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Nameless Queen

Page 20

by Rebecca McLaughlin


  “You make it sound so noble,” I say, doing a half curtsy.

  “It is,” she says wholeheartedly. “And it should be. But. You really just have to know what you want to do with that power and what it means to you. More importantly, you have to know what kind of person you want to be, because power won’t change you. Power only allows you to change yourself.”

  I cycle through the sarcastic quips I want to respond with: that my idea of power involves power napping, that I want to be the kind of person who doesn’t get distracted by jingling pockets, or that the only change I want to see in myself is a nice haircut.

  Instead, I remain quiet and observe the room. I catch sight of Hat as she tends to a patient. She wears a white training cap, and her hair is pulled back sharply. She looks nothing like the girl I saved from the gallows. She looks everything like the woman she could become. She is changing as much as I am. Only, while Hat is taking charge of her new responsibilities, I’m trying to give mine away to Esther. And not only does Esther refuse to accept that I am ill-equipped for power, but she’s also waiting patiently for me to embrace it. It’s almost annoying.

  For the first time in my life, someone expects goodness from me. And, for the first time, I want to try.

  * * *

  Each day for two weeks, I meet with Esther at Med Ward to practice my magic, and then I train with Glenquartz in a sparring room in the southern part of the palace. Really it used to be an assembly room, but there’s a one-inch soft mat across a large section of the floor and a table that currently holds four different types of swords.

  I hold one of the swords lazily, with the blade resting gently against the floor.

  “You’re the one who said you wanted to train for the duels,” Glenquartz says. “You’ve got to focus if you want to be prepared. You don’t know who’s going to challenge you or how many people you’re going to have to fight. It could be a hundred people. And between now and then, sure—the Royal Council has agreed to wait until the Assassins’ Festival for you to pass the tattoo peacefully, but it’s possible that there are people who are more willing to risk destroying magic if it means they get a chance at the tattoo.”

  “You think they’re going to come at me with swords?” I observe the sharp steel skeptically and return it to the table.

  “Probably not,” he says impatiently. “That’s why we’ll also train in hand-to-hand.”

  I cross my arms and brace my right foot behind me.

  The briefest grin passes over Glenquartz’s face, and he reaches for me to put me in a restriction hold or tackle me, but in two seconds flat, he’s on the floor.

  “Did you just punch me in the sternum?” he asks between gasps.

  “My reflex is to go for the throat,” I explain. “But that seemed kind of rude.”

  He reassesses me. “Thank you, I guess?”

  “You think I never got in a fight before?” I say. “Though I could do with some proper sparring tips. All my moves are to incapacitate and flee. Stomp on a foot, punch a throat, and escape into the night with a solid gold harp.” I stare through the window wistfully.

  Glenquartz’s eyes bug out. “That was you?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “No,” Glenquartz says. “I know it was you, because that was me.”

  I stare down my nose at him where he still sits on the floor.

  “I was guarding a shipment as it was being unloaded at the docks,” he says. “We were accepting a Royal gift from Lady Sovereign Olefar, and I was transporting it personally when some Nameless bandits attacked us.”

  “Nameless bandits?” I say as if I’m unfamiliar with the word. I study him for a moment, trying to stay serious.

  Then we both burst with laughter.

  “No more distractions,” I say, smiling. “Show me how to fight.”

  I enjoy fighting far more than I should. Striking fists is an outlet for every anger that has made a home in my chest, every anxious fear in my head. What it does best, however, is clear my mind before I join Esther at Med Ward.

  I’m baffled by why Hat would want to spend her time here. But she’s happily buzzing between cots, checking on injuries, changing medications, and learning words like “aspirate” and “suture.”

  When Esther and I take a break, I join her where she’s sitting on an empty cot in the corner of the room. I’ve since caught her up on the whole “Esther and I both have magical tattoos” secret, and she helps distract Dr. Rhana when Esther and I visit Med Ward to practice my abilities.

