Nameless Queen

by Rebecca McLaughlin

  I try to think of what would comfort them but also be honest. A crowd this large, they’re already expecting me to give them nothing but empty comfort and reassurances. I’ve listened to my share of speeches. I know what I’d want to hear.

  “I don’t know if that is me,” I say, feeling a tingling expectation rise through the collective auras of the audience. “I don’t know if it can be….But we, we can be…”

  A warm glow sets on the crowd. At first, it’s like the return of a brilliant dusk—steady and orange. Then it flickers at the edges as though everyone’s auras have combined.

  Then I hear the screaming.

  Then I see the fire.

  The people amassed around me surge toward a set of houses inside the North Residences. The guards abandon me, shouting for the people to fetch water from the nearest firehouse. It’s only one street east—a summer spent filching water from the stone-basin reservoirs taught me that. Glenquartz stays by my side with another guard. Two, now three houses on fire.

  A crash of glass and a sound like faint thunder. Four houses. Another scream. I pull at the waist of my armored vest, cinching it tighter as I move forward. Glenquartz puts a hand on my arm to stop me, and I don’t have time to convince him. I throw an open hand against his chest, and he stumbles, startled but unharmed. I run toward the flames.

  Auras all over the street rage with fear. The first two houses are already empty. The third house—there are two auras, like bright embers screaming in the fire. I charge in through the front door. The fire is raging in the sitting room: bright fabric upholstery turning black. I feel a silvery aura come up behind me, like steel and crystal, as Glenquartz joins me. There’s nothing restrictive in his aura; it pushes us onward. It gives me strength.

  I always thought smoke would be heavy, but it’s as light as air and tastes like ash, burning my throat. It isn’t too dense, but the burn of it makes it hard to see. A cry for help cuts through me like a sharp flame.

  “In the…?” Glenquartz starts to move toward the stairs, and this time I’m the one to put a halting hand on his arm. I pull him toward the sitting room. The fire has spread along the upholstery, up the curtains, curling the wallpaper into ash. The whole ceiling is black with soot and shifts with a denser collection of smoke.

  The auras shine with fear. I feel it stronger than the fire. It’s so sharp, it’s like a dagger in my throat. I can barely breathe. In the room are two men, their auras tangled with each other. One man is obviously immobile, legs emaciated and weak but strong arms, a cushioned chair toppled. The other man doesn’t want to move even though he could. I crouch and put my face in front of his.

  “I need you to lead us out of here,” I tell him.

  Dazed, the man focuses on me, his eyes filled with tears.

  I grab his shoulder. “Can you do that?”

  If he says no, he’s getting a cast-iron pot to his head and Glenquartz can drag him to safety. The man nods and staggers to his feet, coughing in the smoke, and goes toward the door. I put an arm around the immobilized man’s back and motion for Glenquartz to help. He takes the other side, and together we lift him. He’s lighter than I expected.

  A creak and crackle rip through the ceiling, and it’s all I can do to keep my grip on the man in my arms. I adjust my grip, and my arm touches the man’s neck. As soon as our skin touches, his thoughts blaze through me.

  Out of the house, out of the house—run!

  The man’s fear overtakes me, and I double our pace, nearly carrying him by myself. The other man is at the end of the hall, holding the door anxiously.

  Run—run!

  A heavy splinter of wood from above, a creaking groan, and part of the ceiling collapses. The man at the door staggers outside just as fire blazes in our path.

  Glenquartz looks helplessly at me, and I spin to assess the rest of the house. The stairs are engulfed, there are no other doors, and the only window is behind the flaming wreckage of the upper floor. But the flames blocking our path flicker in the air currents, and every few seconds, they almost clear up. We can run. We can make it.

  “We have to move fast!” I shout to Glenquartz.

  He hesitates, and so does the man in our arms, but we don’t have time for fear. I stare at the fire again. I tell myself they can’t see it. I imagine the hall without fire and smoke—a startlingly normal scene with clean paint and the light of a mirrored lantern. I check Glenquartz and the man in our arms, and their eyes shine with sudden clarity as they stare at the corridor ahead.

