denalia had the right perspective yet. “Alten Varama’s shouldering a lot of responsibility right now.”

  Denalia kicked off her sandals and sat down on the cool stone beside her. She looked young and sweet, so the bitterness in her voice was all the more jarring. “I bet she didn’t bat an eye when Nereal died, did she?”

  “I know it affected her.” At least she hoped it had. Varama hadn’t said much beyond a simple statement as to the unfortunate loss. But that’s how she was, and one of the secrets of her success. If she’d been rattled with emotion like the three of them, she’d never have developed her counterplan so swiftly.

  Denalia leaned closer, her clean-featured face alive with challenge. “How do you think she’ll react if you die?” Denalia didn’t wait for an answer. “I think we’re all just part of her abstract calculation.”

  “You didn’t see her when she found out Rylin had been badly wounded.”

  The young woman’s critical tone dropped away, and she was instantly concerned and solicitous. “Rylin’s wounded? What happened?”

  Sansyra had few details. And naturally Denalia wanted them, for she was smitten with him. “He got the people out, but was badly hurt in the process.”

  “How badly?”

  “He hasn’t regained consciousness yet.” Seeing the mortified expression on her companion’s face, Sansyra added quickly: “Healers are seeing to him. They say his chances are good.”

  She immediately regretted stating the last, because that was what Enada had implied rather than said outright, but gauging Denalia’s concern, she decided not to clarify.

  “I’ll pray for him. He’s such a wonderful man. He cares about people. Deeply. You can see it in his eyes.”

  “So does Varama,” Sansyra countered, and then she added: “And she’s a lot smarter.” She didn’t mean to insult Rylin, particularly, but to point out the strength of their commanding officer by comparison.

  “You don’t like him.” Denalia eyed her sharply.

  “That’s not true. I didn’t used to like him. But he’s changed.”

  “Why didn’t you like him before?”

  She’d thought she’d known Rylin by type—a swaggering man swollen with the sense of his own self worth and certain he was owed the attentions of every pretty face he looked at. Over the last week, though, in the long flight from Darassus, she’d begun to note inklings of what Varama must long since have seen. Even then she’d disbelieved until she saw Rylin’s bravery, and the results of his decisive actions. How strange to learn that he’d been worthy of regard all this time. She had never supposed him especially bright, and had even said as much to Varama.

  Her mentor had pointed out there were different sorts of intelligence. She’d foolishly imagined Varama had misjudged. Rylin had little talent or interest in science or mathematics, but Sansyra now realized that he thought very quickly on his feet. He was, as some had begun to call him, wily. It might be that he sought his pleasures too readily, but when it was time to stand the line, he’d leapt boldly into place. She wondered, and not for the first time, if she’d been so very wrong, or if she’d been essentially correct and Rylin had risen to his true potential amidst the crisis, tempered in adversity. Might she then expect the same thing from herself? What might she slough off?

  She grew conscious of Denalia’s consideration. How to explain to the young woman? “He’s a good man. I’m just not sure…” Ah, she was too tired to say it more eloquently. She gave up and spoke directly. “He always wanted to bed every pretty girl he met.”

  At Denalia’s shocked look, she spoke swiftly before she could counter. “I’m sorry, but it’s the truth.”

  “That’s not how he acts.”

  “Believe me, he’s been wondering what you look like naked from the moment he met you.”

  Denalia’s nostrils flared. “The moment he met me he was defending my life. Along with almost fifty others.”

  “There’s no denying his bravery,” Sansyra agreed.

  “You see the best in Varama, when it may not even be there. And you want to see the worst in him.”

  “That’s not true. I think he’s changed.”

  “I think you’re jealous because Varama likes him more than you.”

  The truth behind that accusation stung. She’d been envious of Varama’s sudden reliance upon Rylin for the last little while, but she’d disliked him long before that. If there was any lingering jealousy, it was balanced against her newfound respect.

  “I’m right, aren’t I.” Denalia pointed at her. “You’re ready to say I’m blind because I like Rylin. Well, you’re blind because you want to cozy up to your commander. I don’t know why; it would be like sleeping with a bowl of ice.”

  “I don’t—”

  “I’m going to take this up with the other Alantrans, and see what they have to say. Maybe some of the other squires, too. We have the right to question her.”

  That was enough. She surprised herself by grabbing the younger woman’s arm. Denalia struggled to pull free. “Hey!”

  “Our chances are slim enough without you stirring up bad feelings. We’re at war now. That means we have hard choices. You want the Naor to gradually cull us, or do you want to buck and strain until we throw them off?”

  “What if they kill more children? Or babies?”

  “That’s what the Naor want us to worry about. They’re taking advantage of the fact we care about people. You want to be held hostage by that?”

  “I don’t want more of my people to die.”

  “None of us do.” Sansyra released her arm.

  Denalia looked down into the water, then hugged her knees, looking very young. Her voice grew soft. “How will we live with ourselves?”

  “Denalia…” She sighed, then admitted quietly: “I’m not sure we’re going to live at all.”

  Denalia’s soft brown eyes were huge as she looked up at her. She honestly sounded surprised. “I thought you believed Varama was going to win.”

  “I think she’s going to win.” Sansyra breathed out slowly, then acknowledged what she’d begun to fear. “I’m just not sure we’ll survive to see it.”

  13

  Of Wing and Claw

  The distant figures in the cerulean sky looked impossibly small and far away. The kobalin travelling with them were certain that the winged figures were ko’aye, though, and were eager to depart lest they be spotted. Qirok and his followers bowed low to Ortok and then sketched less formal bows to Elenai and Kyrkenall before bounding away. Elenai paid them scant attention, though she wondered if Qirok would rule his brethren when he returned to them.


  The land beneath the ko’aye was a long, spindly fragment fashioned of brown rock and black rock and yellow rock and soaring formations of mixed rock; very little that lay before them wasn’t rock of some sort. The sun gave up its blazing and the clatter of their horses’ hooves echoed into the stillness of that lonely land.

  Growing chilly, Elenai shed the head covering provided by her spare shirt and donned her khalat, her eyes more often on the figures far above than the ground before them. The ko’aye had famously excellent sight. “They’ll see we’re wearing khalats, won’t they?” Elenai asked.

  “They should.” Kyrkenall was hooking his own armored robe closed. “Maybe they’ll even see my bow.” So saying, he lifted and shook it. Arzhun was nearly as famous as the archer who wielded it, and she expected the keen-eyed ko’aye would have found it just as distinctive-looking as everyone else.

  The creatures circled closer. Shielding her eyes, Elenai saw that both were white, although one seemed to have a darker coloration at its feathertips. They will come, she thought, and land before us, and Kyrkenall will have to be very clever.

  But the ko’aye flew farther into the distance until they were lost to sight.

  Kyrkenall cursed. “I hadn’t expected they’d just fly off. I suppose I should have.”

  “Do you think they’ll come back?”

  “Maybe. But we’ll keep going forward in any case.”

  “Maybe they’re going to go get more to hunt us,” Ortok suggested. “It would be a brave battle, if so.”

  “Let’s hope that’s not their plan,” Elenai said.

  “No battles.” Kyrkenall’s tone brooked no argument. “We need the ko’aye.”

  “Sometimes battle happens whether you wish it or not,” Ortok said.

  “It’s not going to happen here,” Kyrkenall declared obstinately.

  Ortok’s brow furrowed, but he did not speak. Since they’d arrived at the fragment, his black fur was regrowing, quickly enough that if Elenai looked away for a few minutes and then back there was noticeable change.