In the Skin of a Nunqua (33 page)

“Me?”

“The last word she spoke was your name. Did Jun tell you what happened in the arena?”

“Yes.” Aiden readjusted the portrait’s frame. “I hear you’re going to Tokana with your personal guards.”

“I’m planning on it.”

“I was wondering if you needed one more guard.”

“It would be a waste of your skills as a—”

“I’d like to go,” he said.

Shanti permitted the interruption. “Agreed.” She gazed at the richly detailed portrait: Baylova’s light features against the dark background, the proud yet sad expression on her face, the supple folds of the black dress with delicate lace, the realistic wolf sitting at her side. “You truly are talented, Aiden.”

*

The Nuncovian Council met in the caves beneath the castle by the sea. The council consisted of Commander Kyros, Madiza, General Seiko, and General Thaktos—a gaunt, often overlooked Nunqua warrior considered by all to be a logistical mastermind. Commander Gy had been asked to serve on the council but decided instead to retire to his farm and family. Queen Shanti ruled over the proceedings.

“Can we expect a coup attempt from Lord Argu’s relatives?”

“A coup would require an army,” Seiko said. “I doubt any warriors would follow the command of those once loyal to Argu, especially since the generals have pledged their allegiance to you. They are no threat to your reign.”

“General Thaktos,” Shanti said, “the northern castle in Prigone is yours to use. General Seiko, you may live in the royal residence in Tokana. I urge you both to promote trade between our two countries. Keep the borders open and safe for all who wish to travel. Commander Kyros, I want you to see that sufficient stores of grain are stockpiled. Nightly feasts here in Willovia will be scaled back to take place only during a full moon and on festival days or special occasions.”

“Done,” Kyros said.

Jun entered the cave and stood in front of the council.

“Commander Jun,” Shanti said, “have you considered the offer to command my personal guard?”

“I accept.”

Madiza rubbed a dark opal on the bracelet around her wrist. “They will attack tonight.”

“
Who
will attack?” Jun said.

“The monks.” Madiza smiled at Jun, as if at an open book that was easy to read. “Do not underestimate them, Commander. They may seem sickly and old, but they are desperate men intent on corrupting the crown.”

“With all due respect to the council, the queen’s guards have yet to work together. The royal guards under the leadership of Commander Kyros are better prepared to defend an attack against the castle.”

“The attack will not be at the castle,” Shanti said. “Capture the monks and put them in prison for conspiracy to subvert the monarchy. Tracker can translate your orders to the warriors.”

Jun nodded, and the meeting adjourned.

*

A yellow moon crept out from its hiding spot behind a cloud. At the edge of the city, six men, in clothing that hung loose from their skeletal bodies, used a long iron rod to break apart the chains securing the entrance of the royal catacombs. They stole into the depths of the earth with torches, pickaxes, and burlap bags. Stoic stone faces carved into statues stared at them as they passed. The monks finally came to the tomb of Baylova.

They worked without needing to speak. Each chink of a pickax on the sealed wall of the vault brought them closer to the object of their obsession. It wouldn’t be long before the remains were theirs. True, it wasn’t Baylova’s life’s blood, taken moments after her heart stopped beating. The burnt corpse and bones would make a weak potion compared to still-warm blood, but it would help the monks see into the future, if only faintly. There was a new queen and a chance to create a new pact to secure their destiny alongside royalty. They would peer into Shanti’s future, discern how to gain her confidences. Then they would go back to the old ways. Shanti’s flesh and blood would be bartered for the good of both Willovia and the Nunqua.

The order of the monks would be a cherished organization once more, held in the highest esteem, able to come and go into the castle and caves as they pleased. They would live in an opulent residence with the best of everything and with servants to cater to their needs.

Pebbles and mortar crumbled downward with each feeble stroke. A hole in the wall opened up. Desire drove them faster as they bashed away chunks of wall until the hole was large enough to go through.

The sickly-sweet scent of decaying flowers wafted out of the vault. Two of the monks entered the tomb with torches. They opened the lid of the casket, caressed the red velvet covering the corpse, and salivated.

