Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of The Thief, The Queen of Attolia, The King of Attolia, nor of any characters and locations contained within. All right of the Queen's Thief series belong exclusively to Megan Whalen Turner and her respective publishers.
Spoiler Warning: This story contains spoilers for books 1-2.
**Attention** all Queen's Thief fans: The fourth book in the series, A Conspiracy of Kings, is due to be released in the winter of 2010. There is an URL address in my profile for a website where you may view the cover-art and summary. The count down begins.
Edit: A few suggestions from a friend drove me to make several small revisions.
Author's Note: I had not one not, not two, but three betas for this fic, who all just jumped up to offer a helping hand. If you enjoy this fic, a lot of the credit goes to them.
Please, enjoy the story.
The Moonlight Advisor
A Queen's Thief Short Story
It was twilight in the country of Attolia, still warm with the lingering heat of late summer. Clouds once breezy and filled with sunlight had turned black over the course of the day, assaulting the valleys with white hot lightning and pelting rain.
Far below, beneath the reach of the palace-lights or falling water-droplets, the queen of this country descended a spiraling stairwell. Her eyelids were heavy and her movements strained. She smoothed a tress of hair out of her face, resisting the urge to rub her eyelashes and yawn. She might have laid the blame for her inability to sleep on nature, but thunder had never bothered her before.
One escorting guardsman and two of her attendants flanked her. The women held quaint handkerchiefs upon their noses to ward away the smell that grew denser with each step. Attolia held no delicate piece of cloth. She no longer required one.
Her wine-purple slippers lightly touched the final step to reach the packed dirt floor. Her elaborate gown contrasted with the blank walls of pale stone. Her attendants stopped at the base of the steps, and only her escort continued to follow her.
Iolanthe and Ileia may have ventured a hesitant foot forward, despite the queen's orders, had it not been for the memory of the blood-drained skin and adverted eyes of their fellow attendants, who had returned with the queen the previous night. The fear of provoking Her Majesty's wrath was as lead boots to the two women's feet. They could only stare blankly, as her form receded.
Weary with boredom, the prison-guard had just dozed off as the queen entered the fore-chamber of the palace dungeons. She stopped and tapped a slipper on the heavy wood and iron door, as if its mere existence was a disgusting offense to her. She impatiently cleared her throat.
The guard violently sprang to attention. Grasping at a wad of rattling keys, he selected a thick, iron one from the ring and quickly unlocked the door. The hinges creaked with an irritating squeal. It should be oiled, the queen thought; but why bother? It was not as if anyone was concerned with disturbing the prisoners. Still showing no sign of approval, the queen extended her forearm to the guard, without turning her head.
"A light," she said her tone neither patient nor impatient, which only served to further distress the guard. He carefully offered her a lantern, as if brushing her skin would burn him. She grasped the handle gently and proceeded to enter the twisting labyrinth of cells.
The guard sputtered uncertainly, "If Your Majesty requires any -"
"Silence," she said evenly yet forcefully, as her silhouette was lost in the dim light. The guard was content to hide behind the door.
She made her way towards the back of the dungeon and down a narrow flight of stairs to where her most secure cells were located. She let the lantern hang at her side. It was useless in the corridor. The torches soaked in long burning pitch provided ample illumination for navigation; but fear of stumbling was not the reason she had wanted the hand-held implement. When she reached the appropriate cell, she flicked her wrist at her escort in a dismissive manner. He walked back without protest.
The queen stood immobile for several moments, willing her mask to its most impenetrable state of stone. She approached the cell door, and slowly lifted the lantern to shine a feeble ray into the interior, which was as dark as a moonless night.
She shifted the beam till she found the sleeping occupant huddled in a corner, his right arm held tightly to his chest. She couldn't stop the sinking feeling that always oozed through her soul, like thick syrup, every time she gazed at this miserable boy. She had expected to feel gratified when she finally caught him. Maybe, even a little relieved that he could no longer cause her trouble; but that seemed, now... just a fleeting dream.
The queen sighed and set the lantern down gently upon the floor, careful not to spill the oil. If she had known she would be tortured by this sense of endless falling, like she had irreversibly and irrevocably done something horribly wrong, she would have just hung him. She glanced at the light without any real interest. She didn't have the heart to hold it up again. The small opening at the top of the prison door was crossed with iron guards; and the beam cast bar shaped shadows upon the Thief of Eddis, making him seem all the more imprisoned.
She sighed yet again and turned away from the door to lean against the wall beside it. The stones were hard and poked her back. Doubtless, the surface was covered with dirt and cobwebs, which would spoil her beautiful gown. She didn't care.