  Don’t see the flames. Don’t even feel the heat. I imagine a cool breeze against their skin. The sensation of water.

  I turn my own gaze to the corridor, and a burst of flames rages before us with a gust of hot air that nearly singes the man’s feet. But I cling to the image of the safe, clean corridor. They can’t see the fire anymore, but I can.

  No time for fear. I urge us forward, taking nearly all of the man’s weight in my arms.

  Six steps to the door, and adrenaline surges through me. Fire blazes to my left, and I feel a searing pain on my arm as I stumble against the burning railing of the stairs.

  Four steps, and my lungs are made from smoke, my vision blurring with burning tears.

  Two steps, and the house around us groans and cracks. The fire rages.

  Then we’re out. Gasps of fresh air as I finally let go of the illusion. Together, Glenquartz and I stagger to the edge of the road, and relief overtakes me. The three of us collapse there, and all I want is to be in the arms of the other man, to hold him close and—I let go of the man we’ve been carrying and the sensation disappears. The other man rushes to us, and the two of them hold each other, each crying in relief. I hear murmurs of “thank you, thank you,” but I’m already moving away from them and toward the next fire.

  Three glowing auras inside the house, terrified and bright.

  Esther rushes past me, a flurry of color and determination, trailing two guards. She’s pointing to the same house, ordering the guards forward. “There! Up on the second floor!”

  I start after them, and I see Marcher running down the street. He runs after two Nameless clad in black, and I can’t see enough of his face to tell whether he is scared or not.

  I return my attention to the house. The door is already engulfed in flames, and there’s a large window farther along that’s shattered. I sense Glenquartz at my side and we join Esther’s squad of guards—five of us now. Of the three auras, one is so radiant and sharp, I know it belongs to a child.

  As we move forward, another window shatters. Somewhere, the entire house cracks and groans, and the roof shifts—barely at first, but then all at once. There’s a heavy, rending crash as the house folds inward and collapses. I head toward the building, but Glenquartz stops me.

  The emptiness.

  All three auras. Gone. Extinguished.

  I almost feel their names on the tip of my tongue, but all I can do is scream at the burning rubble. Then I’m on the ground, elbows on my knees, throat aching from the smoke.

  The world around me burns, and I am an ember at its core, white hot and slowly disintegrating. I am raw heat and pain.

  Two other houses collapse, but I’m far enough away that I can’t sense if anyone is in them. There are other fires in other houses. There are other auras all around me. People are gathered in the streets, carrying pails of water, gawking at the destruction, comforting and carrying each other.

  I get up and help. I move with them, numb, doing what I can, carrying water. Glenquartz is never too far away. I’m glad to have him nearby, a familiar aura. At the same time, his pain and fear are like poison to me. The whole world is poison, filled with auras of ash and fear and heartbreak.

  Glenquartz checks on me at some point. He’s saying something about an injury, and I barely remember falling against the burning railing as we esc
aped the house. All I want is to take a quiet path to the palace or an even quieter path to Devil’s alley. But there is work to be done. I finally find my voice past the hoarse burn in my throat.

  “Clear the two houses at the end of the street,” I order. “There’s two people upstairs in the first house, then one in the back.” Glenquartz is hesitant to leave me, but he does. I return to the line of people transporting water for the fires. I know the water is heavy, but my arms are numb.

  Still—always—there is work to be done.

  I’m not sure how long we are out here, breathing smoke-heated air, but I’m certain that those windows were shattered inward. The fires were not accidental. They were started when someone threw something through the windows.

  I realize General Belrosa has been here all along, giving orders and guidance. I’m one of the many following her lead, transporting water and going where I’m needed. I don’t want to be grateful, but I am.

  I find the doctor from Med Ward near the man I helped carry from his house. She tends to the injured, doling out orders and commands just like General Belrosa. Both of them are in their element, natural leaders.

