lieko (n.) a trunk of a tree that has submerged to the bottom of a lake.
"Do you have class as well, then?"
Silas looked surprised to be addressed – that was the only word Evanne could conjure for the expression on the young heir's face, a look of pleasant bemusement that anyone would dare to address him so directly. He glanced up, and saw that it was she who had spoken, and frowned, almost reflexively. It was strangely pleasant to be on the receiving air of such an irascible glare and to know that it was personal, after a day of courtiers and staff alike flinching at the sight of her face and what had been wrought by a human druj exploding next to her.
Almost determined to irritate him further, Evanne smiled back beauteously. It was an expression which had caused many a young soldier to trip over himself in fluster, but directed at Silas Schreave thus, it did little but vex him further – as she had hoped. "A meeting," he said, tersely, "is not a class."
"You're carrying books."
"The books shall be discussed at the meeting."
"That sounds to me," Evanne said, "like a class."
She was willing to be wrong. She had not attended many in her young life. The tagma had little time for book-reading or letter-writing. As long as you knew your colours, for the flares, and as long as you could tell the sharp end of a sword from the hilt – yes, they'd have some use for you somewhere.
Eunbyeol said, in that low, even voice of hers, "what are the books?"
His dark eyes slid over to her, and he furrowed his brow. It was a thoughtful expression, rather than a choleric one. Eunbyeol did not seem to test his patience as much as her fellow Selected did, although Evie had no doubt that he considered them both nuisances.
Ever keen to live up to that reputation, Evanne had to get in a jibe before he could speak: "a written work consisting of pages sewn together, Eunbyeol, did you not know that before?"
"That," Silas said, "was obvious. Even for you, Lady..."
He paused. There was blood on his cuffs. His own, she imagined.
"You haven't forgotten where I'm from," Evanne said, disbelieving.
Some small part of her, more childish than the rest, wanted to say, I'm the one in league with the human druj, remember? Mirabelle had told them to try to stand out from the crowd but – goodness – Evanne didn't think this was what the poor chaperone had intended. I'm the one missing half of her face, remember?
He smiled at her – an expression as beauteous as it was smug, it had to be said, and she wondered how many young soldiers had tripped over themselves looking at that expression, for it transformed his hard face so utterly that for a split second Evanne worried that they were not speaking with Silas Schreave at all but with some interloper cunning enough to pilfer his face – and then the door beside which he had been waiting swung open, though Evanne could see no one standing near to it, and a voice within the room, deep and sonorous, said, "enter, my boy."
He did so. Evanne leaned back against the wall, slipping her hands back into the pockets that her maid had kindly stitched into the voluminous skirts of her tailored dress, and smiled to herself as Silas's bodyguard, the handsome fellow with the tattoo on his forearm, mimicked her, almost reflexively. Beside her, Eunbyeol was watching the door that Silas had closed behind him, like she was trying to stare through it, turning her book over and over in her hand.
The long line of Selected girls, waiting to enter the classroom, stared at them in disbelieving silence and – if Evanne was not mistaken – more than a hint of outright jealousy.
Evanne privately thought that having classes so early in the day ought to count for a kind of torture, which was why she was privately delighted when the soldier with the short hair and the eyes like mercury – Morozova – appeared at the door of the classroom to summon her away. "We have need of the Lady Obušek," she said, and Evanne stood so quickly that she nearly knocked her chair over.
Eunbyeol barely glanced up from her doodles.
Reiko Morozova had the irritating habit, shared by many who believed themselves Evanne's superior, of walking that bit too quickly for comfort, aided by a long-legged stride that seemed to swallow up the tiles. Evie's prosthetic was aching – she had spent a few too many long days standing on it, she knew, but could only grit her teeth and persist. What good ever came of complaining? Besides, pain – a little bit of pain – that was healthy. It reminded you that you were alive. It reminded you that you were sane.
She thought of Shae, and felt a sharper, more phantom, pain, hitting somewhere delicate behind her ribs.
Reiko was leading her through the warren of palace corridors towards an enormous reception room that was exempt from the title of throne room only by the conspicious absence of a throne – though she imagined that may have been destroyed in the explosion.
Certainly, so much about the space had been ruined: the enormous mosaic of the Three Ladies of the Walls, Lady Schreave, Lady Szymanska, and Lady Alliette, had been gouged down its centre by the shockwave, so that little bits of the painted women's faces and figures had been excavated, leaving them missing enormous chunks of themselves. The recovery crews had done an admirable job of, if not repairing the space, then clearing it: it was a clean floor across which Morozova and Evie walked now, though if Evie tilted back her head, she could see the cornflower blue sky overhead, speckled with long lines of white cloud that resembled furrows in a field. It was just after dawn, and the sun was taking its throne on the edge of the sky.
