by Emma Hamm
Was it not useful to speak with the cattle that pulled your plow? Did they not wish to sing notes no human voice could ever reach? Were they so heartless that they didn’t see the beautiful things the Beastkin could bring? Not to mention the culture, the visions, the assistance…
She heard the whistle in the wind long before the rock struck her mask. It was a sizeable stone and might have left an open wound if it had caught her in the face.
The turbulent chatter froze as her head whipped back from the force of the throw. Sigrid lifted a hand slowly and touched a hand to her mask.
“Sultana,” Raheem growled. “I shall kill the man who dared.”
She held up her other hand, relaxed and calm. The rock wasn’t something she could concern herself with. She took the time to feel the edges of the mask, making certain her face wasn’t showing and that the strap would still hold. There were some mistakes these people couldn’t come back from. Seeing her face was one of them.
Sighing in relief, she turned towards Raheem and shook her head. “It is but a rock.”
“If we allow them to throw one, then more will follow,” he growled. “We should cut off the hand of the man who dared.”
“Your sultan didn’t tell them who I am. They think I am a prisoner of war, at best. A pet, at worst. I don’t blame them for their fear.”
“Sultana—”
“Raheem,” she interrupted. “You won’t change my mind on this.”
He appeared torn. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword, and his eyes continually flicked to the crowd waiting for what he should do. Finally, he sighed and relaxed his shoulders. “They dented your mask.”
She shrugged. “It’s soft metal.”
Taking a deep breath, Sigrid made her decision. She had known this may be a trial she would have to endure. Of course, a part of her had hoped they would be more understanding than this. But drakon were hardy beasts, and if the villagers wished to throw stones, then she would bear their misplaced hatred as proof the Beastkin were harmless creatures.
Or most of them, at least. She wasn’t certain she could say a drakon was harmless.
She swung her leg over the horse and set both feet firm on the ground. She tucked her fingers under Camilla’s claws and settled her atop the saddle. The owl’s eyes were luminous and sad.
“Raheem, I have no wish for such glorious creatures to be harmed because of me. Keep them ahead of us.”
“I’m staying behind you. I don’t want them to turn into an angry mob and attack.”
“Then stay behind me if you wish, but do not interfere.” She looked up again and felt a sting from the pity she recognized in his gaze. “I must do this.”
“I have no doubt that I cannot change your mind.” He made a fist and pressed it against his heart. “I wish I could take the pain for you.”
It was a kind statement, and a surprising one coming from a Bymerian. She felt a small bit of pity for this man who did not understand her ways. “A drakon doesn’t feel pain.”
Sigrid turned on her heel, midnight skirts flaring around her in a dark arc. Those closest to her gasped. They stared at her mask as if it were the face of a demon. Perhaps, it was to them. She’d never taken the time to truly understand why the Bymerians feared the Beastkin.
She set her gaze on the last tail of the army as it disappeared inside the Red Palace. She could see in the distance that the gates stood open, waiting for the sultan’s newest prize. It would take a while for her to get there if they waited for her to walk through the streets.
Good. She would arrive tired, dirty, and likely battered from the fear of his own people. If that didn’t knock sense into his head, she didn’t know what would.
The first step was relatively easy. People gasped as she moved, marveled at how human she looked, wondered at the mask and the way she covered her body. But they allowed her to step forward nearly five paces before the second rock was thrown.
This one grazed the top of her head. She felt the wind shifting through her hair, but no pain. The third struck her in the chest. The air chuffed from her lungs, and she paused for a second before walking forward.
“We don’t need your kind here!” A woman shouted, her caramel colored skin darkened in anger.
“We already rid our lands of your tainted blood,” a man snarled from the shadows. Sigrid noted the goblet clutched in his hand, ale leaking over the edge and flowing onto the stone.
Another man lurched forward, reaching for her arm. He was a big man, scars smattered across his face from war or brawls, she couldn’t tell. His hand never reached her. Raheem’s sword gleamed in the sunlight.
The people around her seemed to recognize him. They all gasped, confusion warping their expressions.
Raheem’s deep voice resounded through the street. “You may throw all you like, but you’ll not a lay a hand on her.”
“By who’s orders?” the man grumbled.
Sigrid interrupted her guard long before he could speak. The deep chuff began in her chest, too loud for a woman to ever make. The rumble was that of a mountain groaning during an earthquake. The shifting crack of stone against rock. An earthen sound so foreign to these people that they knew exactly who made the sound.
The man stepped away from her with his hands held up.
She resumed her journey through the crowd and endured the stones, the fruit, the roughage that were thrown in her path and at her body. Three more people managed to strike her mask. It held in place, a testament to how wonderfully made it was.
She sent a silent prayer to the heavens, thanking her sisters for their wondrous abilities to create incredible masks that held even in the worst situations.
Through the torment, she noted the faces of each person. They were marred by fear and anger, but she knew the people beneath those emotions.
The woman who tossed a bucket of dirty water at her feet was a seamstress. The pins in her skirts and measuring tape wrapped around her neck meant she knew her work, and the tiny scars on her thumbs meant she’d taken her time to learn the craft.
