The Queen's Choice

  I gaped at the scene, feeling like the blood was draining from my body and leaving me gray and empty. While I had no strong desire to stop the execution, I was vehement that Spex shouldn’t have to bear witness to his own father’s death. I knew little about Spex, but I’d seen him handled like a street mutt by Hastings and take the abuse without complaint to keep his family alive. He’d done what he could to help me find Evangeline. He wasn’t good, but he wasn’t evil, either. Fi’s words of mercy echoed in my mind, generating guilt that threatened to consume me like a disease.

  “We don’t have to watch this, Anya,” Shea said, her voice desperate. “Let’s get out of here.”

  I nodded, grateful I wasn’t alone in wanting to flee. Then Governor Ivanova stepped to the rail of the seating box to address the crowd, a young dog hopping up to sit beside his elbow. A servant reached for the animal, but it growled and snapped at the man’s fingers, successfully retaining its position.

  “Just another minute,” I said, against my instincts. “I have to hear him speak.”

  Shea shifted foot to foot, then tugged the hood of her cloak close about her face and nodded as the speech commenced.

  “A long time ago, you and I began an initiative that was not devoid of challenges, not without opposition, but most of all, not without benefits that outweighed the risks,” the Governor said, his voice wavering with age but constant in conviction. “This initiative was to bring two powerful, innovative cultures together, the humans and the Fae, for the betterment of both. Setbacks were inevitable, then and now, some caused by the well-intentioned, some outside of our control, and some perpetrated with injurious intent in order to prevent our progress.”

  Ivanova’s eyes, no longer so warm, went to the scaffolding and the sentenced man. He swept his arm grandly in the same direction, and his dog, a wolflike puppy, began to pace the rail. “This convict before you, Alexander Eskander, is more than a thief. He is more than a poacher. He is more than a deviant from the laws of our great society. He is a murderer, and one of the enemies to progress that I have described.”

  Hisses and curses rose from the crowd. The Governor permitted the sound to swell, then silenced the assemblage by raising his hands.

  “Alexander Eskander has caused immeasurable pain to our allies, the Fae, and thus has caused pain to every citizen of the Warckum Territory. He has abused and mutilated them, thus has abused and mutilated us. He has hunted them, and taken and sold their wings for his own personal gain, thus he has sold a part of every one of us. He is a scourge and a plague upon our advancement and, like a cancer, we must cut him out to preserve the health and majesty of our commonwealth.”

  “The Fae may be your friends, Gov’nor, but they’re not ours!”

  The shout reverberated in the air, to be echoed by several others in the mass of citizens, along with sentiments such as “Black magic kills!” and “Allies are all lies!” Indignation and the desire to counter this prejudice swelled in my chest, and I recalled the day of Falk’s Pride, when bullets had rained on my people to protest our dealings with humankind. Remembrance of that incident checked me at once. I’d been shot inside our sanctuary of magic, where guns and bullets and violence were abhorred, and where the elements had been at the ready to defend me. How many times was the danger multiplied in Tairmor, where almost every person carried a loaded firearm, and the public might not support me if I joined the fray?

  In answer to this question, eggs, fruit, and rocks flew toward a group of Fae who were huddled together with heads down. I recognized them as members of the Home, and was shocked to see they had dared to drop their shrouds. They shrieked and stumbled, curling their wings around their bodies and yanking their coats and cloaks up to protect their bowed heads. Nevertheless, I saw a stone collide with one man’s jaw, and a geyser of blood and teeth explode out the side of his mouth.

  Though the group under siege was across the semicircle from us, I shifted behind Shea, hoping to disappear. At least I didn’t look Fae. Only a spotter would know the difference. In the next moment, I was awash in shame. My reaction was exactly what the terrorists wanted: to make me hate my heritage and wish to be something different.

