May She Never Return
Perhaps it was time, the Black Queen decided, to outlaw banquets.
Nobles lounged with cocktails in hand, the air thick with chatter and gossip and, if her inhuman hearing was to be believed, at least a dozen backroom dealings. The tenth anniversary of Procer's subjugation had brought every Lord Governor into Aisne. Such a gathering baited opulence, and each noble was more decorated than the last in silks pilfered from Procer's coffers. The Queen, as always, wore platemail. At least most of the nobles had been intelligent enough to wear furs and cloaks. Summer nights in Procer were warm, but in the hall, as in any area around the Black Queen, hung perpetual winter.
"More wine, Your Majesty?"
The Queen held out her cup. Lord Governor Milaran's willingness to pour the wine himself – a task normally left to servants – was a tactful display of loyalty and submission. The nobles raised their own glasses and toasted to fresh harvests and rich mines and eternal rule. Proceran wine tasted like water. Most wines did to her these days. Likely the vintage would've cost enough to feed a family for generations. Milaran had emptied half of Aisne's treasury to host the banquet. The palace ceilings were entirely gilded in gold-leaf. Velvet lined the floors and walls, glowing eight different colors under the glare of mage-lights. At the center sat an enchanted fountain imported from Delos, spraying silver-colored liquid she suspected was real silver. Even the servers, strolling around carrying wine and cocktails, had clearly been selected. Shivering in little more than corsets, they all were female and if not beautiful, then at least pretty. Milaran was trying too hard to appeal to her tastes.
"We've had a good year, Your Majesty," Milaran said. "Output from the silver mines have increased by twenty percent. I'm delighted to say Aisne will once again lead tax collections for Callow."
A round of cheers greeted his announcement, some of them less enthusiastic than others, she noticed. Lord Governor Satroba, who ruled Salia, only raised his glass half-heartedly before downing it in a single gulp. It was an open secret Satroba had raised tax rates in an effort to outdo Aisne, and also an open secret Satroba had bid bitterly against Milaran for the right to host the banquet.
She gave Milaran the barest hint of a nod. The man bowed as if he had received providence from the angels themselves.
It was a tedious game they played, the Queen thought as she set down the glass that had already begun to ice and crack. But if nothing else she had learned this from the late Dread Empress Malicia: nobles warring against each other were not warring against you.
A disturbance was taking place. A man pushed his way through the crowd, spilling wine and curses. He made it halfway to her before the guards seized him.
"What's the meaning of this?" Milaran said sharply.
"Your Majesty!" the man called, face pressed against the floor. "I come representing the citizens of Aisne!"
"Get him out of here. I apologize, Your Majesty. I have no idea how he could've entered."
"Bring him to me."
Milaran's face blanched. The man shrugged off the guards, walking forward proudly as if he had not just been accosted and on the verge of execution. He was middle-aged, thin in the way most Procerans were nowadays, with a broad forehead and deep-set eyes that spoke of an educated upbringing. A former noble, then. He wore what once must've been courtly clothes: purple doublet over a silver longcoat. The lining was frayed, and he wore common worker's boots. When he reached her, he did not bow.
"My name is Olanza Dupont. I come bearing the grievances of the people of Aisne."
"This is hardly the time or place," the Queen said. "Why not bring it up with the Governor's office?"
"Because our grievances are against the Governor, Your Majesty." He pointed a finger at the man by her side, who had turned stiff. "For the past decade, our city has been choked by taxes and martial law. Three-quarters of all we make go to the Governor's pocket. We cannot afford food, and what little we can afford are half-rotten leftovers from last season's harvests. Each winter, thousands die from starvation and illness. Our people, even our children, are conscripted into the silver mines, where they work until death without ever once again seeing sunlight. Their corpses are so choked of toxic fumes they must be burned at the city's outskirts. The Army of Callow has full run of the streets. If anyone dares speak out, their entire families are killed like dogs and hung from the town square. Our city is on the verge of death, Your Majesty, if it is not already dead. In another five years there will be nothing of Aisne save corpses."
The Queen leaned back in her chair, taking another sip of wine.
"Well, Milaran? What do you have to say for yourself?"
"Lies. Do not listen to a word from this rebel, Your Majesty. Aisne is more prosperous than it's ever been. Every measure I've taken has been for the good of Callow."
