The Puppet Queen: A Tale of the Sleeping Beauty Read online

  Chapter Nine

 

  The Bronze Throne of Ghalain is not hereditary. Rather, each Emirati ruler has a claim to the crown. Thus, the death of Ghalain’s ruler is often followed by strife, but despite the messiness, the emirdoms are reluctant to change the system. After all, as it stands, each family has the opportunity to place one of theirs at Ghalain’s helm. The current ruler, Queen Erina was aging and the emirs and emiras were growing restless.

  Sometimes, even the illness of a monarch spurs civil war.

  Since Gwydion had announced that we were nearing the Aquian border, thoughts of thrones and inheritance had been swirling with a vengeance. It was certainly easier thinking about thrones than about anything concerning him. Nothing in his manner suggested that he had given a second thought to his battery—but I could not tuck it away so easily. I felt little shame in admitting to myself that fear of him curdled my insides: only a fool would be not be afraid after the beating in the chamber. The man was quicksilver: furious one second, smiling the next: difficult to handle, manage, or manipulate. I wondered if he thought me crushed. It would take more than that to break me.

  As the carriage crested a low hill, we emerged from the forest. I had escaped to Viziéra through these very woods, now autumn-gilded crimson and yellow. Memories of riding Cinnamon rustled in my mind, like a flash of falling leaves as the vista broadened to reveal a wide meadow, dotted with tall watchtowers. The border.

  Seasons, seasons, seasons, seasons, seasons, a blighted blizzard of seasons.

  The carriage door swung upon and Gwydion jumped out. He looked at me over his shoulder, but did not proffer aid out of the coach. I stepped out of the carriage, eyeing him coolly. The purple-red bruises splashed across my cheeks diminished the effect.

  While no visible line distinguished the border between Aquia from Viziéra, it was easy enough to tell where one emirdom ended and the other began judging by the watchtowers. The history between Viziéra and Aquia is marked with frequent border wars and these watchtowers dated from a war fought one-hundred and twenty years before that pushed Aquia’s borders further into Viziéra. Viziéra had been seething since.

  From where we stood, one step would send us into Aquia. Taking a quick breath, I leapt across that invisible line, half-expecting to crash asleep.

  Gwydion gave me a patiently amused look, the look a mother dog would give an overly rambunctious pup. It rankled. I loped towards the sentry watchtowers to see if the sentries really were asleep, to see this curse for myself. As I climbed the rickety wooden ladder to the top of the tower, I almost thought that Gwydion would shake it from beneath me. But not yet.

  My paranoia receded at the sight of the sentries. Two men, of middling age, sprawled on the ground, left exactly where they had fallen. A trickle of blood had dried into the graying hair of one. I swept down beside him and laid an ear against his chest to detect any heartbeat. I heard none: the man was dead, killed by that fool curse as surely as if the Pari themselves had clubbed him over the head. I moved on to the other man. This time, I did hear a heartbeat, faint and slow. I thanked the Seasons, but I knew I could not leave this sentry here to die; no matter how he slept, the cold would touch him even if age did not.

  “Gwydion,” I called. “We need men to take these sentries inside somewhere; to bring inside all those lying outside. To bury those who have died. We cannot let them perish of exposure and leave corpses to rot and bloat where they have fallen.”

  He shaded his eyes against the bright sun. “It is Autumn yet, my foolish Selene. They are not likely to freeze in these mild temperatures, but the weather is chill enough to stymie any excess rotting.” Delicately, he wrinkled his nose.

  “So you would leave them out here like animals?” I asked coldly.

  “They are only commoners.”

  Oh, how infuriatingly arrogant his voice was. I wished I could let my words fly at him, but I knew I had to tread carefully if I wished to get anything done. That much at least I had learned at the inn in Illiac.

  “Commoners are the backbone of Aquia. Who do you think farms the grain, tends the livestock? They may seem useless to you now, but when they awake you will need them. We must get them out of the weather before the nights turn cold.”

  Gwydion gave such a sigh that I could hear it, high up as I was. “Very well. Once we have the infrastructure set up and securely hold the seat of Aquia, then we shall do as you like with these…good folk.”

  Those words were too loose to be binding, but I pressed no further. I took my gains as they came.

  Hopping down from the ladder, I landed beside Gwydion. “What now? We came, we saw, let’s move.”