One monk carried an empty sack over his shoulder. They pulled back the covering to reveal the prize they had risked their lives to retrieve. Fire had blackened the corpse. Long, frizzy hair stuck out from the scalp. Muscle had melted away to reveal milky bone, and white teeth jutted from loose lips that slumped down the jaw and cheeks. The head was detached from the body. Leopard spots patterned the skin on the arm.

“Something’s wrong.” One of the monks reached out and touched the corpse. Instead of bloodlust, he felt only revulsion. He scrutinized the body: the limbs were long and thick, the shoulders too wide and hips too narrow for a woman, especially a petite woman such as Baylova.

The monk’s shrill howl ricocheted inside the vault, “No-o-o-o-o!”

*

Shanti stepped onto her balcony. She wore a white nightgown, and her feet were bare. In her hand was the long lock of Baylova’s hair that she had taken when they were in the arena. She separated the strands and let them blow in the breeze. The hair swirled in a current of air, drifting down to the earth and sea below. Impossible to retrieve. “Your spirit is free,” she said.

She returned to her chamber, a comfortable room with a bed, desk, wardrobe, hinged privacy panel, and chaise. Books from the library were piled in an untidy heap on a table beside the chaise. Also on the table was a candle burning inside a glass urn.

Shanti went to her wardrobe and returned with two more locks of hair. She went outside again, unbraided and released the strands of Caravey’s hair, and spoke the simple words of the ritual: “Your spirit is free.” She also scattered the Nunqua warrior’s hair from her necklace, to blow in the wind. “Your spirit is free.”

The words meant nothing. She accepted her status as a witch, but she didn’t have the ability to control another person’s spirit. No one did. Releasing the hair was symbolic. And cathartic. She was no longer a string pulled so tight it was bound to break.

Shanti lounged on the chaise, with a blanket pulled up to her waist. She perused a handwritten book of geography, containing drawings and incomplete maps. Her thoughts wandered to Jun. She wished he would use the ledge to come into her room tonight, but he was busy following orders. Her eyelids grew heavy. She blew out the candle, hugged her pillow tight, and fell asleep on the chaise. The bed made especially for her, overflowing with blankets and pillows, remained empty.

*

The monks bellowed in anger. Their wails of frustration mixed with the sound of . . . what was it? Laughter? They raised their torches. Someone had followed them into the catacombs. The laugh belonged to Baylova. Alive! Her phony death and deceptive funeral must have been a trick.

She stood before them in a black dress with lace trim. In the dark surroundings, her pale skin looked like wax.

“Queen Baylova . . . ,” breathed a monk holding a pickax

Red-rimmed eyes stared greedily at the body that held the warm, flowing blood they craved. The monks licked their lips and surrounded her.

Her skin darkened until it was black and burnt. Flesh dripped down to reveal bone. She smelled of the salty sea. Heat rose inside the tunnel until it felt as if they were being cooked inside a cast-iron pot over a roaring fire. The monk with the pickax, raised it over his head and swung downward, right through Baylova. The pickax encountered nothing but air.

They ran from the laughing ghost, leaving behind tools and the evidence of their crime. A snarling spirit wolf chased them out of the tunnels, and they shouted in terror.

Seven Nunqua warriors, their eyes shining silver in the dark, and nine Willovian soldiers captured the monks as they emerged from the catacombs.

Commander Jun ordered Tracker and half of Shanti’s guards to escort the monks to prison. The other half, including Yasmine and Aiden, entered the catacombs with torches. They descended to the site of the desecrated grave with a bucket of mortar, tools, and a handcart filled with bricks. Jun and Aiden crawled through the hole to inspect the open casket. The burnt remains of a man had been uncovered. The unburned patch of skin on one arm was spotted.

“Delartay?” Aiden asked.

Jun nodded.

“And Baylova?”

“At the bottom of the sea. It must be kept secret. If word of this ever got out, the people would turn against Shanti.”

“I’m not so sure,” Aiden said. “Tonight only proves she had a reason for switching the . . . whoa!” Aiden pointed to the gap between the head of the corpse and the rest of the body. “Shanti did
that
in the arena? I knew she killed him, but I didn’t realize . . .”

“She avenged Baylova’s death, freed herself from Delartay’s twisted grip, and ended the war.”

