In the Skin of a Nunqua (10 page)

Jun looked up from his plate, noting the other commanders’ amusement. “I guarantee, you’ll
never
beat me in a sword fight.”

“Ha!” Vittorio’s laugh reverberated through the dining area. “That sounds like a challenge. Maybe this place won’t be so boring after all.”

Bayla approached their table. “I’d like to ask Commander Jun for some things,” she said.

“I was finished anyways.” He picked up his plate and dropped it off in the kitchen, leading Bayla out of the pavilion to the tree stump, where their conversation would be private.

“I need parchment, quills, and ink to correspond with my father.”

Shanti was right: here was Bayla, asking for writing materials. “Rega, has anyone explained to you how the camp communicates with the king?”

“Commander Gy said there would be messengers.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Jun said. “All official correspondence is written in code. No regular soldiers, and only a few commanders, know it. The code is a safeguard against information falling into enemy hands. If messengers are captured, they’ll be tortured for information. Riding as a messenger is one of the most dangerous jobs a soldier can do. An intercepted letter from the heiress of Willovia to the king would, in all probability, expose both your and his location.”

“As the future queen, it would make sense that I know the code. Commander Gy can teach me.”

“Commander Gy has the responsibility of running this camp. He doesn’t have time to teach you.”

“Then Shanti can show me.”

“She doesn’t know the code,” Jun said. “I’ll teach you, but I have to leave for a few days to get supplies. Your lessons can start when I return. Under no circumstances is the code to be revealed to others at this camp.”

“I’m aware of the seriousness of this undertaking,” she said.

“Until you’ve seen the mutilated body of a messenger who was captured, I doubt you’ll ever understand.”

*

In the afternoon, Bayla took her stallion for a long ride with twelve other riders. On the return trip to camp, she saw soldiers setting up an archery range. A short distance away, men dumped shovelfuls of dirt into a ring of stones and spread pine needles over the dirt.

She entered the pasture used for grazing and asked a soldier for a brush to groom her stallion. He went to a canvas bag at the base of a tree and found her a brush. “That truly is an exceptional horse you have, Rega,” he said.

“Thank you.” But before Bayla could tell him it was a birthday gift, or how she had raised him from a colt, or that she was the only person ever to ride him—before she could tell him anything at all—the young man left to join the other soldiers.

Bayla brushed the knots out of her stallion’s mane and watched the guards converse. Even Shanti, who had seemed so stiff and severe at the castle, was more relaxed here at camp.

The horse pushed her gently with his nose.

“At least
you
like me.” Bayla glanced at the pasture and then back to her horse, giving him permission to leave.

The stallion whinnied and galloped away.

*

Shanti awoke early, as usual, and put her feet on the ground. Something tickled her left toe. In reaction, she jerked both feet back onto the platform and thin mattress she used for a bed. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light. Centipedes and millipedes infested the tent. The creatures made her want to shriek.

No, she must control herself. Where were her boots? She saw them on a crate at the opposite end of the tent. Shanti would rather confront the snakes outside Bayla’s tent than walk with bare feet across the bug-ridden ground. Centipedes the size of daggers clung to the cloth walls of her tent. One of the many-legged creatures crept up the platform and onto her blanket.

Shanti jumped from bed to table to crate, her feet never touching the ground. She picked up her boots from their resting spot as a black scorpion scrambled toward her, its tail poised to strike. A prickly sensation flooded her nervous system. Scorpions were not native to this area. Shanti smashed it into a crunchy mess under her boot heel.

She went outside wearing short pants, undershirt, and boots, with her hair still untied, and beat the sides of her tent using the flat of her sheathed sword. Soldiers coming into camp from their late-night guard duties eyed her curiously. More men emerged, but none dared speak to her. Shanti rolled up the sides of her tent, squishing any errant bugs.

She shook the jacket of her uniform and inspected it for inhabitants before putting it on, then went into the pavilion to find the other commanders. “Do any of you have bugs in your tent?”