She knew it was not the rain and thunder that was keeping her awake. It was this feeling of utter and complete desolation, like being trapped in a dark labyrinth knowing you have no hope of finding the exit.
She was lost, uncertain, and... it had been so long since she had felt this - regretful; but regretful for what? For harming this scraggly little boy who was nothing more to her than an enemy? Why should she feel regret for maiming and imprisoning him? It was not as if she had invited him to take naps in her palace, and leave small, taunting notes at her breakfast table. She clawed her fingers across her face, knowing she was merely sending herself through the same twisting loop. Every night as she lay awake on her silk and satin sheets, she pondered this same question; but a satisfying answer still eluded her.
She was considering departure, when a soft muttering broke her train of thought. There was a noise coming from the boy. The queen turned sharply to look into the cell. Was the boy mindful enough to talk, but... what did that matter? He wouldn't have anything to say to her except a malicious curse of revenge.
She quietly lifted the lantern and gazed inside. Had he heard her softly slippered feet? Noticed the concentrated beam of light shining upon his form? Did he know how she felt?
She would have liked to call that drowsy guard over with his rattling wad of keys, so she could hear more clearly; but considering the boy's current state, chances were slight she would return before he slipped back into unconsciousness.
The queen leaned in. Ignoring how her gem encompassed rings scratched her face, she cupped her right ear to listen carefully. Each syllable struck her with the force of thunder. It couldn't be... she thought; but the archaic verse came through bold as the rising sun.
"Oxe Harbrea Sacrus Vax Dragga Onus Savonus Sophos At Ere."
The boy continued to chant the phrase, but she no longer concentrated on listening. She knew what the words meant. She knew that it was the invocation of Hephestia spoken at the spring festival in Eddis, but she didn't understand why he said them now. It was a familiar sensation. One she had experienced many years ago.
"Isn't this a coincidence?" she questioned the wall, not caring if anyone was around to hear.
The smell of rain, this shrouded verse, and... a Thief. It all took her back to that moonlit night.
***
Irene, princess of Attolia, watched a few gray shrouded clouds glide swiftly across the silver moon, veiling its light but never fully masking it. A rhythmic drizzle fell gently upon the the walls of her tower-rooms, soothing her pounding headache. What had that poet called it? Oh, yes... "A funeral in my brain".
She might have laughed at her own thoughts had this been three, even two years ago, but her dignity no longer abided such things even in private. She wearily extended her neck to seek further solace from the cranial service-drum on the coolness of the glass pane. The tiara that stretched across her forehead got in the way.
She sighed and gazed at her reflection in the window. At night, it worked as well as any mirror, and the slight haze it portrayed her form in suited her. However, Irene disliked looking in a mirror these days; for all she saw were two piercing, frosty eyes staring back at her. The image somehow disturbed her, and she avoided it.
Irene barely recognized herself now. She looked stately, imposing... regal. She looked like a queen. There was no trace left of the "Shadow Princess", a small girl that disappeared in a crowd and sat quietly in a corner, gathering information her fiancé thought she was too dumb to understand. Well... late fiancé.
She had seized control of her destiny, seized control of the Guard, and seized the power of the throne. Tomorrow was her long-awaited coronation. Tomorrow she would abandon the name Irene for Attolia. She would protect her country from oppression, she would get her unruly barons back in line, and she would become a scything force to be reckoned with. It was all she had hoped for during those miserable days she spent spinning thread in her fiancé's family home. So then why... why did she feel so alone?
Closing her eyelids tightly, the blooming queen pushed away the thought. Fear of solitude was an unpleasant emotion normal humans had. She could no longer allow herself to be a normal human. She was now a glittering stalagmite of ice - immovable and indifferent to pain.
"Well, that... left them with an impression," said a disembodied voice, ringing clearly in the dimly lit room. A less self-controlled person would have jumped, but Irene turned calmly. She knew of only one person who could get into her rooms unannounced. She felt no fear. The Thief of Eddis stepped into the soft sheen of moonlight where she could see him.
"Your Majesty," said the Thief. He bowed deeply as one would for the highest of kings.
She smiled amusedly.
"Congratulations on your rise to power. As I said, that was an impressive political display."
"Your advice was much responsible for that, sir," she said, as a carefully measured dose of flattery.
Irene had first met the Thief of Eddis on a moonlit night much like this one. He had emerged from the darkness as she sat awake in her room, gazing at a few glowing embers. The room's small size did not befit her station. He said as much at his sudden appearance, strolling in as if he had an appointment for tea.
