Nameless Queen

by Rebecca McLaughlin

  “To get you to the palace?” Marcher says. “No, that was inevitable once you found the tattoo.”

  “So, what, then?” I demand. “You’re here to join a secret army?”

  He frowns in disappointment. “You’ve got it all wrong.”

  “So all of this?” I gesture at the army. “It’s not a secret?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Marcher says.

  “You mean you don’t know?” Condescension drips from Belrosa’s tongue.

  I grind my teeth.

  “Well, you are in a stressful spot right now, I suppose,” Belrosa says. “And I guess it’s hard to sense something that isn’t there.” Belrosa beams with smug pride. I try again to think of a hallucination that would get me out of this, but nothing I do would fool Marcher.

  “You’re too focused on me,” Belrosa says, dropping her voice to a whisper. “You’re not paying attention. Let me ask you. How many auras do you sense in this room?”

  I answer out of reflex, like breathing. “One.”

  A twinge runs through me, and I turn my gaze out at the hundreds of people in the pit.

  I know I’m wrong. I know what I said can’t be true. It’s like sand on my tongue. Belrosa is the only person with an aura in this room. The dark pit is filled with people and yet somehow empty.

  “They’re…” I stare at the hundreds of women and men, teens, adults.

  “Yes,” Belrosa says. “They’re Nameless. My Nameless army.”

  CHAPTER 18

  “Why?” I stare at the Nameless faces, all stern and unflinching.

  “Why are they Nameless?” Marcher suggests.

  Belrosa adds, “Or why are we training?”

  I glare at them. “Both.”

  “It’s the same answer, really,” Marcher says, deferring to Belrosa.

  She strides to the railing, surveying her soldiers, and I move to keep them both in my sight.

  “Seriden is struggling,” Belrosa says. “The Royal Council blames the Nameless, calls them the criminal scourge dragging us down. They’re wrong. Seriden’s problem is that a Nameless teenager is poised to take the throne and magic has historically been shunted between lackluster Royals who have no vision for the future.”

  “This is your answer? Build an illegal army in the shadows to overthrow Seriden?” The Royal Council will never support it. When I take proof of Belrosa’s misdeeds to the council, they’ll have to arrest her.

  Marcher walks calmly past me. “The Nameless have no identity, no loyalty, and no allegiance. Yes, it’s illegal to build an army. But none of those laws apply to the Nameless. In fact, every Nameless you thought I sent off to their death, every Nameless that’s gone missing, has come here for food, shelter, and a soldier’s training.”

  “With minor exceptions for those few Nameless who refused.” Belrosa shrugs. “I am better equipped to help Seriden thrive than you ever could be.”

  It makes sense. That’s why there would be no trace of the Nameless who disappeared. They weren’t taken by force. They were recruited. Except for those who refused. I think of Anchor, the Nameless boy who showed up dead two weeks before I was named queen. He must’ve turned down the offer to become a soldier, and so Belrosa had him killed.

  In Belrosa’s aura, a strong fire burns. She’s not like the Legals I con in the markets or the deckhands who tilt with whisky. She has seen me lying, and she has seen me honest. I need to throw her off long enough to gain a new advantage.

  Honesty it is, then.

  I scoff, unimpressed. “Just because Nameless soldiers rise from the streets doesn’t mean it’s a mystery who’s pulling the strings. You expect to take over Seriden and avoid suspicion by blaming the Nameless? It won’t work.”

  “Care to enlighten me?” Belrosa’s arms are angled sharply on her hips as she moves to the center of the walkway, just beyond the flickering torch.

  I’ve been clocking Marcher and Belrosa, tracking their movements. But it’s now, as Marcher takes a firm stance in the middle of the walkway behind and Belrosa moves into place ahead, that I realize they’ve blocked both my exits.

  I’m trapped.

  I thought I was being clever. That was my first mistake.