“Bugs?” Vittorio said.

“Spiders, ants, centipedes, scorpions?”

They shook their heads.

“No scorpions are around here,” Gy said.

“Exactly.” Shanti stomped away, muttering to herself.

“Bayla!” She stepped into the princess’s tent.

Bayla sat on the ground and said nothing, not even to rebuke Shanti for failing to use her title. Written in the dirt in front of the princess were symbols: numerous lines crossed by short dashes, and one arc with a dot on the end.

A momentary fear pierced Shanti like a pin pushing through flesh. Bayla was a witch and the heiress to the Willovian crown—a powerful combination. Shanti should warn Gy. It would make her sound weak, though—a commander unable to cope with the difficulties of the task given to her. “If anything happens to me,” Shanti said, “I guarantee, your guards will leave you without protection.”

“You must be careful,” Bayla said. “Scorpions are everywhere in these lands.”

“No, Rega. They’re not. And if I have to, with my last ounce of breath, I’ll tell them who’s to blame. If I die, your protection leaves.”

“I never asked for sixty guards. I don’t need them to keep me trapped here.”

“Don’t you understand? What you do affects all Willovia. If you hurt me or kill me without justification, the soldiers at this camp will tell other soldiers in your father’s army. When it comes time to rule, no one will follow you. Why should the guards risk their lives for you? No more surprises.” With a swipe of her boot, Shanti destroyed the drawings in the dirt.

“So what am I supposed to do while I’m here?”

“Am I your governess? Your jester? Your maid? Shall I dress you in the morning, bring you your meals, pull down your covers at night?”

“I’m merely implying . . .”

“Implying what?” Shanti said.

“I would like to . . .”

Shanti waited. The plan was working.

Silence.

Come on, say it.

“I’d like to participate in the activities of this camp.” Bayla said.

Shanti exhaled and continued with the charade. “But you said you’re a royal and not a soldier.”

“I know what I said.” Bayla returned to creating symbols in the dirt with her finger. “My father spent many years with the Willovian military in his youth before he was crowned king. He speaks fondly of that time in his life. You’re a woman and allowed to work alongside the men. I see no reason why I cannot do the same.”

“Certain rules must be adhered to for you to train with the soldiers. All commanders of this camp must agree to your request.”

“I’ll ask Commander Gy to—”

“Don’t be mistaken,” Shanti said. “Just because you’ve seen Gy with his family doesn’t make him less a soldier. I’ll tell the others so we can review this matter.”

“I will not sit here any longer without a purpose.”

“Rega, for you to train, all commanders must be in agreement.” Shanti once again obliterated the symbols on the ground, leaving nothing visible but the outline of her boot. “Including me.”

With her tent now free of bugs, Shanti dressed, put her hair in the warrior’s knot, and pulled the covers over her bed. She joined the other commanders inside Gy’s tent, planning the day’s events. Taking a silver coin out of her pocket, she handed it to Gy. “Bayla has requested to join the soldiers. It’s been three days since we made the wager.”

“I don’t believe it,” Jun said.

“Rega Bayla has asked to train of her own free will,” Shanti said.

“So it begins,” Gy said. He held his hand out to Jun and received another coin. “Tomorrow morning, Shanti. The princess starts tomorrow.”

10

An Unholy Baptism

“
Wake up.”

Bayla lifted her head to find Shanti inside her tent.

“Hurry up and get ready. I’ll be waiting.” Shanti went outside.

At least, Shanti hadn’t pulled the blankets off this time when waking her, as she had done at the castle during the invasion.

Bayla emerged from her tent into the quiet camp. Light came from the pavilion, where breakfast was being prepared.

“All the commanders have agreed to your training,” Shanti said. “You will be treated like the others, and to protect your whereabouts, no word of this shall pass out of the encampment. You’ll perform the same duties as the rest of the soldiers, except for one: you will not have guard duty. Do you consent to these conditions, Rega?”

“Yes.”

“Then follow me.”