She would have screamed, but her own rigid training weighed her emotions down to a suffocating silence. She thought the elderly man to be an assassin, sent to murder her by one of her enemies. Guessing her thoughts, the man said she could call for help; but he would be gone by the time anyone arrived. Irene didn't necessarily believe him, but she didn't want to look like a little girl scared of shadows. She made no noise.
Her curiosity overrode her trepidation, and she listened as the man introduced himself with an elaborate bow, as if this were a state dinner, rather then a small bedroom at midnight. His laid-back manner and satirical speech put her fears to rest, as they began some of the most important conversations Irene would ever have.
He taught her political tactics, informed her of secrets he should have known nothing about, and - most vitally of all - he gave her confidence in her abilities. He only visited her twice or thrice, but it was those moonlit councils that had kept her going, during that miserable year in her fiancé's family home, when all hope had abandoned her.
The lamps, twinkling from the alcoves in the courtyard below, began to vanish one by one, as the servants banked the flame. It was needless to leave the illuminative implements burning through the night. She had already decided that if a light could harm her or her own, she shouldn't allow it to continue glowing.
"Sir," she said faintly. He looked her straight in the eye. There was one question she had been meaning to ask for a long time, but hadn't been able to. She knew she was not going to like the answer; but, if she was to be queen, she could no longer leave the words unsaid.
"What is it," she forced her lips to pronounce, "that brings you here?" Her voice was passionless and calculated.
The Thief gazed at her for a long moment, then turned his head away. He seemed more interested in the gibbous moon, slowly waning towards a crescent, than in answering the young woman before him.
She knew what was coming. He had been sent by his king to befriend her in hopes of gaining influence over the throne of Attolia. That must be what this was all about. He must want something. People always wanted something from her.
The Thief removed his eyes from the picture window and the late-night view of shimmering stars. He looked solemn, as if he had just made a serious decision. "Oxe Harbrea Sacrus Vax Dragga Onus Savonus Sophos At Ere."
The archaic replaced her musing with thoughts of confusion. She raised one eyebrow barely visible in the dim moonlight, but the Thief noticed. He noticed everything.
The man opened his mouth to speak, "It means - "
"I am aware of what it means..." Irene interrupted, but her voice trailed off. She could not think of a less appropriate answer to her question then the invocation of Hephestia spoken at the spring festival in Eddis. All she could do was stare at the elderly man in incomprehension.
She met his fathomless eyes with her own gaze, hoping to find the rules to this new game. She was surprised, yet again, when she heard a sudden, strong noise welled up from the Thief's throat, dissolving his serious expression into a laughing fit. The sound was hearty, yet soft enough not to be heard in the next room.
"I had about the same look on my face, Your Majesty." He coughed and waved his hands around. "Don't expect me to be able explain the intent. They said that you would discover that answer for yourself."
"They...?" she whispered without expecting an answer. She wanted the truth, not some dubious pronoun. She had to say it.
"I suppose your king sends you?" she stated dryly. His calm demeanor returned in an instant, making her doubt he had ever been amused.
"What does my king have to do with this? He doesn't even know I am in Attolia." He sounded very confused.
Irene took a deep breath. Never before had she meet someone with such a deft ability to avoid the issue, and she hoped she never would again.
"Then who?" she demanded, "if not your king? Or is it simply your own ambition that drives you here?" She almost succeeded in keeping her voice indifferent, but an accusatory undertone could be detected.
"Ambition? Truly, Your Majesty, I have very little ambition. I also have very little free will. You may think that since I am not bound by royal commands that I may do as I please; but the actions of the Thieves are compelled by a far greater power than that of any king. Or queen for that matter," he added for her benefit.
"Sir..." she phrased her thoughts meticulously, "I do not understand these words you speak."
"Really? I am speaking in plain demotic speech, am I not?" he said in mock puzzlement.
Had she not been a princess, Irene may have rolled her eyes
The Thief chuckled. "You would not believe me."
Her glare was as heated as the smith's forge, but her voice held the ice-tainted wrath of a winter chill. "We shall see."
The Thief turned his back with a sigh. "Yes... Your Majesty. You will see, but I am afraid it will not be whilst I am here." Irene looked up sharply. He stretched his arms, as if he were sore. "You no longer require a moonlight advisor, and crawling through small tunnels and vaulting over walls is no longer as easy as it once was." Most would have expected bitterness in his tone, but he stated this almost cheerfully.