The man who threw the most recent rock was a farmer. His front was considerably lighter than the back of him, suggesting he spent more time bent over in the fields than upright. Sigrid had seen people like him before and knew that he wasn’t educated enough to understand change could be good.
A small child threw a rotten tomato at her, striking her hip. The juice soaked through to her skin as she noted the dirt smudging his face. He didn’t have a home, that one. Not a single person to take him in, to explain why throwing refuse at a stranger was wrong.
Her heart broke for them even as red rage boiled deep in her veins. The drakon wanted to rear up, to fly into the sky, and rain fire down upon their heads. They couldn’t possibly understand what she was capable of, but they would.
Sigrid let fire play in her mind’s eye for a few moments until she saw the crowd jostling ahead of her. Trouble. Perhaps, these were people who hadn’t heard Raheem’s declaration. Regardless, she balled her fists in preparation for a skirmish.
Just as she reached them, a small child was shoved from the crowd. An accident, no one would put their child in harm’s way like that, but she tumbled forward all the same.
Without thinking, Sigrid lunged forward and caught the tiny girl in her hands just before her head struck the ground.
All sound stilled, and then there was only silence.
The little girl was a tiny thing, made of mostly bones and awkward limbs. A vibrant green scarf hid her dark hair. Her face was thin, but obviously pretty. Almond-shaped eyes, so brown they looked like a forest of trees, met Sigrid’s icy gaze without fear.
She hadn’t touched a person other than her sister’s in her entire life. Sigrid’s chest burned with the knowledge that this was wrong, but her heart answered with another heat. She had missed this. Being able to touch someone, to save them, and she’d never realized it was something she desired so much.
The little girl lifted a hand
and touched it to the mashed metal of Sigrid’s mask. “I like your mask.”
Her voice was that of a sparrow’s. Light, airy, delicate. This was a creature who had no right to be in an angry crowd of people. She should be sitting in a tower, looking out over her domain and composing her next song.
Sigrid smiled and her mask lifted slightly, touching the girl’s palm again. “Is it not frightening?”
“A little.”
“You don’t seem scared.”
“I am a little.” The girl chewed her lip. “But you caught me.”
“Be careful in crowds like this. Next time, you might meet a horse instead of a Beastkin.”
Sigrid gently placed the little girl back onto her feet, making sure she was settled before stepping back. A woman behind them in the crowd pressed a hand to her mouth. The little girl’s mother? They looked alike, but Sigrid wasn’t very good at telling the Bymerians apart yet.
Her gaze tilted down as the little girl got onto her knees. Furrowing her brow, Sigrid watched in confusion until she realized the pose was one of prayer.
Of worship.
“No.” Her arms snapped forward and jerked the child to her feet. The answering wave of movement forward from the crowd did not go unnoticed, but Sigrid smoothed her hands along the girl’s shoulders and smiled. “Beastkin never bow to another woman. We are equal, you and I. We curtsy if we wish to show respect, but only at the same time. Like so.”
Sigrid showed the little girl the grand, sweeping motion of a curtsy.
The little one was smart. She mimicked the movement almost perfectly and gave Sigrid a wild grin as she joined in on the movements.
“You’re odd,” the little girl said, her voice loud and innocent.
Raheem cleared his throat. “Shall I take her hands, Sultana? It is the punishment for touching you, after all.”
The woman in the crowd let out a whimper that Sigrid felt in her soul. The entirety of the mob listed back at the word “sultana.” So, no one had told them that a new queen was arriving with their sultan. Her instincts had been correct.
Sigrid sighed, straightened, and shook her head. “No, honored guard. She is but a little one, and does not know the ways of Beastkin. I will take the punishment on myself. It was my choice to not let her fall.”
“How so, Sultana?”
She glanced up and saw the bite of anger in his gaze. He was proving a point to the crowd. A clear message that Sigrid was not a monster, and that she would be respected.
“I’m not going to cut my own hands off. For such an innocent touch, I believe three days of fasting is plenty.” She looked back at the little girl and curtsied again. “Feel no guilt, bright soul. It was an honor to save you, and I would do it again if you stumbled.”
“You should eat, Sultana.” The girl stared at her feet, suddenly afraid. “The sultan will be very angry at me if you don’t.”
The rage in her veins was different this time. This was an anger that ran through the very foundation of mountains and deep in forest streams. The drakon inside her saw a youngling that needed mothering, a protector, a matriarch.
She gritted her teeth and reached forward. One finger slid under the chin of the child. A chill settled on Sigrid’s shoulder at the blatant disrespect for her own traditions.
“I do not regret my previous touch, nor this one. If the sultan is angry, then let him be angry at me. My shoulders are strong. They can bear his rage, if I wish it.”
The worry did not abate from the girl’s gaze, but her shoulders sank. “Thank you, Sultana.”
Sigrid let her hand fall and turned away from the little girl. The crowd parted like a wave in front of her. The fear was still in their eyes, but something like respect was there as well.
Saving a child did wonders for the opinions of the masses. She’d seen it done before, and was pleased to see that Bymerians and Earthen Folk were one and the same when it came to children.