They went into the pavilion and passed the cook, who was busy chopping mounds of potatoes and mushrooms.

“Ah, Commander Shanti, I see you’ve brought me more help.”

“Mr. Pascha,” she said. Shanti stopped near two soldiers who were carrying dishes for the morning meal. “Names?”

“Aiden.”

“Pirro.”

“Rega Bayla will be working with you for a few days in the kitchen, after which she’ll be joining us in training.” Shanti left the pavilion and returned to her tent.

Both men stared openmouthed at her.

“What can I do to help?” Bayla asked.

“Um, Rega,” Pirro said, “it’s not fitting. The heiress to the Willovian crown shouldn’t be waiting on soldiers.”

“It’s fine. I want to help. Honestly.”

Pirro’s head bobbed twice, rather too quickly for a proper salutation to royalty. “This way, Rega.” He showed her to vats of mush that needed to be set out.

Bayla didn’t mind the work. In fact, she was relieved to be doing
anything
after the boredom of the past few days. When the soldiers came to eat, they were surprised to see her laboring in the pavilion—all except the commanders. Mr. Pascha would bark out orders but generally left his helpers alone as long as the work got done. Aiden and Pirro treated her kindly, carrying the heavier burdens or stealing her work out of kindness. The job was easy, and there was often time for breaks.

It took all Bayla’s courage to go to the table where Pirro and Aiden were talking.

“Rega?” they said in unison.

She joined them. “Please call me ‘Bayla’ while we’re here at this camp. Why is it that neither of you seem upset about working in the kitchen? Wouldn’t you rather be with the others?”

“Working here is great,” Pirro said.

“I don’t understand.”

“I must tell you, Rega,” Pirro said, “helping in the kitchen is better than some of the other duties at camp. I won’t go into detail. Anyway, we’ll return to training in a few days.”

“Besides,” Aiden said, “the company has vastly improved since you arrived to help.”

Pirro nodded in a gesture of approval. “Nice.” He had red hair and a wide grin that never left his face.

“Thank you,” Aiden said.

“How long have you two known each other?” she said.

“This drunken pig?” Pirro pointed to Aiden. “Too long.”

Bayla smiled in relief. It was good to finally talk to someone.

*

Aiden’s arms were submerged in dishwater to his elbows, and he laughed at Pirro, who sang a dirty tune about loose women. “You probably shouldn’t sing that in front of the princess.” Upon saying it, he realized that Rega Bayla wasn’t with them. Mr. Pascha had cornered her at the other end of the pavilion.

The cook looked her petite figure up and down. “You can ride with me on the wagon to get food today.”

“Mr. Pascha,” she said, “you know I have to ride with a guard. I cannot leave camp without one.”

“It’s okay, I’ll take care of you.”

Pirro and Aiden rushed to her aid.

“Rega Bayla,” Pirro said, “we need your assistance.”

Aiden took hold of her arm and escorted her away from the cook.

Mr. Pascha called out, “You forget about these boys. They can’t show you nothin’. I’ll treat you like a queen.” He smacked his thigh, amused at his own wit. “You ride with me today, Rega. It won’t take long.”

Bayla faced Mr. Pascha, her head held high. “If you wish for me to go, you must ask Commander Shanti since she’s in charge of my protection. I’m sure you won’t mind discussing the matter with her.”

Upon hearing Shanti’s name, Pascha scowled and retreated to the food wagon.

“That shut him up,” Aiden said. He decided to keep better track of Bayla’s whereabouts. Despite their working together, they were still her guards. He just hadn’t expected to be protecting her from the cook.

*

Aiden kept a close eye on Bayla for the next two days, and his friend Pirro thanked her for making them famous at camp. “Everyone’s been asking about you, Rega—I mean, Bayla,” Pirro said.

“They have?”

“Of course, especially Zindar.”

Zindar was the soldier who had come in second place in the horse race. Aiden gave Pirro a harsh look for that revelation. He wished his friend hadn’t mentioned Zindar, who boasted constantly about all the women he had known. Bayla would never fall for someone like that. At least, he hoped not.

