The thought of wanting to preserve my life still haunts me as the day wears on. I've nibbled on some food—nothing much but enough to alleviate my hunger pains—and Ranen is jabbering on over topics I couldn't care less about while we sit in an unfamiliar room.
The room has more landscapes of Valcora on the walls, a clock, no windows, and two bodyguards posted on either side of the door, both women. More are waiting outside, a mixture of genders. There's a long table surrounded by chairs, but the only two seats occupied are mine and—across from me—Ranen’s. And he’s still talking.
None of it seems to have anything to do with being queen. More like bossing me around. Stuff about how to sit, what utensils to use when eating, and how to give a proper curtsy. He says I’m to let him take care of the nitty-gritty, boring things, while I focus on putting up a good front.
I think on my almost-death and why I didn't let myself die. Instinct, I guess. Nothing else can account for it.
If only if I didn't have a death wish, then I would still be on the streets alone instead of listening to this moron prattle on. Of course, I'd be cold and hungry, but I'd also be by myself.
He's saying something about dancing now. Knives forbid he makes me practice. If he tries, I’ll pull out the daggers I stashed on my person. I won't be going anywhere without them again. I shouldn't have gone without them in the first place, I know better than that. But then, it's hard to care when all you want is to no longer be around.
Maybe if I can find out who wanted me dead, I'll feel free to die. It's a hard question. I don't know who to suspect, so I suspect everyone.
A group of frilly and refined girls enters the room. Some sulk, others glare, and two are expressionless.
Some are familiar. Why?
I place one then. A blur of a memory, but it's enough. These are the girls I burst through when I made my dive for the Mortum Tura.
What are they doing here? Could any of them have something to do with the assassination attempt? I doubt they are all innocent. No one is without mistakes. I learned that while bloodying my hands, if nothing else.
“You'll need to thank each one of them,” Ranen says.
“Who are they, and why do they need to be thanked?” Daros taught me not to be grateful for anything. Ever.
“They are those who trained to become queen. Those who went the proper way about it.” His tone holds a blade of reprimand.
Like I care about proper ways of things, except the upkeep of lifesaving tools. “Why didn't they drink it before me, then?”
“Because you shoved your way in.” His blunt manner would take me aback if I wasn't used to it from Daros. I thought as queen I would have less of that, but perhaps things are different than I expected.
Another question finds its way to my lips. “Why didn't they take it in the weeks before I came?”
“Because, Your Majesty”—more like nitwit, by his tone—“they weren't prepared until this day.”
Apparently, neither was I. “Why do I need to thank them?”
“For their service, of course.” His voice implies that any idiot could figure that out.
It doesn't make sense to me, but I'm used to following orders.
As the women come nearer, they don't look all that happy to see me. If they went the proper way to becoming queen, and I came along and took it, they have a right to be angry.
As each one comes forward, I thank them, though I still have no idea what I'm thanking them for.
It’s the last girl’s turn, and her eyes flare like she wants to take me out this very moment.
I'd like to see her try.
She's short and well rounded. They all are chubby. Must have been well fed, getting trained to become queen. She has a dainty mole above her lip and to the right. I bet she thinks it's beautiful and becoming. Who knows? It may even be fake.
“These women will become your ladies in waiting,” Ranen says.
“My what?”
He clenches his jaw. “Your ladies in waiting. They will attend you at functions. Keep you company. Run errands for you. Things of that nature.”
“I see.” I don't really. Those are things I either don't need or can do myself. Why would I have someone else do them for me? “Why them?”
He gives an exasperated sigh. “Because they trained the right way. Not to possibly become queen, but also to serve her, should the chance arise before they die or become royalty themselves.”
Does that mean I saved some of their lives? They didn’t get the chance to drink. Never tasted the sweet bitterness of the Mortum Tura. Then again, maybe I stopped the next girl who was going to drink it from becoming queen.
No wonder some are glaring daggers at me. I hope the few who didn’t want to die, who unlike me, are thankful, though. “And this is how it's always done?” I ask.
“It is.” An unspoken and you will respect it hangs in the air.
It's all a bunch of hooey. Still, I hurry and thank them to get Ranen off my back. Anything to get rid of him faster. The women don't seem to care about my thank yous, though. I'd be better off not opening my mouth at all.
“I will leave you now so you can get to know your ladies-in-waiting, but don't forget what I have taught you so far. You will have more lessons tomorrow, but now I have better things to do.”