The future was far more important than the past.
When it became clear there would be no more rocks or fruit thrown, Raheem nudged his horse forward and rode at her side.
“You knew that would happen, didn’t you?” he murmured.
“I am not a soothsayer. I had my hopes, but I certainly did not know it would happen.”
“Why?”
She glanced up. “Why what?”
Raheem shook his head, leaning an elbow on his knee and staring down at her. “Why take the risk if you didn’t know it was a sure thing?”
“Risks are meant to be taken. These people would always see me as a monster if they didn’t have a chance to glimpse the person underneath the mask.” She set her gaze toward the castle. “Your sultan is correct in one thing. The people don’t want to see royalty as anything other than a figurehead. Not unless they are given a reason to believe there is a person underneath all that finery.”
She remained silent for the rest of the long walk. Each step felt like glass had wiggled its way into her shoes, but she refused to show the pain. Her back ached, sweat trickled down her spine, mere little things that were mind over matter.
Finally, they reached the open gates that stood five men high. Guards stood at the entrance, leather armor reflecting the sun in her eyes. Their hands rest on the gem encrusted hilts of their blades and they stood at attention. But their gazes flicked to her in surprise.
Raheem dismounted and urged her forward with a gesturing hand. Talons landed on her shoulder, gently squeezing to give comfort more than for stability. The Red Palace loomed over everything like a monolith of old. She shook her head, but made her way through the second gate and into a hall clearly meant for the sultan and his advisors.
Red and gold mosaics covered the floor. The hall was bisected by a pool of sapphire water where emerald lily pads floated. Two tiers of seats lined the edges, creating a clear arrow that led all the way to a dais where the throne overpowered the steps leading to it. Crimson fabric hung from the ceiling, spilling down the steps in a train that was almost embarrassingly ostentatious.
The sultan already sat upon his throne, one leg carelessly tossed over the throne. He gestured at the splendor around them and asked, “Well, wife? Is it not the grandest building you’ve ever seen?”
She did not respond. Her heart was weary, her soul aching, and she wanted to lie down more than anything else in the world.
He frowned at her. “You’ve nothing to say? I find it hard to believe you are speechless.”
“I am tired,” she finally replied. “And I don’t have the energy to play your games.”
The sultan’s jaw dropped open for a moment before he gave a hesitant nod. “Then Raheem will escort you to the women’s chambers. May your rest be peaceful, wife.”
“And yours.”
Sigrid barely noticed the journey, took little more than a few steps into the chambers where Raheem had led before Camilla transformed and grabbed her shoulder.
“Sister?”
“Sleep,” she mumbled. “I need nothing more than sleep.”
She allowed Camilla to guide her to a comfortable pile of rugs and pillow, her last thought a desperate lance of fear, wondering if they’d fallen into a pit of vipers.
Nadir
Nadir stared down at the papers in front of him, hoping his eyes would find some detail he’d missed in the maps of Bymere. He had seen these maps a hundred times in his life, perhaps more. Every time he sat at this desk, there was more of the same.
He knew the uppermost part of Misthall was falling into ruin. Even though it was in the capital, there was nothing he could do for its people. They were unruly, disliked having a sultan, and refused to play any of the tariffs the throne ordered from them. They even attacked the soldiers he sent to coerce them into following their Bymerian duty.
Falldell was a mystery even to him. The assassins that came out of that deserted land were legendary, but no one knew how they were trained. The men rarely spoke. Their women were deadlier than any feminine crea
ture had a right to be, and no one knew the exact number of people who lived in that part of his kingdom.
Glasslyn was by far the most profitable. They were the fodder to his army, but also the people who harvested most of their food, raised the cattle, and paid more dearly than any other group of people. He wanted to focus on those lands. To provide them with much-needed assistance so the entire country would prosper.
His advisors disagreed. They wanted him to focus on Misthall. Peasants weren’t worth the energy of the sultan, they said. Leave them to continue their work, no need to give them any hopes of their lives bettering just because the sultan thought to send them a little extra water this month.
A voice in Nadir’s head screamed that wasn’t right. That the people who kept his kingdom afloat might not be of royal blood, but they should at least receive incentive for their hard work.
He felt the throne was a prison. He couldn’t do anything he wanted to do without his advisors whispering in his ear that there were more important things to focus on. They’d already considered all the options for his kingdom, they spoke while he was with his concubines, out riding, any time he wasn’t around them.
If he were a more argumentative man, he might have put a stop to it. But they were more family than advisors. They’d raised him. They had a right to tell him their opinions…didn’t they?
A resounding knock interrupted him. Clearing his mind of such troubled thoughts, Nadir called out, “Enter!”
The doors eased open and Raheem squeezed his large bulk through the horseshoe frame.
Arches decorated his castle, each more intricate than the last. Contrary to the name, the Red Palace was not entirely red. Each wing had its own color, meant to inspire certain emotions in the people who walked the halls. This wing, the sultan’s private wing, was emerald green.
He hadn’t thought about how much it mimicked the colors of Wildewyn until he’d returned. Now, Nadir saw the forest in every carved mosaic on his wall. The forest and its women haunted his every step.