  I scrutinize Belrosa. If I’m quick enough, I can push my way past her, but if she’s ready for me, one touch could break me. I’ve gotten some practice working with the patients at Med Ward, but none of them were ever trying to actively push dark thoughts or memories at me. And I’ve never been able to get past Marcher before. The only time I came close was the time I tried to kill him, and then I had surprise on my side. And it didn’t work. Plus, he’s Nameless, and my magic won’t even affect him.

  I pretend to survey the Nameless army, but I’m really scoping out the rest of the room. I could run down the unguarded side of the walkway. But given the curvature of the path, the soldiers would rush up the stairs and block my exit to the other door. I wouldn’t make it in time.

  I recognize a few faces among the Nameless soldiers, a couple I would have even called “friends” once. But they all have the same stern expression. I wonder if, by some unspoken Nameless bond, they would show me mercy. I doubt it.

  I crouch down, gripping the railing bars like a prison door. “You’ve changed everything.”

  “I have,” Belrosa says proudly. “And I will take everything.”

  Now we’re just testing each other. Who moves first? Who takes the first step? The first lunge, the first strike? I can sense her eagerness to spring forward, to match me in a duel like the ones planned for the festival.

  “Leave it to a mad general to recruit the unwanted for an army,” I say. “If I wasn’t so outmatched, I might be impressed.” I fiddle with my boot, pulling out the oil-soaked cloth.

  “I give them a home, be it in the dark underbelly of the beast,” Belrosa says, projecting her voice for the army’s benefit. “I see to their needs, and I give them structure, order, training, a soldier’s bond. They will win our war, and finally hold a place in the world.”

  So that’s how she got their loyalty. She promised them a future beyond the battle. But she will usurp the throne, and there will be no place for them then.

  I test Belrosa’s aura. It’s firm and unwavering.

  “You may have their loyalty,” I say loudly, “but do they have yours? Don’t forget, Belrosa, I can sense your aura. You may guard it, and you may project confidence…” I walk up to her so that only shadows dance in the space between us.

  “…but you’re afraid,” I add, speaking even louder so the soldiers will hear us. “Afraid that they’ll learn your deceitful plans for them. You promise them names and position, but you don’t have the power to give that to them. When your battles are done, once you’ve finished exploiting them, whoever survives is as good as dead.”

  My voice carries through the room, and I hear the faint rustling of feet. Belrosa doesn’t react. She knows I’m not telling the truth.

  I grin and whisper, “But it sounded like the truth, didn’t it?”

  She growls and advances toward me.

  I make my move. I whip the oily cloth through the flames of the nearby torch. It catches fire, and I throw it at her face.

  It lands on her left shoulder, setting part of her uniform on fire. I use my ability to make her think the fire is stronger, spreading faster, hotter.

  Marcher charges from behind me, but he won’t get to me in time. He grabs for my jacket, but he loses his grip as I heave myself over the railing and down into the pit of soldiers.

  I don’t have unrealistic expectations.

  I don’t expect the Nameless army to welcome me with open arms.

  I don’t expect them to suddenly betray the people who trained them, taught them, and gave them the only possessions they have.

  The only thing I expect is
for them to hesitate.

  When I launch myself over the railing, fall twelve feet through the air, and absorb the impact with a forward roll, no one moves.

  I’m four feet from the sewer drain, and it’s the perfect size.

  I dive to the ground, digging my fingers into the slats of the heavy grate. I wrench it upward and throw it to the side. A body hurtles through the air at me.

  A sweep of brown hair and lean, strong dark arms, and—slam—I’m sideways on the floor.

  I roll an extra length away and search wildly for my opponent. Her short hair hangs shy of her fierce eyes. Dare. She disappeared from the streets at least a year ago. Marcher has been building this army for a very long time.

  Before I can square off to face her, I feel the heat of a body behind me. I crouch and throw my body weight backward with my elbow. I catch the Nameless soldier in the gut, and he doubles over.

  Dare raises her fists as if we’re about to have a street tussle. I don’t know what kind of training they’ve learned. But my instinct isn’t to fight, and it isn’t to kill.