"Is that how it is? A Thief's body decays and he is no longer of any use?" She meant to bait him, but she knew it would not work.
"Oh... a Thief is never useless, Your Majesty; for a Thief's greatest asset, like a queen's, is his mind." He wanted her to remember these words, and she always would.
As suddenly and as unexpectedly as the Thief of Eddis had walked into her life, he left it without so much as a parting pleasantry. A few years later he was dead; and she was, once again, alone.
***
A muffled moan from the cell startled the queen of Attolia awake. She had dozed off during her recollections, sliding down the wall till she came to a sitting position. The nostalgia had been more soothing to her than the softest of lullabies. She rose slowly rubbing her sore neck. The lantern was dark. The oil had all burnt out hours ago. When exactly, she did not know.
Honeyed rays of early morning sunlight reached even these dark dungeons through narrow light-wells. The rain had stopped during the night and lingering drops formed glistening puddles that would soon be evaporated by the hot sun. A small songbird whistled a cheery tune. The noise did not suit her mood.
The queen looked at the Thief. His cell had no window, but trace beams of sunlight wafted through the dungeon like smoke, struggling to illuminate the areas it could not reach. He still held his right arm close, but he chanted no more. Perhaps, he had reached a more restful... no... make that deeper level of sleep. No one rested in her dungeons.
She wrapped two fingers around the one of the iron bars as she studied his features more carefully. This boy had the same sun-warmed skin and coal-colored hair as his grandfather, the man who had befriended Irene, the man who had now been betrayed by Attolia. She should have just hung the boy. His grandfather would, at least, have respected that.
She picked up the lantern, as she turned to leave, weighing her thoughts against the bulk in her hand. She stopped in the illumination of a light-well, taking comfort in its warmth. Had anyone been spectator to the queen at this moment, they would have been blind to the tumult of emotion swirling through her soul. She shut her eyes tightly. She had already allowed herself to weep in the privacy of her canopy bed-curtains, but she would not abide it in the stinking dungeons.
The dim light reflected off the moisture in her eyes, but the rebellious tears evaporated, as she willed her mask back into place. She had to stop recollecting that scene - the pervading smell of blood, the look of potent terror. She swiveled her vision back in the direction of the cell, even though she could no longer see it.
The life of a queen was filled with uncertainties, but a queen's actions could never be uncertain. Her life, her country's safety depended upon her clear insight - her ability to see beyond the play-acting and the flattery and discover a person's true motivations.
She continued to scold herself as she reached the main level of the dungeon. Nothing clouded that crystal clear vision - that looking glass into the soul - like emotion. She knew this fact better then the sound of her own name. So then... why...? she thought as she began to walk again.
Why had she allowed this unidentifiable feeling of unknown origin push and prod her into making a decision every political instinct had told her was wrong? Why did she let this boy live...?
She continued to walk through the corridor, as she considered the events of the past few days, pondering her motivations. She now knew that the Thief's shrouded verse was somehow connected to his grandson. Those archaic words had some meaning that went deeper than the syllables.
"They said you would discover that answer for yourself."
"They...?"
There was a mystery present, and mysteries were only solved with answers. Answers that were merely beginning fall to into place, like pieces of a puzzle.
She neared an elbow of the corridor and turned. She knew that pursuing those answers, may be a risk. This boy was dangerous, with two hands... or with one.
"A thief's greatest asset, like a queen's, is his mind."
That was a fact she could not ignore; but as much as she hated a game in which she did not know all the rules, she was not unfamiliar with playing them. The silent entrance of an ethereal white figure came to mind.
She calculated the actions she must proceed with. It was paramount she send him back to Eddis. He would not last much longer staying here.
Author's Notes: Although entirely of my own imagination, the idea of Eugenides's grandfather advising Irene is not without some foundation.
Note this quote...
" 'I met his grandfather once, many years ago. He told me a thief's greatest asset, like a queen's was his mind.'
'He sounds overly familiar,' said Nahuseresh with disapproval.
'He was, I suppose. But I wasn't queen then.' "
- Page 53 of The Queen of Attolia.
I've pondered this exchange many times, wondering where these two could have met. One question I always came back to was - why would a secretive Thief have been discussing such things with a foreign princess? I basest my entire plot around this concept.
I decided to follow the tradition of Mrs. Turner, and involved some real world people in my story. The poet that was mentioned is Emily Dickinson, and the work the was quoted is I Felt a Funeral, In My Brain. I think Irene would have liked Emily Dickinson's poetry. I know I do.
Thank you for reading to end,
Nine Days a Queen.