“But I told them you were only interested in redheads.”

Bayla laughed, making Pirro’s face turn nearly the same shade as his hair.

Commander Jun returned to camp with a laden cart. He entered the pavilion, and Mr. Pascha avoided his presence like a deadly disease.

“Rega Bayla,” Commander Jun said, “see me after you’ve finished for the day. I have some things for you. Aiden?”

“Yes, Commander.”

“I hear you have a talent. Come with me.”

Aiden hummed good-naturedly as he took off his apron.

Bayla looked to Pirro, puzzled at Commander Jun’s comment. Pirro shrugged.

*

Commander Jun gave Aiden carving tools, brushes, and paint and told him to craft a symbol on the stump in the middle of camp.

Aiden went to the stump and thought about what he should make. Perhaps the Willovian crest, depicting a noble falcon? Too obvious. Something barbaric would be better.

He carved a dragon into the stump: long, lean, and bloodthirsty. The dragon’s forked tail encircled the stump, and he emphasized the mythical beast’s fangs and claws. Three bottles of dye waited on the ground for when he was ready to paint the creature.

Bayla came over and knelt next to him, quietly watching him work.

“You do have a talent,” she said. “I daresay your skills rival the castle’s own artist.”

Aiden laughed at her comment and the proper way in which she spoke. It was endearing.

“What?” she said.

The castle artist was his father—a fact he wanted to conceal for now. As much as he enjoyed spending hours lost in artistic endeavors, it was better that she think of him as her guard. “I’ll tell you later.”

Zindar approached, and Bayla stood up to greet him.

“Hello, Zindar,” she said.

“You remembered my name, Rega.”

Aiden mistakenly gouged a large chunk of wood out of the dragon. The last thing Zindar needed was encouragement.

“Of course,” Bayla said. “I should get my things from Commander Jun.”

Zindar crouched next to Aiden and watched her leave. “Pretty, isn’t she?”

“Don’t even think about it,” he said.

“I wouldn’t be dumb enough to go after the heiress to the Willovian crown, no matter what she looks like.”

“Right. Besides, Commander Shanti would cut you into tiny pieces if you did.”

“But she’s so . . . pretty.”

“You’ve said that already.”

*

Shanti entered Commander Jun’s tent to find him handing the princess a uniform. “Where are her boots?” she said.

“It was hard enough to find a small enough uniform without everyone thinking we’re inducting children. Look at her
feet.
”

Shanti considered the princess’s small feet. “As nice as those boots are, they won’t last out here. She needs thicker boots with a better grip, able to withstand the conditions—”

“Commander Shanti,” he said, “I have it under control. It will just take time. Rega, you may go.”

Bayla left, and Shanti softly kicked a crate covered with cloth. Glass clinked inside. She kicked the crate again and raised her eyebrows at Jun.

“Go ahead,” he said.

Shanti removed the cloth and let out a whistle. “Where did you get these?” She lifted a dusty bottle from the crate. The alcohol inside was expensive and much sought after, and Jun had managed to get a whole crate. “I’ll never doubt your skills in supply again.”

“Take one.”

“How much would I owe you for one of these?”

“I’ll think of something.”

She froze at the suggestive tone of his voice.

“All the commanders get one.”

“Oh,” she said. “Even Commander Gy? He doesn’t drink.”

“They can be used for other purposes.”

She took a bottle and replaced the cloth over the crate.

Jun handed her a roll of parchment, a straightedge made of wood, writing utensils, ink, and the torn map.

“One copy,” she said, with her arms full, “and don’t expect miracles.”

“How’s Bayla doing?”

“She seems more comfortable. I’ve even seen her talking with the soldiers—something she wouldn’t condescend to do while at the castle. I’m not sure, though. We’ll know more when she starts archery tomorrow.”

“
That
I’ll have to see.”