  Red-uniformed officers were quick to subdue and remove the rabble-rousers, almost as though they’d expected a riot. Other law enforcement checked on the injured and helped a few to medical stations. The actions of the Constabularies served to reinforce the Governor’s message, and I was sparked with confidence that Ivanova was genuine in his support of my people. As things quieted, I studied his form, but his expression revealed little of his reaction to the incident, although his dog snarled. Knowing that animals often picked up on their master’s moods, I suspected there was more going on beneath the surface. Luka, on the other hand, didn’t disguise anything. He looked sick with fury, arms crossed and tensed, highlighting the hard muscles beneath his expensive sleeves.

  My spirits improved based on these assessments, at least until the Governor’s eyes traveled to Spex, and I could no longer pretend he was compassionate and generous through and through. Now that the disturbance had been subdued, the Governor resumed his speech, acting as if he had not been interrupted.

  “Eskander raised his children to serve him in his vile deeds. For them, there is yet the chance for reformation. But only once this man’s influence has been purged from their lives. For the sake of his children, and all the children of the Warckum Territory, I hereby send Alexander Eskander to his death by means of the plank.”

  Ivanova raised his right hand high, then brought it emphatically downward, indicating that the execution should go forward. My breathing became fast and shallow as Spex’s father was prodded by the guards to leave the safety of the scaffolding and walk to the end of the narrow board. I huddled closer to Shea, vilely fascinated. Though I wanted to look away, I was not a good enough person to do so. A gate was closed behind the prisoner to prevent his retreat, and the entire crowd held its breath. There was nowhere Eskander could go but into the breach.

  In Hastings’s firm grip, Spex was panicking. He grappled with the bald man’s bulky arms, desperate to rush the scaffolding. But he was small, and Hastings easily hoisted him off the ground, all the while laughing with his red-coated compatriots.

  “Dad!” Spex screamed, voice breaking.

  Hastings walloped a fist against his charge’s stomach. Spex gasped and coughed, doubling over. Meanwhile, the guards on the scaffolding wobbled the plank teasingly.

  Eskander went to his knees, urine staining his pants as he stared down at the violent river, the rapids breaking over the sharp, unforgiving rocks of the ravine. His hands were bound behind him, ensuring that if by some miracle he survived the plunge, he would drown instead. Pivoting precariously, he crawled toward the gate, begging for his life. I strained to hear and was able to make out the words, each like a stab to my heart. It wasn’t his life for which he begged.

  “Not in front of my son,” he pleaded, his voice colored by an accent—likely Bennighe, the language Spex had spoken in Oaray. “Please, not in front of my son.”

  “Drop, drop, drop!” the crowd chanted, camaraderie and anonymity giving free rein to their innermost bestial desires. In the next instant, the plank was released to snap vertically against the gate. Over the sound of the river, not a scream was heard from Alexander Eskander as he fell to his death.

  Spex uttered an agonizing cry that resounded in every nerve of my body, but his voice was quickly drowned out by the cheering of the crowd. My heart felt seared, as though it were being stripped away piece by agonizing piece. If any man with a hand in this brutality was able to sleep tonight, I prayed he would never wake up.

  Defeated, Spex went limp against Hastings, relying on a man he had to hate more than anyone else in the world to keep him on his feet. His eyes were blank, disengaged, the same way Evangeline’s had been the night before she’d died. Then Hastin
gs picked him up like a child, stealing away the last of his dignity.

  Tears ran down my face, not for the man who had died, but for his son who had loved him, no matter his crimes. Queen Ubiqua, who considered these human leaders her allies, her equals, never would have stood by and allowed such a ruthless act to be carried out. Alexander Eskander’s punishment may have been justifiable, warranted even, but his son’s pain gained Faefolk nothing. Memories of my own mother’s death inundated my brain, and with them came the words Zabriel had said in somber comfort: You’re still whole, even if it doesn’t feel like it. Your mother was a piece of the background.

  Spex didn’t look whole to me. He looked like he’d lost every piece of his background and now stood alone against the black.