  “I kind of feel like I’m cheating, coming to this place,” I say to Hat.

  She cocks her head to the side. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re helping people. I’m practicing my magical hallucination-inducing abilities.” When I say it out loud, it sounds silly.

  Hat’s chin lifts. “I’m here for selfish reasons too. I’m no longer on the streets or in prison. Rhana is looking after me, and I’m helping people. And I’m learning a lot.”

  I remember rescuing Hat from execution. No shame in truth, I told her.

  “I think it’s time I take a page from your book,” I say.

  Hat nods approvingly. “I’m about to impart some sage wisdom, okay?” She holds my shoulder as if to comfort me.

  I hide a humored smile.

  “You could be doing whatever you want with your magic,” Hat says. “Stealing from annoying Royals like we used to, or burning down the palace from the inside. But you’re not. We’re not. That’s good, isn’t it?”

  Hat pulls me to the cot of a patient whose arms are tied to the bed frame with cloth.

  “Is this one of the rioters?” I ask, gesturing at the restraints. I can sense the man’s aura, sharp and pained.

  Hat shakes her head. “He has burns on his arms, his wrists, his hands, and his chest. And he keeps scratching, which is bad for the burns, which is why he’s restrained. If you could calm him down, I can put some ointment on his wrists.”

  She holds a dark glass jar filled with cream and a small wooden applicator.

  I let out a small breath. I haven’t done this without Esther yet.

  The man is clearly agitated, restless and unaware of my presence. I place my hand beneath his ear, at his jawline.

  His skin is hot, and I pull my hand away, as if touched by fire.

  “He has a fever,” Hat says. “It’s one of the reasons he really needs the medicine.”

  I again place my hand on his neck. At first, it’s a sharp tug of fear in my gut. Then I see a wall of fire so close it sears my skin.

  I try to pull away, but the sensation is too strong.

  The man stumbles away from the fire. His body isn’t yet burned. This is his house. For a moment, he wants to go in, but a flash of movement steals his attention. A man in gray clothing flees the fire.

  Suspicion and anger flare through the man’s chest. He follows after the man in gray, who seems to be carrying fire in his hands. That can’t be right.

  He pursues as the gray man slinks toward the next house. He’s holding a torch. From a bag, he pulls out a book. He fans the pages and touches them to the torch, then hurls it through the window. There’s a shatter of glass, and then a low glow emanates from within. More screams from inside. The man heads toward the screams and toward the heat.

  Pain sears my arms in the memory, and I turn us away from the terrible sight. I take us to West Market—my familiar hunting grounds. I imagine the scent of freshly seared chicken and spiced peppers. I share the feeling of sweat against my chilled skin and warm gloves on my hands.

  As I withdraw, the man calms down. He takes the memory from me, and suddenly he’s sitting on the rooftop with a small child—his son.

  I remove my hand, and I’m standing beside Hat again next to the cot. She has fini
shed applying the medicine, and she bows her head in thanks.

  “I saw part of his memory from the fire,” I say, shaking my head as I try to recapture the image in my mind.

  “That must have been hard,” Hat says.

  Esther joins us, an eyebrow arched skeptically. “Did you do it without me?” she says, trying to be surreptitious around Hat.

  I don’t answer her. “Hat, what did you say about the people who took that Nameless boy from the prison?”

  Esther’s aura perks up, and I realize she hasn’t met Hat yet and probably didn’t know she was Nameless. “Hat? Are you…the girl from the execution?”

  Hat tilts her head. “And you’re the king’s daughter?”

  I wave my hand as if to brush away their conversation and the sensation of Esther’s curious aura—like the prickling of mosquito legs on my arms. “Hat. The people from the prison. What did they look like?”

  “Right. Yes. It was dark and I never saw their faces, but I thought they were maybe wearing uniforms.”

  “Is it possible the uniforms were gray?” I ask.

  Hat shrugs.