  And I’m a natural follower, I suppose.

  As the doctor tends to the man, checking his soot-covered skin for any sign of injury, the second man approaches me.

  “Sedgewick,” he says, stammering, pointing to his chest. “My name is Sedgewick. I…you…” He takes a moment for a rasping cough, and I can’t help but feel an itch in my throat. “Thank you for saving my husband. Simon. His name. Simon.” It’s as if the name itself is precious to him, and their auras are tethered to each other.

  The itch in my throat burns, and I don’t trust my voice to speak, so I nod.

  “Thank you, Lady Sovereign,” Sedgewick says to me, and he rejoins the doctor at Simon’s side.

  I stare at the wreckage of the houses that have collapsed. Three people, dead. I sit as close to the sizzling scorched debris as possible, straining with every ounce of strength to sense the faintest glimmer of an aura. But there’s nothing. Empty holes in my chest and nothing, nothing.

  The fires are out and several houses on both sides of the street are charred and empty; the streets are still filled with people. Belrosa has set up barricades at both ends of the street and recruited some Legals to help transport the injured. Before long, we’re in a large, slow procession to the Royal Court. At first I expect us to stop at one of the medic stations in the court, but we go straight to the palace.

  As we walk, Belrosa patrols the line, making sure that no one falls behind. I don’t know how to reconcile the Belrosa who was willing to let Hat be executed with the woman before me, tending to the injured with nothing but concern and bravery in her aura. She slows and points at me, and with a hatred that seeps from her like acid, she says, “This is your fault. Yours.”

  I don’t have the time or energy to respond before she moves to tend to a stumbling Legal whose clothes are so marred with ash and burns that he looks like one of the Nameless.

  Med Ward isn’t big enough to hold everyone at once, so the line stretches down the corridor. There’s blood on my sleeve, reminding me of my injury, but I don’t feel it yet. I sit outside Med Ward, in line with everyone else. It’s comforting to be part of the crowd.

  Eventually, Glenquartz returns to me. He’s coated in soot and ash like me—like all of us—but his aura doesn’t pinch with pain anymore. He is as tired as I am. He puts a hand on my bare arm, letting me know he’s here. I flinch away out of reflex, not wanting to see his memories or fears. But the soothing energy of his aura spreads from his touch, and I let the feeling overwhelm me and fill me up. Then, somewhere between fear and exhaustion, I fall asleep.

  CHAPTER 14

  When I wake, someone is holding my arm. For a moment, I’m afraid they’re about to slice it off to steal the tattoo—though I’ve been assured by Glenquartz time and again that that’s impossible.

  But when I blink away the blurriness, I see that it’s Hat. She has propped my arm on her knee, and she’s rewrapping my burn with delicate fingers.

  “You didn’t wake up when I cleaned your burn,” Hat says, “which is for the best, because it would have been very unpleasant, and I definitely would have had to do it anyway. If you’re upset that you missed out on the fun, don’t worry. It’ll have to be cleaned again before you go to sleep tonight.” She uses a pin to fasten the bandage, and she gently moves my arm to my lap. The burned skin underneath stretches, and the sear of it is almost as hot as the fire was.

  “What time is it?” I ask when the pain clears up. There are fewer people here than when I fell asleep, and a glow of sunlight peers out from under nearby doors.

  “It’s morning,” Hat explains as she puts a few metal tools in a bag. “I’m sorry it took so long to get to you, but there were a lot of people with a lot of injuries, and I didn’t realize you were hurt at first.”

  “What are you doing?” I ask, taking proper stock of the bandage on my arm and the medical bag in her hands. I realize she’s wearing a white jacket that bears the blue crescent symbol for doctors and nurses overtop her loosely fitting Legal dress.

  She shrugs slowly, and the smile on her face touches her eyes.

  “I’m volunteering,” she says. “Helping out. Dr. Rhana says that normally you have to go to a school in Lindragore or Devra to become a doctor. Unless you start young, like me, and take on an apprenticeship.”