  As the exuberant crowd began to dissipate, Shea and I staggered away. The horror on her face was a reflection of my own. What would happen to Spex now? Having been taught his lesson, would he return to helping Hastings and the others who were hunting my people? This execution, a great show of solidarity with the Fae, would have had an enormous impact on him, but perhaps not the one his keepers wanted—Alexander Eskander had been arrested, charged, and killed for the same crimes Spex was being coerced into committing. How would he ever reconcile that level of hypocrisy? While I didn’t know who was behind these troubling events, I was certain that someone with considerable power was involved, for no one else could have pulled the strings to bring father and son together in such a garish manner. And if the Governor was naive in this regard, then he was an unforgivably stupid man.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  FAMILY TIES

  Shea and I found ourselves on foot as we journeyed through Tairmor. The horse that had carried us into the capital had been lost by the time Luka Ivanova had summoned us from the hospital. Presumably it had been repossessed by one of the government-sponsored livery stables within the city, the brand on its haunches betraying its ownership. While we could have engaged a new rental, Shea was reluctant to interact with anyone in the aftermath of her individual misadventures. She still wouldn’t tell me what had happened on the day she’d returned to her family home, but her resulting hesitance made our journey more arduous.

  The capital was asleep by the time we drew close to the west gate, which opened in the direction of Sheness. Of course, the lateness of the hour had its benefits—there was no one about to see us leave.

  The omnipresent rush of water stole what little ambiance of warmth could be gained from the gas lamps lining the streets. The snow that had started in the afternoon grew heavier, biting at my skin on impact, and I gathered my cloak more tightly about me. Now and then, eyes set in grimy faces would gleam at us from alleyways, and my hand would drop to the Anlace, but the cold kept even the crazed and homeless hidden in their crannies.

  When the bridge to the stone-pillared gate came into view, I realized we were feeling frozen spray from the river and not petals of snow. After glancing at each other, Shea and I pulled our hoods so low we could barely see, providing protection from the sting of the river hail in addition to concealment.

  The guards on duty watched us from the window of their tower until the last possible moment. Then two men descended to approach us, their scowls indicating their annoyance at being lured outside, despite their thick overcoats and fur hats.

  “Papers,” one of them grunted, blowing on his hands for warmth.

  We reached into our packs, and the guard who had spoken snatched my passport away from me, letting his partner examine Shea’s. While the Constabularies were thus engaged, the tower door opened and a third man, younger and more jovial than the others, came onto the bridge, straightening the collar of his uniform as though he had just donned it. In his other hand, he brandished a book.

  “You forgot the log,” he called, walking over to join his comrades. “I know your shift is ending, but that’s no excuse for you two fools to fall off your game.”

  I smirked at their exchange, ready to sign my name and pass the quill to Shea, then realized she’d moved behind me. Before I could process what was happening, the new arrival took note of her. His round face paled, seconds ticking by while he soaked in the sight of her, and I had the feeling his mind was turning as quickly as it could. The other guards shifted, cold, ill-humored, and confused.

  “You know I have to arrest you,” the youngest man at length declared, though to his credit, he sounded regretful.

  The other guards perked up, perhaps glad for a little excitement, while shock rolled over me, providing the heat that was lacking from this wintry night. Before Shea could run, one of the men grabbed her arm. Alarmed, I tried to separate them, only to be pushed aside. I stumbled and fell into the railing of the stone bridge, hitting my back hard against it. Gripping it for balance, I turned and gazed into the abyss that had earlier claimed Alexander Eskander, my eyes playing tricks on me as the distance to the glimmer of river far below fluctuated. Had I fallen, the roiling water would have killed me with pleasure if the impact alone hadn’t done the job. Shea’s voice jarred me back to the present.

  “You didn’t have to say anything, Nicholas,” she spat, struggling against the handcuffs the Constabularies were securing around her wrists. “You could have let me sign the log and walk out of here, you bastard.”

  I stood dumbly by, knowing I couldn’t take on all three guards and break Shea free. Yet I couldn’t make my legs move to desert her. His globular jaw set, the man who had identified my friend turned to his fellow guards.

  “This is Shea More, daughter of Thatcher More, who is wanted for debts owed to the Governor. Take these two to the jail. And send someone to inform Ivanova.”