  My instinct is to survive.

  As Dare lunges at me, I curl in toward her and bring my arm down onto the crook of her elbow. Her arm folds inward, and she tries to pull away. As she does, I spin and come at her fast. I throw a hit at her neck with the side of my fist. Off balance, she staggers.

  A couple of soldiers advance on me. Up on the walkway, Belrosa, now free of the illusion, grips the railing, her whole body tense with fury. Marcher stands beside her, looking amused.

  I give them a quick two-finger salute and jump down into the tunnel. I pull my arms tight against my body and fall into darkness.

  I fall for less than a second, but the tunnel is curved, and my right ankle takes a twist as I land in an unpleasant pool of water and filth. The sewer. Not an ideal escape plan, but effective.

  As thudding boots descend the ladder, I break into a run. I don’t know how familiar the Nameless soldiers are with the tunnels, but I know nothing about this area. If Marcher had anything to do with teaching them, they might know every twist, turn, and dead end.

  My ankle flares with each step, but I press onward. In my head, I already have a map of the palace and the dungeon. The network of drainage tunnels likely lines up with the rooms of the palace.

  In the pitch black, my run is more of a staggering jog. One hand follows the curved wall while the other feels the empty space ahead. The tunnel wall curves sharply, and my hand falls to open air. The tunnel curves in two directions. Left and right. The chorus of wet footsteps crashes down the tunnels behind me, getting closer each second.

  I realize I’m not far from the east stairs of the dungeon and there should be a drainage cover nearby. I backtrack and head down the right tunnel. I take a few running steps, stop, and press myself against the wall.

  The clattering footsteps draw to a stop, and a pale gold light shimmers off the slimy walls.

  “Which way?” a soldier asks. I don’t recognize his voice.

  I hold my breath. I have a fifty-fifty chance. If they go left, I can wait until they’re out of earshot. Even if they split up, I have a better shot.

  “Go right,” Dare says.

  Gaiza.

  I start running again.

  A victorious shout, and they pursue me. They’ll catch up soon. There are three of them, their footsteps getting louder. I struggle to pick out shapes in the darkness, but there are only occasional drains overhead that let in sludgy blurs of light.

  I’ve only got a small window to do something clever and escape. I could probably take them one at a time, but I can’t fight off three trained soldiers at once. Not for long, anyway.

  My right hand gives way as another smaller tunnel branches out, and I slip lithely in through the empty space. Enough running. I slide down until I’m sitting on my heels, leaning against the wall. As the quick slap of boots turns the corner, I stick out a leg.

  One of the runners catches my leg hard, rocketing face-first to the ground. He doesn’t get up. The runner behind him trips as well, stumbling and falling, but with less force. My hip jars with the impact, but I push myself into a crouch.

  The third person was farther along and pulls to a stop before reaching me. I snatch up the musket that dropped from the first runner’s grasp. The standing soldier pulls the musket from his shoulder.

  I doubt his is loaded, just as I doubt mine is. As he aims his musket toward me, I pull mine upward into the bottom of his chin. His whole body stiffens, rising an inch, before he collapses downward, unconscious.

  The second runner has recovered, and she throws a punch. I’m not fast enough to dodge it, so I take the hit. I collapse downward and put my weight on my arms. Muck and water cling to my skin, cold and slimy.

  I kick, striking her knee. There’s a terrible crunch. Her knee fractures and dislocates.

  She twists to the side, taking the weight off her leg, and she falls against the wall.

  “You vittin prens,” Dare says through gritted teeth.

  A twinge of guilt pinches in my chest at her injuries, but not enough for me to stick around. I grab the lantern the first soldier dropped. It’s cracked and leaking but unbroken.

  “Thanks.” I lift the lantern. “And sorry.”

  Dare holds her leg and pops it into place, and she throws me a withering glare.

  With light to guide me, I sprint down the tunnels, leaving the three soldiers far behind.