More lessons? How long am I going to have to sit and listen to their petty concerns? I should have picked a different way of death. Or just let the man kill me.
Ranen leaves the room, and all that's left are these thirteen girls and women who look as if being in my presence is torture. They know nothing about pain.
Most look to be about my age or a little older. Some are middle-aged, and one woman appears grandmotherly. They all look prim and proper, despite being angry at my presence.
The girl with the mole asks, “Why did you drink from the cup?”
I narrow my eyes at her. “What is your name?”
“Jem,” she says with a curtsy, then spits out, “Your Majesty.”
“Well, Jem”—I say her name as sarcastically as I can; if she can be rude, I can certainly dish it back—“why did you want to drink from the cup?”
She scoffs. “As if you have to ask.”
“Exactly my point.” Which is all they're getting from me on the subject. There's no way I'm telling them more.
“I heard you staved off an attacker,” says the grandmotherly woman. Why she wanted to be queen is beyond me. She has so many wrinkles, her time as the ruler would be short—if she made it in the first place. Now I suppose she won’t know. It's just as well for her.
“And your name is…?” I ask
“Faya.”
“Well then, Faya, yes. Someone attacked me.” I glance at Jem. “Anyone who attacks me is dealt with accordingly.”
The room grows quiet after that, as if no one dares speak.
The ladies pull out things to work on, like little sewing pieces stashed in their voluminous skirts. If I pull out what’s stashed in my skirts, some of them will faint on the spot. Like my daggers.
“Excuse me, Your Majesty,” Faya says. “We would like to know where we can find your family, to move them into the palace.”
“Why would you want to do such a thing?” The closest thing I have to family is Daros, and having him here is not going to happen.
“It is one of our duties, as ladies-in-waiting.”
“Well, it is one duty you won't have to worry about.”
Jem narrows her eyes, and a few others look on curiously, but none of them contradict my words.
“What about your name?” Faya asks. “What can we call you, My Lady?”
“It seems you have plenty of names for me as it is.” I don't want to admit to being nameless. I've never wanted to before, and I feel even less inclined to now.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but we need to call you Queen Something. What can we fill that in with?” Faya persists.
“Nothing. You will call me only Queen.” I put sufficient bite in my words that the ladies-in-waiting shouldn't ask more questions.
And they don't, but they do give each other bewildered glances. It's not like people such as me exist. Everyone has a name, unless they belong to Daros, and I'm the only one who belongs to him.
They continue sewing. It makes me want to pull out those daggers to gouge my own eyes out. I can't handle this boring busywork.
A while later, I've had enough. There's only so much sitting around a person can do. It doesn't matter that I was taught to emulate those around me. There's no reason to, and I'm more bored than a knife can be dull.
I stand, and the ladies hurry to their feet, putting away their sewing.
“Is there something you need?” the oldest one, Faya, asks.
“Yes. Take me to my room.”
“I wish I could, my lady, but it's almost time for the feast to begin.”'
“What feast?”
“The one in honor of you becoming queen. Lord Ranen should have told you all about it and what to expect. It's always held the afternoon after a new leader is chosen.”
Either he didn't, or I was paying less attention than I thought. “When should I attend this feast?”
She glances at the clock. “In another twenty or so minutes.”
I clamp my teeth together and sit back down. This is ridiculous. I thought I'd left my mandates behind, but it seems not. Even as queen, you're subject to others.
We wait, them doing their handwork and fussing over me for what seems more like forty minutes before Jem stands. The others follow suit, Faya more slowly than the others. At this point, I'm so grumpy of doing nothing at all that I stay in my seat to be contrary.
“It's time for us to go, Your Majesty,” Jem says.
“I'll go when I'm good and ready.”
Jem gives me a shocked look, like she doesn't believe what I said. The others look just as horrified.
“You can't do that,” one of them says. “We have to be on time.”
“I'm the queen. I can do whatever I want.” And if they're going to bore me for hours, I can make them wait for me. I couldn't pull such a ploy with Daros. Being able to do so now has me hiding a smirk.
I sit here, casually thinking of the best poison to use on annoying twits. There are so many wondrous options. Not that I would really do it to such innocents, but it’s entertaining to think on.
They all stare at me, aghast. I haven't enjoyed myself this much in a long time. Maybe having to sit here for hours, doing nothing, was worth it. Fifteen minutes later, I stand. The others look relieved and lead me to the door.
As we make our way to the feast, I can't help but think I may figure out a way to fit in here. Until I find out who sent the assassin, that is. After that, I will see if I choose life or death.