The queen was waiting for them in the middle of the room, which almost brought Evie to a complete stop, then and there. She had never glimpsed Queen Kasimira before – she could not recall any person who had, for if Silas was a recluse then his mother was a veritable phantom. Was that, indeed, who stood before them? It must have been, though she was dressed more as a soldier than as a consort: her bodice, though made of rich green velvet, was well-fitted, and bared arms more muscular and scarred than Evie had ever expected to glimpse on a member of the royal family. Her skirts would have been scandalously tight, if worn by anyone other than her majesty, and her well-worn boots were those of a workman or a labourer, scuffed by the dust of the ruined stonework lying in remnant chunks around them. Her long dark hair was bound back out of her face by a long green ribbon, exposing a face that was strikingly like her daughter's: they had the same glass-fine features, the same intelligent dark eyes, though Evie suspected that Asenath had inherited her sharp jawline and her bright, natural smile from her father.
So taken aback was Evie by the sight of Queen Kasimira, she barely noticed the line of men which had been assembled at the lady's right hand – tagma soldiers in a rainbow array of coloured coats, all with their heads bowed, she noted, her heart leaping, all of them tall, all of them blonde, and for a split second she found herself scanning their ranks, half in despair and half in hope of spotting Petja. Pyotr. The damned druj.
But – none of them. They were kneeling, she saw, and wondered whether she ought to kneel as well. What etiquette would Kasimira demand of her? Morozova had bowed, from the waist, but in these skirts that was quite impossible, so Evanne dipped into the same steady courtesy that she had offered the princess and hoped that would suffice.
Frankly, Kasimira did not seem to care. She was watching Evanne. The girl standing beside her was watching the assembled soldiers, with a similar intense scrutiny. This girl was not Asenath, though she bore a superficial resemblance – less so, as Evanne drew nearer, for this girl was much younger and softer, her face made to appear gentle and somehow sad with the unshed fullness of late adolescence. She had monolids, like Evanne herself, and very warm brown eyes that did little to blunt the coldness of her gaze. She was wearing the charcoal grey uniform of a maid, but Evanne could not imagine any circumstances under which a maid might be permitted to stand so close to the queen thus, more apprentice than attendant.
"Thank you," the queen said. Her voice was far lower than her daughter's, though no less lovely to listen to, as though she had been designated the contralto to Assenath's mezzo, "for coming, Evanne."
Evanne, instinctively, bristled to hear her first name rather than the Lady Obušek appellation to which she had, reluctantly, become accustomed over the past short few weeks. Was this an elimination? It took a strange form, if so, and Silas had not betrayed any hint of the same when they had spoken a mere eighty minutes earlier. Or was it perhaps merely an assertion of status by the hermit queen, a reminder that Evanne was lady by courtesy alone?
She was overthinking things. She had spent too much with Eunbyeol recently, clearly, for the other Selected girl seemed to do nothing but.
Evie elected to incline her head respectfully. Almost unwillingly, she found herself addressing the queen as she might have addressed a general in those long days past: "my pleasure, your majesty."
Morozova had stepped away from her, and Evanne had wondered at her presence. Reiko Morozova was the princess's bodyguard, was she not? Had they found themselves promoted in the last thirty-six hours?
The queen said, "it is a small matter which requires your attention, my dear – if you will give us a few moments of your time."
"Of course, ma'am."
"The lieutenant tells me that you got a good look at the druj which caused this destruction."
"Yes, ma'am."
Kasimira did no more than gesture gently, but the men lifted their heads as one – as though someone had seized their hair and wrenched their faces towards the sky, as though they had no choice in the matter whatsoever. Evanne could not keep her gaze from running up-and-down their ranks but…
"Is he among their ranks?"
With the queen's gaze on her thus, Evanne could not dispel the unerring impression that she was being pricked sharply with needles. Her mouth dried. "No," she said, softly. "No, he is not."
"You do not need to answer so quickly," Morozova said, sharply. "Study their faces. Closely."
Evanne shook her head. "He's not… they aren't… he isn't here, ma'am, he is not among them."
"You can tell us," Kasimira said, softly. "If you have forgotten what he looked like, if you cannot be sure. It was a moment of tumult, Evanne."
"I could not have forgotten."
"Very well. You are sure?"
She would not lie to the queen. Quite apart from patriotism, Evanne thought, quite apart from respect - it was very clear that this was, simply, not a woman that you lied to.
Evanne opened her mouth to speak, and found that she could not do so – she could not so much as move her tongue in the faintest spasm of a word. Her voice was caught in her throat; her eyes, fixed open, as though sewn thus. She was frozen, utterly frozen, as though something had seized control of every aspect of herself – pinned her muscles in place, petrified her tendons – and told her, simply, stop.
The queen smiled, and Evanne saw for the first time how savage this refined, cold beauty could be. Kasimira said, simply, "that is enough, little bird."
It passed. After a moment, the maid looked away, and the sensation passed, leaving Evanne breathless and… scared.
The queen did not wait for Evanne to confirm for a second time – she merely said, in that lovely voice of hers, "you may leave."
And Evanne did so, turning on her heel, and following Morozova from the enormous, ruined room, quickly, her head bowed, noting as she did so that the soldiers kneeling on the ground had allowed their heads to fall back against their chest, as though whatever strange power that had compelled their attention had vanished just as quickly.
As she went, Evanne was, strangely, struck by a single detail – perhaps one of the least strange details of the whole damned interaction, but a strange detail nonetheless.
The queen had called the druj he.
He, she thought, Petja.
The end of a world had a name.