  “What are you talking about?” Esther asks.

  I tell her about the memory I witnessed: a gray-uniformed man setting fires. “Is it possible he’s a soldier from another city?”

  “It’s unlikely,” Esther says. “None of the other cities have gray as the color for their Royal guards.”

  In the pause that follows, Hat says, “Dr. Rhana told me this morning that the Nameless woman you’ve been checking on is ready to leave.”

  “Can we escort her home?” Esther asks me.

  “She probably lives on the streets or in the alleys,” I say.

  Esther’s shoulders stiffen. “All the more reason for us to give her an escort. We should make sure she gets someplace safe.”

  The Nameless woman calls herself Spell. She says she has a daughter, but she doesn’t know if she survived the fire. I don’t tell her that five Nameless bodies were pulled from the wreckage.

  I bring Spell a bright blue coat for her to wear so that people will assume she’s a Royal when we move through the city. Spell still has a bit of a rasp in her voice from the smoke, but she’s well enough to whisper directions once we get out of the palace.

  Glenquartz accompanies me and Esther with another three Royal guards in case my mere presence sets off another riot.

  As we move through the Inner Ring and to the South Residences, I can tell that some people recognize me. They do a double take and hurry out of the way.

  We come upon the road with the six burned-down houses, and Spell stumbles when she sees the extent of the blackened wreckage.

  The sight makes my heart seize. Four of the houses each have a dark black curtain hanging over the doorway. For the house that collapsed, the black curtain is strung up crooked between two fractured support beams. The curtains are heavy enough to hang straight, but light enough to shift like black frames of water in the gentle winds. It’s beautiful and horrifying. I hold Spell’s elbow to keep her steady, but she pushes away my hands and keeps onward, staring at a house with a partially collapsed roof at the far end of the street.

  “Wasn’t that rude?” Esther whispers to me as Spell walks faster and farther ahead.

  I shake my head. “No. She told me she’s searching for her daughter. She wants to be strong.”

  Glenquartz’s shoulders tighten, and his aura pulls inward. “Is the daughter…?”

  “We don’t know,” I say. I feel like an insensitive cur. I brought Glenquartz out here so we could find out if this woman’s daughter had survived the fires, and it didn’t occur to me that it would be difficult for him since he lost little Flannery. He followed me here on faith and obligation.

  When we reach the house, it’s badly damaged, but it’s still standing. The door is open, and there’s movement somewhere beyond the black curtain. Spell would be running, no doubt, if she wasn’t clearly still in pain from her injuries.

  Without pause, Spell bursts into the home, and Glenquartz, Esther, and I are on her heels. I make a motion for the other Royal guards to stay outside.

  “Excuse me?” a Legal woman says. She stands, thin and tall like an elegant bird, beside a long table. All sorts of recovered keepsakes sit upon it: cracked dishes, a tangle of jewelry, a collection of burned toys. This woman has children. I sense two small shining auras upstairs, just out of sight.

  Spell presses a hand to her heart, and she opens her mouth but doesn’t speak.

  I move forward. “We’re here to inquire about the fire. Were there any…any deaths in this house?”

  The woman glances behind us at the mourning veil, and she almost crumbles. “My husband.”

  Spell finally finds the strength to speak. “My daughter. Is she here?”

  The Legal woman freezes in place. She stares at Spell as if seeing her for the first time.

  “It’s you.” She moves forward suddenly and extends her hand to Spell. “My name is Agatha. I live here with my sons.” She turns toward the stairs urgently. “Remi! Lin!”

  A patter of hesitant footsteps tiptoe down the stairs. But it’s three children that come down. There are two boys with sandy brown hair like Agatha’s, and there’s a small girl with a halo of dark hair.

  “Nani!” Spell shouts, and the little girl runs to her mother.

  “You tried to save my husband in the fire,” Agatha says. “I…I saw you run in.”