  “Very well,” he said brusquely. Tightly clenching my hand, he tugged me towards the carriage. “Aquia City is only half a day’s drive from here.”

  “But it is only a two hour ride,” I pointed out. “I, for one, am going to ride. You are welcome to join me, of course. Tell your man to saddle Cinnamon.”

  His mouth thinned dangerously, and despite my fatalism a mere moments before, I decided I was tired of his tempestuous temper. Although the pain from my bruises was still bright, I was on home territory; Aquia sang in my blood and that emboldened me. But only to an extent.

  “Well?” I said impatiently. Without hearing his response and not waiting for Darce to saddle Cinnamon, I nimbly hopped upon the mare’s back, casually arranging my skirts. I twisted my fingers in her mane. Finding a comfortable seat, I started Cinnamon at a slow canter and followed beside the carriage.

  “So, Gwydion, will you join me?” I called. He made no move to stop me and I galloped down the well-trodden path through the swinging high grass of the plains.

  After some time riding alone, relishing my liberty and the sight of the unfolding plains of my land, I heard strange hoof beats following me. Craning my neck, I saw Gwydion’s flashing scarlet cloak; a fool dandified piece that would only make him easier to spot by archers. With grim satisfaction, I folded the thought away for later. I spurred Cinnamon on; home was close. I had to cross one more hill that would lead me into the Letern Woods. After an uphill ride through the tangles of the forest and a final dash across the plains, I would reach the City Walls.

  I dug my heels into Cinnamon’s side. Her muscles, soft from city-living, rippled fluidly beneath her sweat-gleaming chestnut coat. We reached the base of the hill. The city walls loomed; white shining masses, blinding in the sun, and impossible to climb, polished so that no footholds remained. The first large gateway was closed, but I spotted a smaller side door left ajar. A fortuitous accident. Slipping into a city alley, I firmly locked the gate behind me. My heart bounced— Gwydion’s crimson cloak flashed on the plain. I quickened my pace up the white steps.

  Strewn bodies of townsfolk lay here and there across the stairs and streets. All gently sleeping. Horses, mules, and goats wandered the grey streets listlessly. Weaving uphill through the city, past the curving townhouses and bazaar squares, I approached the Mehal. Its strong black iron gate loomed above, boldly throwing its shadow. The bars were too narrow for an armored man to pass through, but I managed to squeeze myself through. I opened the gate, allowing Cinnamon in and then locked it once more. Patting the horse’s nose, I let her go: she would find her way to the stables easily enough.

  It was uncanny seeing my city so. My nerves were alert, waiting for the sleepers to rise, as if someone I knew would walk by. Jumpily, my head cocked towards the faint whisper of a breeze. Passing through the great carved door of the Mehal, I raised my skirts to avoid the fallen servants and ran to Auralia’s tower room. Delicately stepping over prone guards, I walked into the chamber, now so unfamiliar that I nearly backtracked out. Where there had been two, slim beds, a large bed lay and new daffodil yellow curtains framed the windows. An unfamiliar dusky rose and indigo rug spread at the foot of the bed. Then I saw Auralia slumped on the floor, her embroidery basket spilled beside her. My knees buckled.

  “Rory, Rory. Wake up
, wake up!” Of course, it was useless. She sighed softly in her sleep as I stifled my hiccoughs. Unable to leave my hands idle, I tidily swept up the embroidery basket. My finger pricked against something sharp. Yelping, I stuck my finger into my mouth, holding up the offender. A spindle. My mind shot back to the story Beya had told me so long ago. “…Whereby you will be felled by a most innocuous thing: a spindle.” If Auralia had been awake, I would have shaken her. Of all the nights to play with her embroidery! If I had been her, I would worn a suit of armor and sat alone in my room all day. Try and get a spindle at me then.

  Grunting, I lifted Auralia onto the bed and tucked the carnation pink coverlets under her chin. Her crackling amber-gold hair fanned over the pillow. I examined her face, trying to reacquaint myself with its new smoothed contours. The softness of childhood had fallen away, revealing sharp cheekbones, a fine jawline, and a smooth brow. My fingers traced my own face. She was beautiful in that classic way I could never manage.

  Shutting Auralia’s door, I stepped into the hall. I took a still-lit torch, lighting wall-sconces as I went. Walking through those familiar black and white arches, home hit me full force. I wanted my mother.