  Skittering like cockroaches, the guards jerked me away from the railing, only too eager to secure handcuffs around my wrists.

  “What have I done?” I snarled, the gravity of the situation made starkly real by the icy metal branding my skin. “For that matter, what has Shea done?”

  The man called Nicholas glowered at me as his counterparts confiscated our weapons and packs. When one of the guards tried to take hold of the Anlace, I twisted away from him, to be rewarded by a punch in the stomach for my failure to cooperate.

  “Be careful,” I barked, doubled over, watching him fumble with the dagger out of the corner of my eye. Though I couldn’t reveal the significance of the knife, if it were lost or damaged, the wrath of the Queen’s Blades would descend upon the Constabularies of Tairmor, and the Queen’s wrath would descend upon me.

  The guard looked unexpectedly abashed at my tone; perhaps the nature of the Anlace itself had told him it was something special. Meeting my gaze, he carefully tucked the blade into the pouch at his hip.

  “You have aided a fugitive in an attempt to escape the city,” Nicholas pronounced in answer to my question. “I’m sure if we examined your travel documents, we’d find both of you to be carrying forgeries. And Shea’s crime is clear—under the Territory’s laws, she’s as guilty as her father.”

  No longer interested in me, he muttered instructions to his fellow guards, ending with a directive.

  “Take them away. And for God’s sake, don’t tell me what becomes of them.”

  The men took hold of us, and Shea made a desperate lunge toward her betrayer, face contorted with rage.

  “Whether you know my fate or not, it will still be on your conscience, Nicholas More!”

  Though he flinched, Nicholas walked off without response. The Constabularies in whose custody we stood dragged Shea and me across the bridge to a barred wagon, which was apparently kept ready for these sorts of occasions. They thrust us inside and attached our handcuffs to eyelets on the floor, then they moved the horses off at a brisk trot, snow and ice cutting our cheeks as the wagon covered ground.

  Shea and I sat in stony silence, and I barely staved off panic. What was the punishment for using forged travel documents
? Would I serve a sentence at Shea’s side? There was no one in the city who would vouch for me or try to see that the law was not executed to its fullest extent. And if I were taken off the streets, the future of the Faerie people would lie in Illumina’s hands.

  Faced with the genuine possibility that my younger cousin would rule, my mind ran wild. Were Illumina to take the throne, she would shut down our borders, no longer permitting Crossings or an exchange of knowledge; she would institute a campaign of hate as vile as anything Enerris or Falk or the protesters at Eskander’s execution had implemented; and she would endorse, perhaps even orchestrate, the use of our elemental connections to bring the destructive power of Nature down on those she labeled enemies. Everything Queen Ubiqua had worked for would be undone, and everything that made our race noble and pure would be lost.

  Shea’s weeping drew me from my fraught trance. I faced uncertainty, but she faced seven years of labor to pay off a debt to a man who, based on today’s spectacle, knew nothing about mercy. Perhaps uncertainty was a blessing.

  “Who is this Nicholas?” I asked, wishing my hands were unbound so I could comfort her. The wagon rattled and bounced over the uneven cobblestones, and my shoulder crashed against the floor, shackles preventing me from sitting upright.

  “My cousin,” she said, and I could tell this was half the reason she was crying. “That pig. He follows and enforces laws that he knows aren’t right. He doesn’t care who gets hurt so long as he gets in the good graces of the people in power.”

  “Shea, I swear to you. I will get you out of this.”

  She choked out a laugh. “I don’t think you can, Anya. I don’t think anybody can.”

  Unwilling to concede the point, I yanked and twisted my handcuffs, only proving that we were trapped.

  The building to which we were delivered was small and drafty. We entered to stand in a front office vestibule, where our names—my false human surname, Redwood, included—and the details of our arrest were entered into a record book. When this processing was finished, we were ushered down a hallway and deposited in a room with seats along its walls and a putrid smell that suggested it was used as a holding cell for unruly drunks. The place was not equipped with security befitting more serious criminals, but our handcuffs were adjusted to anchor us to separate benches.