Jun returned the red cloth over the gruesome remains, then closed the lid. They crawled out of the vault, and Shanti’s guards resealed the tomb.

*

Shanti studied a map on a wobbly table inside a tack room of the royal stables.

Jun traced his finger along a line of the map that ran from the Willovian castle in Erbaut to the Nunqua capital. “We’ll take this road.”

He wasn’t wearing a uniform—just regular clothes comfortable for riding. All around, Shanti’s guards saddled their horses in preparation for the journey. They weren’t wearing uniforms, either, just inconspicuous attire with swords and various other weapons to safeguard the queen.

No sword weighted Shanti’s back, and she no longer wore her wristlet with darts. Bearing weapons might provoke hostility, and Shanti wanted to be a symbol of cooperation and trust. She wore a man’s wide-brimmed hat of tanned leather to keep the sun and rain off. She pointed to a blank area of the map. “We’ll travel through here.”

“That land is uncharted,” Jun said. “It’s easier to take the main thoroughfare, and it will give you an opportunity to meet with the people.”

“Willovia considers this area within its borders and, therefore, part of our kingdom,” Shanti replied. “There’s plenty of time to explore this region before we arrive at Tokana for the tournament. We’ll return along the main roads when we have more supplies, guards, and equipment.”

“What tournament?” Jun said.

“
The
tournament, in the grand arena. Uncle Seiko is taking care of the arrangements: a place for the guards to stay and train, my residence at the royal palace, wardrobe, attendants, a feast in my honor.”

Jun tapped his finger on the map. “Exploring these lands with only fifteen guards is dangerous. As queen, you cannot take such a risk.”

“As commander of my guards, you have the responsibility of uniting this group into a dedicated fighting force that will strike fear into the hearts of those who wish to harm me. What better way than to rely on each other as we travel through these lands?”

“There’s a reason this area is uncharted.”

“Come on, Jun. Don’t you want to know what’s out there?
Who’s
out there? I do.” Shanti folded the map and put it in a bag containing two leather-bound journals. More maps, a few small books, and writing utensils were also in the bag. She left the tack room to find Aiden, adjusting the straps of his saddle. She gave him the bag. “Cartographer and chronicler.” She entered a spacious stall to find her horse already saddled and ready to go. Sometimes, it was good to be queen.

Jun followed her into the stall. “You’re still keeping secrets from me.” He moved close. “Just remember, I don’t take orders from you.”

“Yes, you do.” Shanti felt the usual flush creep up her face. Memories of the night they spent together resurfaced. One night with Jun was not enough.

He took a scrap of orange cloth out of his pocket.

“What’s that?” she asked. “Is that my armband from the Hedgelands?”

Jun put it back in his pocket and left the stall.

He had kept the armband he won from her on the night they played capture the flag. Did he have it with him all this time, even when detained at the prisoner-of-war camp? Maybe she meant more to him than he had let on. Maybe she didn’t have to sleep alone every night. Maybe Jun had thought about being king. Her heart filled with hope. He would have to give up his freedom, though, his anonymity. Not an easy thing to do. And he would be a king in name only; the authority to rule would always be hers. The Nunqua wouldn’t accept a Willovian king, just as the Willovians would never accept a Nunqua king. An
heir,
on the other hand . . .

She led her horse out of the stable. Her guards had assembled in an informal group at the edge of a field. Kyros and Gy stood by a wooden fence to see them off. Shanti went to them and hugged Gy. “I’d like you to come to the tournament. Bring Tova and the kids. You’re welcome to stay at the castle as my official guests; then you can see that the Nunqua are not as brutish as many believe. You and your family will be treated with honor.”

“We’ll be there,” Gy said. “Good luck, and be careful.”

Shanti turned to Kyros. “Not planning on gathering an army in my absence to topple me from power, are you?”

Kyros answered in his usual lofty attitude. “Hardly.”

His contrived indifference was a good sign. Kyros had, after all, risked his life by defying Baylova’s orders and helping her escape the castle. All men wore masks. “Keep Madiza safe,” she said, “and stockpile food—”

“You act as if you don’t trust me.”

Should she shake his hand? Give him a hug? Bow in gratitude for his service to Willovia? Or wait for him to bow first? Her horse pushed her impatiently with its nose.