"Will you tax corpses?" the man spat. "Can dead men run your mines, harvest your fields? Because if you choke us any further, the city will – "
Her sword of ice slid smoothly into his chest. He stared at her in surprise, finger still pointed accusingly at Milaran. Even before his heart stopped beating, she poured Winter into the wound.
"Go back to your people," the Queen said, her voice rising like a blizzard in the silent hall. "Crucify yourself in the square, and until the wind scours the flesh from your bones you will proclaim thus: That for the crime of treason against the Kingdom of Callow, taxes shall be doubled for a year, and assemblies of four or more be forbidden under punishment of death, and that one in every ten people of Aisne shall be put to the sword."
With a final gasp, the wight lumbered away.
Her sword melted into a puddle over the immaculate carpets. The nobles had gone rigid, their faces tight with fear. Ice frosted over their coats, and their breaths were visible in the air.
"A most wise decision, Your Majesty," Milaran said at last.
Nobles, the Black Queen thought with distaste. If she had killed Milaran and let the Proceran live, his corpse would be praising her mercy. Milaran was a fool like every one of her Governors, but she had at least counted on him to maintain control. The only reason he had been appointed was that he lacked the spine to skim from the coffers. Milaran's shoulders sagged, and he had a defeated look, knowing whatever goodwill he had cultivated had vanished. Lord Governor Satroba chuckled into his cup.
Cloak streaming behind her, the Queen stalked out. The one benefit of this sordid ordeal, at least, was that it gave her the excuse to leave early.
She paused at the door.
"One last thing…"
Turning around, she raised her arm. Something silver and nearly invisible flew from her fingers. Milaran blinked at her. Then his head rolled to the floor.
"There's an opening for a Lord Governor," the Queen said pleasantly, and strode out.
Her rooms were located on the highest floor of the palace, a special pair of guest rooms built for her arrival. Like the rest of the palace, the room was exorbitant, dominated by an immense bed draped in what must've been half a ton of velvet. She poured a cup of aragh and headed to the balcony. The orcish and goblin brews were the only things that tasted like anything to her anymore, even if they tasted like mud. Below her, the gardens stretched half a mile of safflina and tulips and willowflower, bathed in the lights of the palace that lit up the night bright as dawn. The nobles had already resumed their festivities – why let good food and wine go to waste? But beyond the palace, beyond the gardens, beyond the noble's district guarded at all times by a full line of soldiers, Aisne sat in the dark.
In another five years there will be nothing save corpses. What a fool that supplicant had been, to think she cared.
Her gaze turned westward – towards Praes, that damnable entity that had once ruled Callow. The roles were reversed now. The Legion had been disbanded, its soldiers assimilated into the Army of Callow. Her first action upon taking Ater had been to slay every Highborn foolish enough to remain. The remainder now sat in their walled cities, isolated and fractured. Her puppet Dread Empress Magnificent ruled over a jester's court. It was not enough, she thought, for forty years of Conquest. One day she would raze the Wasteland so blasted it would not be deserving of even that name, and every Praesi that had robbed a single copper from Callow would face ruin a thousand times over.
Two knocks on the door.
"Leave me," the Queen said.
To her irritation, the door opened, and in stepped a young woman. She wore simple traveler's clothes, and her red hair was cut short.
"Identify yourself," the Queen said, sword raised.
"Your Majesty," the woman said, curtsying. Gently, she added, "…Cat."
"Kilian?"
Kilian – if that was indeed who it was – walked into the room, nodding appreciatively at the décor. She had aged well in the years, and a pang stabbed the Queen's heart. She herself would never grow old. Kilian's hair had turned a shade redder, more blood than magenta, and she had done something fancy with her bangs that left a short braid hanging down the side of her face. She had filled out the curves she promised back in Rat Company days, and her body beneath the robes spoke of a mage's softness that would never have been seen among the rank-and-file. There were calluses on her hands that had not been there when she had been a fresh-faced mage at the War College. But her laughing eyes were the same and her wicked smile was the same as she sat down at the edge of the bed, the invitation open.
It did not go ignored.