  “I came for my daughter,” Spell says, her voice cracking. “I was looking for Nani when I found him. I tried to pull him out…but I didn’t make it. And then the ceiling was on fire. I don’t remember much after that. I’m…” She removes the bright blue Royal’s coat to show that her clothes are tattered and streaked with black dye. “I was living in your cellar with my daughter. We’re very quiet during the day. We’ve never stolen much more than the food you’ve thrown away.”

  “I knew,” Agatha says suddenly. “I knew you were there. At first I was scared. I didn’t know why you were here. But then I learned our children had befriended each other, and I still didn’t want to acknowledge your presence, because I would have been breaking the law by housing you here. I wouldn’t be sent to prison, not really, but you and your family…” She trails off.

  “The house is big enough,” says one of Agatha’s boys. “I don’t see the problem.”

  Agatha turns to us, taking in our Royal clothing. “I’m hoping you won’t say anything to anyone?” The curious, questioning tone in her voice almost makes me laugh with relief. Her gaze moves between the crown on my arm and Glenquartz’s holstered pistol. When she recognizes Esther on sight, her lips part in shock.

  “Of course I won’t,” I say. I didn’t know it could be like this. I imagine Hat sitting with these children. She’d fit right in.

  “Why do you call yourself Spell?” Agatha asks.

  “Oh, you shouldn’t ask that,” I say, holding up a cautionary hand. “The Nameless pick their own names, but the reason why is personal and sometimes painful.”

  Spell nods slowly.

  “Thank you for trying to save my husband, Spell,” Agatha says.

  Spell inclines her head. “Thank you for looking after my daughter, Agatha.”

  Agatha wipes the tears from her cheeks and speaks to Glenquartz. “Have you found out who was responsible for starting the fires? The only thing I remember was that someone threw a book of some kind through the glass, and then the flames! They were everywhere.”

  Glenquartz straightens, always the loyal guard. His voice has a slight waver to it when he speaks. “I haven’t heard of any progress in the inquiry.” He gives a small bow of apology.

  “It’s some kind of group, isn’t it?” Agatha says. “I saw some of them. They were all in gray, like a uniform. Some of them had these long guns. B
ut I didn’t recognize any of them.”

  I feel Esther staring at me, and I wish she wouldn’t.

  “We will look into this,” I say, realizing immediately that I sound like a political grandstander, like a speaker announcing a new tax law from the gazebo at West Market. I advance and loosen my shoulders, actively repressing every lesson I’ve ever had from Eldritch about posture and politics. I put a hand on each of their shoulders, feeling the fears seep into me from Agatha and feeling nothing but warm skin from Spell.

  “I will find out who did this,” I say. “I’ll find out why, and I’ll make sure they suffer for it.”

  We pass through the mourning curtain on our way out, and I’m chased by the image of three children and two mothers huddled together in a half-burned house. Glenquartz is doing his best to hide how shaken he is, so I slip my arm into his, letting him hold on to me as we walk toward the Royal Court. I take care to keep my sleeves pulled down so I don’t accidentally touch his arm and allow his memories to seep into me.

  What we just saw—four weeks ago, I would have thought it was impossible. If two mothers can care for each other’s families, then why can’t the city take note? Why can’t Seriden work the same way?

  When we round the last corner, nearly a hundred Nameless men and women stand in complete silence in front of the gates. The guards behind me all draw their rifles, except for Glenquartz, who puts his hand on my shoulder. I immediately stretch out an arm in front of their weapons, but they don’t make a move to lower them.

  “If you don’t put down your weapons,” I say to the guards, “I’ll put you down.”

  Slowly, they obey. I am their queen, after all. The Nameless nearest to us ease up a bit, but none of them move. I’ve never seen anything like this. The Nameless don’t work together. They don’t gather in groups. They don’t…read. They’re all holding books. Some hold them like torches; others clutch them to their chests like shields. As we begin walking, many turn toward the gates and gently hold the books toward me.

 

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