*

The old monk joined his brothers, draped in robes of blue. They gathered around a copper tub the length and width of a casket. Embers burned red in blackened pans beneath the tub, heating the water inside. Steam rose to the ceiling, which was originally painted a deep blue but had faded and chipped over time. No windows graced the room deep within the bowels of the monks’ domicile. Candles brightened ancient plaques on the walls. The old monk dipped his fingers in the water: hot, relaxing,
ready.
He nodded to his brothers, who took away half the pans to keep the water from boiling. The old monk picked up a crystal beaker with clawed feet of silver. Black liquid inside the beaker gleamed bluish-purple when struck by the light.

A middle-aged monk lay on the floor, naked except for a strip of cloth bound tightly around his hips. The brother’s skin seemed to glow in the candlelight, the bones of his ribs discernible beneath the membrane of his pale flesh. Short hair conformed to the shape of his skull. Other monks tied a metal chest plate to his torso and weighted his ankles with rings, then helped him into the tub.

The old monk removed the stopper from the beaker. “Are you ready?”

The brother expanded his lungs with a final breath, then plunged into the water.

The old monk emptied the inky elixir into the tub, creating shadows in the clear liquid. He waited for the potion to pass through the skin of his brother monk, enter his bloodstream, and travel to his brain. The submerged brother writhed within the watery confines. His body convulsed, became calm, then convulsed again. One hand reached out of the water, its veins darkened by the potion.

Just a little more time
, the old monk thought.

Another hand reached out, searching, splashing.

A few moments more
.

The surface of the water became increasingly turbulent with the man’s spasms.

“Now,” the old monk said.

The brothers lifted him out of the water, blue and black and subhuman. They removed the chest plate and ankle weights. The brother gulped in great lungfuls of air and opened his eyes. The water in the copper tub had become transparent, the spell fading. Only lingering effects remained.

“Tell us the future, my brother,” the old monk said.

“Invasion. I saw invasion . . . fire . . . death.”

They already knew of an invasion. What they couldn’t foresee was the fate of the House of DeyTrudi. “What of King Magen?”

Eyes blinded to the present stared into the future. “The king of Willovia will die.”

“When?” one of the other monks asked.

“As leaves fall to nourish next year’s growth, so, too, will he.”

Autumn
. The king would die in autumn.

“His death is the catalyst,” said the brother still experiencing the aftereffects of the spell.

“The catalyst for what?”

“War.”

“King Magen will die
before
Willovia is invaded?” the old monk asked.

“Catalyst. War.”

“What of Rega Bayla?”

The half-naked monk lay on the floor and closed his eyes, unresponsive to all stimuli. His skin gradually regained its normal pallor. Water dripped from his body.

The brotherhood of monks waited in the candlelit room, circling like vultures around the carcass of an animal, hungry for the future.

The man emerged fully from the vision and squinted in the dim light.

The old monk knew he had to ask questions quickly while the memory was fresh. “Who will attack Willovia?”

Someone put a blanket around the visionary’s shoulders. An ordinary cup of water was placed on the floor in front of him, and he took a drink. “I saw the Nunqua. They consider the death of King Magen an opportune time to strike and seize the lands of Willovia. The Nunqua believe the country is weakened from his passing.”

“What will be the outcome of this attack?”

“This I could not see.”

“What about Rega Bayla?” the old monk said. He received no answer. Picking up the cup of water, he flung it against the wall. Shards of pottery and droplets of water flew across the room. One of the ancient stone tablets cracked. “Tell us about Queen Baylova!”

The visionary held his head in his hands, his body trembling with the potion’s aftereffects. “I don’t know. I cannot see her future. I never could.”

The monks talked among themselves. “Is Rega Bayla’s power and hatred for us so great that she can influence our minds, block our vision? Why can’t we see her future?”

“Do you think she knows? Is that the reason she despises us?”

The old monk gently picked up the silver-clawed beaker, empty now. “Let us hope she never discovers the source of our power—or what happened to her mother.”