The Queen sat next to her. Some part of her whispered that this was a trap, that old lovers didn't just appear unannounced in the most heavily-guarded location on Procer. She ignored the thought. She had few friends left these days. With conscious effort, the Queen withdrew Winter into herself, and was rewarded when Kilian crept closer. She smelled like herbs and parchment and the same citrus scent of fae magic that the Queen had gone drunk on so many years ago. Nostalgia almost brought her to her knees. For a moment she was back at that campfire, one hand holding a cup of summer wine and the other around the first girl she had ever loved as they joined their voices to the rest of Rat Company singing a horribly out-of-tune rendition of The Tyranny of the Sun.
"Kilian," she said again. "Where have you been? It's been years."
"Traveling, learning, you know."
The evasion was obvious, but the Queen didn't press her. She knew Kilian had left the Army, though by that point they couldn't even have been called acquaintances any more. She had only found out years after the fact. Their breakup had left the bridge between them all but shattered, and the Queen was surprised to find that it hurt now more than it had back then. Damn that pang of regret, where had it been all those years ago?
"And what have you been up to, Cat?" Kilian teased. "You should hear the stories they tell!"
"All of them good, I'm sure."
"Is it true about you and the hundred virgins – "
"Of course not! That story is wildly exaggerated."
Kilian laughed, and it was the same musical laugh, the same dimples. The Queen watched Kilian's face dance in the mage-light, and she wanted to kiss her, but some things were forbidden even to Queens.
"It's been a while."
"It certainly has," the Queen agreed.
"You haven't grown an inch."
The Queen scowled, explaining for the hundredth time that the longevity imposed on Named naturally slowed their growth in equal proportion – though she was no longer Named now and would likely never be again – and Kilian laughed again, waving aside her protests. She rested her head on the Queen's shoulder, fingers deftly running along – and she had very deft fingers indeed, the Queen remembered – the side of the Queen's armor.
"You've done so many things," Kilian murmured. "Both great and terrible."
"So I have."
"Have you achieved your goal?"
"You must've traveled far, if you haven't heard." The Queen spread her hand before her. "The Principate is subjugated. Praes is subjugated. The Free Cities are subjugated in all but name. Ashur is broken. In Levant no harvest will ever come again. The ratlings have been exterminated to the last, and the Dead King is locked inside his Hell. Callow reigns supreme on Calernia."
"Some would say victory at the expense of everyone else is no victory at all."
"What do I care for the others?" The Queen's voice grew hard. Anyone else would've lost their head for even implying such a thing. "I've learned this from war: For one side to win, all others must lose."
"You know it can't last."
A flash of anger ran through the Queen, not hot but bone-cold. Ice sprouted from her feet, and Kilian shrank back. Shudderingly, the Queen reigned herself in.
"I'm sorry, Kilian. Of course I know it won't last. The other countries despise me, and eventually it will all boil over and some Hero will claim my head. The Heavens always get their due."
"Then why – "
"Nothing lasts forever. It's foolish to even try. Look at what Black and Malicia tried to create – a stable empire that would outlast them. What did they accomplish? Half a century of mediocrity before it crashed down on their heads. The volatility of empires, the transience of rule, the mandates from Above and Below – too many forces converge towards chaos. Better to embrace it than delay the inevitable. Procer will die, Praes will die, all of Calernia will die, eventually. That is the truth of Winter. Let them die in service, at least, for a greater purpose. For Callow. If I rule Callow, then I will make it the greatest it's ever been, no matter the fall."
There was sadness in her former lover's eyes, and something deeper besides, and Kilian sighed, "Oh, Cat, how you've changed," and she placed her hand on the Queen's neck and leaned in. The Queen sunk into the kiss hungrily, that sliver of warmth coursing like a heartbeat through the veins of Winter, and she almost didn't notice the runes traced along the side of her platemail.
The explosion tore through her flank. The Queen screamed as the fire ate away at her flesh, too fast for Winter to regenerate, Gods, how can something burn so hot? Kilian's hand came up again and another blast of fire shot from her palms. The Queen struck out blindly, ice meeting flame in a hiss of steam, and with a snarl she forged a butcher's knife to carve out the section of flesh where the fire burned. Ice turned to blood and muscle, and the Queen was whole once more.
Kilian's eyes glowed as fae wings formed behind her. That old trick. With imperious disregard, the Queen brushed away the bolt of lightning. Four spears of ice shot forward: one through each of Kilian's limbs. She cried out, fingers scrabbling to cast. The Queen's sword touched her neck.