  Torch still flaring in my hand, I was surprised to find my parents’ chamber completely devoid of sleepers. Perhaps they had gone to the temple to pray and left Auralia, guarded in her room. I could not fathom what had possessed her to embroider. Magic, no doubt, I realized. My skin rose again and I looked around carefully, as if some pari, some vestige of magic still lurked in the corners.

  I made my way down to the private family temple. It was a small ziggurat, connected to the main palace by a hallway illuminated with instructive religious mosaics. And there...there they lay. The temple’s candles threw shuddering, golden light on my sprawling, sleeping family. There lay Evra, Ceara, their children...even their husbands, one of whom had been the heir to Darsepol. I wondered what his father would think now. I saw the collapsed forms of Danyal, Necolai, Gareth, and little Gieneve, her dark hair spilling with abandon. With rising horror, I saw that Necolai’s and Gareth’s wives lay there beside them, clutching their children in their arms. There were a few children I did not recognize—nieces and nephews born while I was in Clemen. What had possessed them to come? If only they had stayed away....

  In the front, lay Mother and Father, Beya. Near the entrance, stretched Matiz and his companions. All praying in vain for something to deter this curse. I wished there had been more cowards in my family so that they too would have fled. Instead, here I stood, the last and least of the Khamad. The guilt that had ebbed into the cracks of my conscience rushed back.

  Seeing them there, for the first time in two years, opened the sluice gate of memories from a more idyllic past. The time Danyal, Gareth and I had gone to a tavern in Aquia when I was fourteen and they had gotten me roaringly drunk; Father had tanned their hides so sore that they could not sit for a week. Another: Ceara sat with me, late into the night, polishing out the finer points of my history and philosophy; Smiling Evra patiently stitching up my new gown that I had torn after having gone exploring by myself and torn it through despite Beya’s admonishments. I remembered holding Gieneve for the first time and feeling so grown-up and responsible. Nic’s stern veneer cracking through with a broad grin when he had received his captaincy and how proud I had felt of him. I recalled standing beside my mother when I was very young and hugging her skirts and knowing I could never be safer. Father twirled me around a ballroom at my first dance when I was thirteen and told me that I had become a lady—even as mud smudged my cheek. Auralia and I, so tiny that we had to hop to reach our beds, curled together under the blankets during a thunderstorm that shook the entire palace with its ferocity. A life. They were my life.

  “Tragic, isn’t it?”

  I whipped around in surprise, my fists reflexively balling up. Gwydion walked in, surveying the scene with cool calculation, flanked by his troop of men.

  “You know Gwydion, the fact that you cannot travel anywhere without a posse at your back suggests that you, are, in fact, a bloody coward,” I observed, immediately bracing myself for a strike that did not come. Before he could retort, I changed the subject. “How did you get in?”

  Chuckling softly, he said, “My dear Selene, you could not have believed that I had not already made a move to secure Aquia. Before I left, I ascertained a few paths for reentry.”

  I had not known that, actually. He had known then—or guessed—that leaving Aquia might circumvent the curse. Perhaps the pari girl with goldenrod wings had told him. And he had not told anyone. “What will you do now?” I demanded. The bruise on my face throbbed.

  Carefully, he snaked through the tangle of bodies to stand closer to me, but I dodged towards the door. “By next week, emissaries will begin arriving from the other emirdoms, from the queen herself. You, of course, will be the one they meet as Emira Niobe’s only sentient heir. Oh and of course, we will be married very soon,” he added as an afterthought.

  I attempted to stay steady, but it was hard knowing that he had had some foreknowledge of how to avoid the curse and had selfishly kept the information to himself. “Have your people move them to their proper places, will you?” I asked sweetly. I seethed that I had to make requests of him in my mother’s own palace, mine own palace now, but with aches and injuries pulsating, I knew I had to be careful—especially when I was calm enough to remember the lesson. Racing to reach the city had probably exhausted his goodwill for the day.

  “Of course,” he agreed, winding an arm about my waist. I was proud I did not cringe.

  He motioned for his men to carry my family to their rooms. After they departed, he said, “Now that we are alone, I have a surprise for you.”

  “Oh, whatever could it be?” I deadpanned.

  Sweeping down to one knee, he retrieved the box he had shown me in the carriage and offered it before me. “Emira Selene, will you take me as your husband?”