  CHAPTER 19

  I know I should go to Med Ward, but I’m not sure how I’d explain the state of my clothes to Hat without having to explain Belrosa and Marcher, and I don’t want to do that yet.

  Instead I head to my sleeping quarters, which are empty and quiet. I take a shower, sending the filth from my skin back down to the sewer. After a half hour of staring at the sooty lantern shell, I hear a knock at the door. I bolt upright.

  I find my voice, aiming for soothing honey. “Yes?”

  Belrosa’s low voice answers. “We should talk.”

  I don’t have a weapon.

  I could hide. Bar the door. Open the skylight and escape along the roof. But she’s not barging in. She’s not firing her musket through the door. She wants to talk. I snatch my old coat from under the bed, digging for my knife. I hold it pressed up against my arm so it’s not visible.

  I open the door, and Belrosa steps inside.

  Part of me wants her to laugh and explain that it’s all a hoax, that she was testing my loyalties or something. The other part of me wants her to rage through the doorway, bring up her musket, and confront me head-on.

  Instead she surveys the room with stony eyes. I feel her aura like a brick wall: cold and unbreachable.

  “What do you want?” I ask casually, as if I don’t know why she’s here.

  “To discuss our predicament.” Belrosa scans the room.

  Is she making sure I don’t have an escape route? Making sure there are no witnesses? I flip the knife to face forward so she knows I have it.

  “That,” Belrosa says, pointing at the knife, “is not the right choice.”

  “Oh, and you know the best choice?” I gesture angrily with the blade.

  “Sure,” Belrosa says. “The best choice is to listen to the deal I’m offering. You simply need to turn over the crown tattoo at the Assassins’ Festival. It’s in two weeks. We can even have a duel if you like so you can return to the streets with some good stories about fighting the big bad general of the Royal Guard.”

  “Why would I do that?” I ask.

  “If you try to reveal the existence of the Nameless army,” Belrosa says, “the Royal Council won’t believe you. They’ll laugh in your face. Now, if you refuse to meet my duel challenge—if you don’t give me the crown—you’ll see the true danger of an underprivileged class who has been taught to fig
ht. You thought the riots we arranged in the streets were bad? You thought the fires Marcher helped me orchestrate were tragic? Just wait until the Nameless army rises up and starts slaughtering the attendants of the Assassins’ Festival. And who takes the blame for the Nameless scourge killing hundreds of innocent people?”

  Belrosa rolls her stiff shoulders, one of which is scorched, and I sense a pulse of fear from her. As soon as I sense it, it’s gone.

  Belrosa observes me. “Felt that, did you? Yes, I’m familiar with your…abilities. More than you are, I’d wager. The late King Fallow and I had a unique relationship. Rifles and military equipment don’t come easy. I had years to practice on him. In fact”—she steps toward me and puts out her hand—“I know your weaknesses.”

  I stare at her hand. I want to grab it and crush it, feel the pop of bones, watch her features curl in pain. If Belrosa thinks she can use the same trick on me twice, I’m out to prove her wrong. I can do this.

  I take her hand in mine. I try to push her into one of my memories from the streets.

  “Are you trying to push my thoughts?” Belrosa chuckles. “It’s a great burden to sense the auras and memories of your subjects, you know. To have all that exposed, raw emotion coursing through you, gliding past. Well, I’ve had a lot of practice. I can make it stick.” With that, she grasps my hand tightly.

  A surge of energy courses through her, up my arm, and into my body. The tattoo on my left arm sears, burning like ice.

  Then a hundred terrible, horrible memories and thoughts splinter through me. Burning fear like fire, every piece of me scorching.

  It cripples me.

  I feel the pain of loss, the heat of uncontrollable anger—its poison seeping through my skin and down to my bones. The dark, gnawing acid of hate. Fear so inconsolably rigid that it digs to my heart and hollows it out. Before I know it, I’m on my knees.

  Belrosa stands over me, gripping my hand with iron strength. Cold tears fall down my cheeks. Bones burn as I realize I’ve lost every single thing in the world that I ever loved. I am alone.