  I scrunch up my face, and I can feel the grime of ash and sweat in the creases of my frown.

  “But aren’t you worried Rhana will find out you’re…,” I start, and stop myself.

  Hat folds her arms. “She already knows. She wanted to send me home escorted by a guard, and I was going to run. But when the injured started showing up, I asked to stay, and I told her the truth. It turns out, in a tragedy, no one cares who you are. They care if you can help. And if you stay on the throne, I get to stay here, don’t I.” And she says it like a statement, not a question, as if the mere act of me claiming the throne will change everything. As if she’s not asking me to take the throne, but commanding me to.

  I can’t believe she’d take a risk like telling Dr. Rhana that she’s really Nameless. But I’m too tired to argue, and also, I hope that Dr. Rhana is as good and kind as Hat seems to think she is. I hope Hat can stay.

  “So much for making a speech to soothe the masses,” I say as I test the soreness of my body.

  Hat frowns sympathetically. “I think we’re far past speeches now. Anyway, I’m glad you’re awake.” Before she walks away, she points at my arm and recites what sounds like a memorized line: “Burns. Don’t touch it for the rest of the day. Scrub it clean when you take a shower tonight. Then come get a new bandage. It’ll hurt like spetz, but Dr. Rhana says that it’s really important to keep it clean. Could get infected otherwise.”

  The corridor is still filled, but instead of a sea of gray ashen faces, there are stark white bandages all over the place. There must be a hundred of us at least, here and inside Med Ward. The auras here are like knives pressing against me from every direction. I venture into Med Ward to find Dr. Rhana, and hopefully get some bandages so I won’t have to come back later.

  As I approach Dr. Rhana, however, something else catches my attention. Someone ducks in and out among the cots, searching for someone. Marcher, dressed in Royal blue colors, ash-free and clean, and searching.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I approach him. There are two syringes on a nearby tray. Either of them could be in my hand one second and in Marcher’s throat the next.

  “I heard about that,” he says, ignoring my demand and instead pointing at the bandage around my arm. “How our fearless queen raced into a fire to save her subjects. Did one of them owe you money?” He chuckles.

  I pick up one of the syringes and turn it over between my fingers.<
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  “Answer my question,” I say, “or I’ll have you arrested.”

  He tries not to roll his eyes again. “Have you given any more thought to my proposal? The offer still stands.”

  I open my mouth to call for a guard, and he holds up a hand to stop me.

  “I’m looking for someone,” he says. “That’s all.”

  “Who?”

  He has to think about it for a second, which is how I know he’s about to lie to me. “Enough. Enough of this. Guard?” I summon a guard standing not three paces away as I grab Marcher by the elbow.

  The guard hurries over to us, and I make sure my bandaged arm with the crown tattoo is facing him.

  “This Royal was trying to steal some of the medicine,” I say.

  Marcher puts a hand against his chest as if he’s deeply offended by the accusation.

  “I saw him put something in his pocket,” I say, pushing Marcher’s elbow toward the Guard.

  Marcher throws me the quickest of glances, and there’s a hint of a repressed smirk.

  The guard reaches into Marcher’s pocket and fishes out a syringe.

  Marcher murmurs to me, “Sleight of hand and a reverse pickpocket. Here I was, thinking you’d lost your edge.” He tips an imaginary hat in approval.

  It makes me angry, but not angry enough to overwhelm the pride I feel from outsmarting him. Here I am, ever the competitor, just the way he made me.

  “A night in the holding cells should do him good,” I say.

  “Yes, Your Highness,” the guard answers.

  “Regardless of your terrible mistreatment of me,” Marcher says, “the offer still stands. Time is not on your side. Secrets and time—always at war with each other. And the real secret? Time wins every time. Secrets don’t stay buried forever. You can hide them away in the darkness, but they’ll eventually claw their way to the surface.”

  The guard gives a small salute before escorting Marcher away.