  I stared at him. I did not understand his need to frame the command as a question. My answer was inevitable, outside my control. My hand unconsciously drifted to the bruises on my cheek. A dangerous man to cross. “Yes.”

  Eagerly, perhaps a touch avariciously, he slipped the ring onto my finger. Taking my arm once more, he escorted me back to the main palace.

  “We have to make wedding plans,” I pointed out suddenly, formulating the most haphazard plan known to man.

  “What?”

  “Plans,” I explained, waving my hands as if to outline my comments. “A dress, clothes, bridesmaids, grooms, seating, invitations, food. If we are to marry, I expect nothing less than a fine event. It has always been my dream, you know,” I said a touch pleadingly. I would not wish him to see through my plans as clearly as I had through his.

  He looked at me with misgiving. “Change of heart?”

  For this play, I threw all of my cards into the mix and caution, truth, and subtlety to the wind. “Oh Gwydion!” I declared. “You must know I love you. That with every breath of mine I have longed for you. And when I could not see you for these past few years I thought my heart would burst with need. And I only took a separate room out of propriety.” When he still appeared nonplussed, I closed my eyes and brought my lips to his for a kiss and found my fingers twining through his hair of their own volition. After a few moments, I drew back, breathing heavily. I hoped he took my flush for enthusiasm, not embarrassment.

  “I never knew you felt that way.”

  I stood silent.

  Gwydion actually seemed shaken. “Selene…I never knew you felt this way. You shall have your wedding, but we will officially wed today.” He stroked my tangled, unwashed hair.

  I bore his ministrations as best I could. “Today?”

  He chucked my chin. “Do not think for a moment, you minx, that I am ensnared by those blue eyes of yours,” he chuckled, dropping the affectation of unsteadiness like a disposed cloak. “I know very well you have never been madly in love with me. I am no
t going to let you escape so easily.”

  “Gwdyion, I would never flee from you. I love you.” The words were bitter in my mouth, like the aftertaste of a citrus peel. “I only desire to have the sort of wedding my family would have wished for me.”

  He burst out laughing. “Your overtures at intrigue and half-truths are quite amusing although not at all convincing. Where do you think I have been the past few years? I have been living by intrigue and military strategy in the Court of Hademer across the sea, not cooling my heels in Clemen with peasants. I hope that wasn’t your best effort.”

  Hademer lies across the Middle Sea from Ghalain. At the dawn of history, Hademerians invaded Ghalain and intermarried among the native Ghalainis. Now, their country is known for the deadly intrigues of their courtiers and kings. Poisonings and assassinations are too common there to elicit even a raised eyebrow.

  He shook his head ruefully. “I am afraid I am in for a dull lifetime with you.”

  I bit my tongue.

  The guards stepped aside as we entered the palace’s great hall. And there was the memory of my birthday dinner, of laughing with Gwydion and my father, of dancing with them. Who would have thought that this would have been the result two years later? This time, Gwydion took Father’s seat. I bristled at his presumption. He was no one. He was not the heir to the emirdom, of the Khamad line. But I sat silently beside him, mechanically chewing the cold chicken and hard rice that were doubtlessly leftovers from last night’s dinner. Gwydion drank deeply of his wine goblet. I favored my water.

  “Pray tell, who will be wedding us,” I finally asked.

  “Antony, in my retinue, is of the order of fighting priests and he has been most obliging.”

  Nodding, I pushed my food around my plate, appetite extinguished. As much as I detested admitting it, the prospect of marriage to Gwydion frightened me. Frightened me so that I could hardly choke down the chicken. My fork shredded the white meat.

  Gesturing towards my plate and goblet, Gwydion advised with a wink, “Finish up Selene. You should bear up your strength for the wedding and the following festivities.”

  I wanted to tear his eye out.

  Smiling brightly, I announced that I had finished. He grinned back, equally artificial.

  Again, we walked past the temple’s glinting mosaics that depicted long-dead ancestors lighting pyres, blessing harvests. Seasons, I wished one of them could shake free of the gold-and-lapis tiles and rescue me. But the wishing was pointless and soon enough, the rough warrior-priest was reading out the blessings and we were reciting our replies.

  As I signed the contract, my fingers trembled, as became a bride.

  Chapter Ten