"Arrogance, quarterling. I am the Duchess of Moonless Nights."
"You're a monster."
"Who sent you?"
"You think someone sent me?" Kilian gave a bark of laughter, and there was nothing musical about it now. "You think I could sit back and watch as the worst Tyrant since Triumphant burned Calernia to the ground?"
"We both know you were only ever a middling mage," the Queen hissed. "You could never have come up with anything that could harm me. The only reason you were chosen was because of your connection to me. Who sent you?"
Kilian stared back defiantly.
"The people of Procer of sent me. The people of Levant sent me, and Ashur, and whatever citizens of Callow that still have an ounce of goodness left."
The Queen drove the sword into her shoulder, and it had been shame that moved it, that she had been desperate enough to fall for such an obvious trap. The stranger known as Kilian bucked wildly. But the light from her eyes did not fade. So be it, the Queen thought. She disliked Speaking – it always made people so literal – but there was no choice.
"I command you – "
The doors swung open. A messenger burst in. His eyes met theirs.
A beat.
"If this is about anything less than a third red letter," the Queen said drily, "your soul will find a new home in the Hall of Screams."
"I bring news from Praes," the messenger said, doing an admirable job of ignoring the woman speared to the wall. "Dread Emperor Vile has taken the throne. Dread Empress Magnificent is missing, presumed dead. The new Tyrant has assembled all Highlord troops into the Twenty-Third Legion. Even as we speak they're marching on the border."
Annoyances, the Queen thought with distaste. So someone in that thrice-torn spire still had a spine after all. She saw their army as clearly as through a scrying bowl: humans and orcs and whatever goblins from the dregs of the Tribes, each Highlord division sporting their own separate weapons and tactics, not so much a machine built from disparate parts as a machine built from parts that didn't work at all. A quarter would desert before they reach the Blessed Isle. Against them: Twenty-two legions of veteran soldiers, sixty thousand drow, ten thousand Callowan knights.
"A suicidal attack," the Queen said, contemplating Kilian. "They know they stand no chance. Is that why he sent you? To take me out of the picture?"
"Justice will win in the end – "
A second messenger burst in. His gaze fell on the first messenger, then on the Queen and Kilian.
The Queen sighed. Of course. Always in threes. Why the Heavens had a fetish for that number she'll never know.
The messenger gave a hasty salute. "Your Majesty, we're under attack. A mob has breached the noble's district, and we're not the only ones. As of two hours ago, the Governor's offices in Orense and Aequitan have been sacked. All Callowan officials within were hanged. Procer is in open rebellion. All cities south of Segovia have declared their independence. We believe the northern cities will follow before the night's end."
The Queen gripped Kilian's throat.
"Was it Hasenbach that sent you? Tell me."
Kilian's lips curled into a sneer, her shoulders shaking strange and soundless, and she spat out the remains of her tongue.
With a twitch of the Queen's finger, Kilian's neck snapped.
The rage left her as suddenly as it had come. Tiredly, she let the frozen corpse sag into the wall.
She strode to the balcony, where Aisne, only minutes ago dark and silent, was burning. Long lines of torches marched towards the palace. On the wind she picked out the fragments of an old Lycaonese folk song. Fighting had already broken out at the gates. Her soldiers were being overrun, the mob drawing and quartering a guard even as she watched. A torch was flung over the wall, and the garden ignited. Below, the nobles trampled each other in frenzy to escape, while others stormed up the stairs to seek her aid.
It did not occur to her to be afraid. She had destroyed the world once. She would do so again. Callow could be invaded, crushed, whipped, conquered, but Callow could not be broken, could never be broken. Her heart swelled with pride. As she gazed at the smoke drifting in the night, something like grief trembled in her soul, if she still had it in her to grieve. Because it would be her last chance now, this one brief moment on the precipice of ruin; once she tumbled over even that tiny fragment would be snuffed out. Even as her allies were slaughtered in the banquet-hall, even as some unknown enemy masterminded two kingdoms to move against her, even as her beloved Callow was, once again, beset by all the armies of Creation, the Queen mourned a greater tragedy: the tragedy that had brought an old friend to her chambers, the tragedy of having lost something without ever realizing it, of realizing she no longer cared, and she could not remember if she ever cared at all.