Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Tuscany
Seven Years Later
I stride into the planning room. The soft click of my heels echoes against the polished marble floor as my ladies trail closely behind.
As always, when I enter, the men are already seated, conversing. Their voices blend into a deep hum of conversation. I have often wondered whether they stagger our start times on purpose—perhaps that’s just paranoia. Why would they?
An imposing table made of aged wood dominates the centre of the room with leather-upholstered chairs lining either side.
When all eyes snap to me, I lift my chin, an automatic reaction to counter the swirling anxiety in my chest that makes it hard to breathe.
The men stand to acknowledge my presence, bowing slowly, their eyes falling to my feet before climbing up, assessing me.
Are they judging me?
My attire?
Questioning my capabilities?
Am I ready for this campaign?
Today, I’ve worn a white dress as usual, but unusually, this one is fitted with sleek, purple armour—lightweight, durable and flexible—tailored to my torso. From afar, it would appear to be a corset. On closer inspection, it is powerful armour.
I am ready.
The armour is meant to prove that I am prepared and capable, but as I look around and see the men dressed in casual clothing, linen shirts, denim or leather pants, I wish I had not worn it.
Essen and Ana—my Army ladies—wait by the door beside three Guards.
Sitting at the table are Rome, Cairo, and two Guards I recognise, but can’t name. My half-brother, Turin Two, only a year older than me, is visiting the Half-tower. He has been gone for weeks. Usually, as Warden of The Estate, he rarely travels.
Kong is here. At the table. I dare not glance at him, for he will see all the conflict I desperately try to hide. I hate his sharp gaze with the same painful passion that I desire it.
I shouldn’t have desires.
A marble statue does not.
Kong has watched me for many years. From afar, he has watched the monsters.
But since the night he rejected me, when he touched me in his sleep, he has kept his distance.
Been at the right place at the right time.
I’ve been so close to him, yet so alone.
A dutiful hold when necessary. A small gesture to pacify me.
He has shown that I am merely duty to him. That is all. The queen. Untouchable.
No one wants to embrace marble.
Taking my seat at the other end of the table, I find myself across from my brother, the king. Rome of The Strait, The Cradle’s Monarch and Protector, and one of the few people alive who cares for me.
“I didn’t keep you waiting, did I?” I ask, though I was punctual. The men sit and Rome studies me, his blue gaze lapping my armour.
I keep a straight face.
“Being on your own time is your right, my queen,” Cairo remarks, but I was on time. He clasps his hands on the table. “What a momentous occasion!”
I feel a rush of embarrassment wash over me. Don’t mention the armour….
“And you certainly look the part,” he adds.
Ugh.
The part…
His chosen two words chip away at the steely resolve I pretend to have. He taunts me, like I am ‘playing a part.’ Playing dress-up. Cairo, the Trade Master, manages to lace his compliments with condescension.
“I thought it suitable.” I do not falter. “Rather, I wanted your approval. I know how wary you and my brother are of my campaign. I thought you should see for yourself.”
“Well… You won’t be going into battle, my queen,” he says, the patronising huff of amusement subtle but present. He opens his arms, and I shift my gaze between him and my brother, the king. “Whatever makes you feel comfortable.”
“Wonderful,” I say through clenched teeth.
“We have mapped out your campaign, my queen,” one nameless Guard announces, not bothering to look at me as he leans over the table and activates a hologram of The Cradle.
A pointer marks The Estate. “A half a day’s drive to the dam to visit the Trade men and women.
” The pointer moves. “Here. Another brief journey from there to the Lower-tower where you will spend a week—.”
“A week?” My brows furrow. I had hoped to spend more time on the road, exploring the ruins and immersing myself in the true essence of The Cradle—not confined within the opulent walls of the grandest tower, where fantasy and reality intertwine, and…
blur. I find it hard to see clearly at the best of times.
“Yes,” Rome interjects, his voice steady, “Bled wishes for you to celebrate your birthday there with him.” His bright blue eyes dissect my every breath, concerned and searching for reasons to object to my campaign.
“He has been planning it for months, sweet sister. You know how he loves to throw parties.”
And he will act as a spy. Lord Bled is Rome’s favourite, his closest friend, from our Collective.
“Oh.” I raise an eyebrow. “Well, Sire, from what I have heard, his parties are not for my eyes.” Lord Bled of the Lower-tower is notoriously famous for his salacious gatherings, feasts for both the eyes and appetites.
Rome chuckles deeply, such an odd sound coming from my brother, although he has softened since meeting Aster.
The only reason I am permitted to take this journey is because of her…
influence over him. “He will keep them appropriate for you. A week will allow you to experience more of the Lower-tower.”
And it is safe.
“It is a beautiful tower,” he adds. “I would show Aster, but not while she’s pregnant, and I plan on keeping her that way, so her travels will have to wait.”
My brother was never supposed to fall in love with his Silk Girl—his breeding girl—but he did, and his humanity has never been so close to the surface. For a near-pure Xin De king, from his highly engineered lineage, that is quite a remarkable feat.
Although Lord Bled spared no expense when developing the Lower-tower, its size and constant activity could overwhelm a pregnant Silk Girl.
They are fragile.
In many ways, a Silk Girl is the opposite of what a queen should be. They are protected from any negative experience to keep their genes clean of generational trauma. On the contrary, a queen is carved by trauma, hardened, and turned to stone. I should be stone enough to handle anything.
While The Estate is Romanesque and proud, a testament to an old-world empire, the Lower-tower is far more modern and livelier, a marvel of extravagance in the central districts.
It is home to over a hundred-thousand Trade citizens on the outskirts, and in the centre, the most protected and influential of them.
Not to mention hidden beneath it… fifty Trade Nurseries or more, places that raise the babies of The Cradle, where they are safe, secure, and doted upon.
Yes, I will visit them.
I sit stiffly. “A week is good,” I agree, as if I had a choice in the matter.
“Very good,” Rome states, leaning back into his chair. “Kong will make sure Bled behaves himself, sweet sister.”
Kong…
He is to be my Royal-ordered Guardian for the campaign.
Despite my objections, Rome insisted. It would be unwise to disagree; Kong knows The Cradle as well as any man can, and the Guards respect no-one more—definitely not me.
Frankly, it’s ironic. They will take bullets for me but not hear me speak, will offer me the last sip of water but never offer me a kind word. I am not real to them.
Just marble.
“Let’s move on,” Cairo says, signalling for the Guard to continue.
The Guard clears his throat. “From here the queen will travel along the mountain’s edge to the Trade-tower, stopping only at the safe house beside Windmill Five. It is all charted.”
I glance at Kong—quickly—and my lips part when I see that long dark hair and thick form. He has his eyes set on the digital map as I get a little lost on him... But neither he nor Cairo nor the nameless Guard looks my way.
I tear my eyes from him. To my brother Rome who glares at Cairo. The king and the Trade Master don’t always agree.
I believe my brother would have him killed if it weren’t dangerous for our Collective—for me and the rest of the lords that Rome hand-picked to manage The Cradle.
Akin to the old-world Church and The Crown, The Trade and The Crown are the two pillars that hold up this devastated land. Equal power can only end in devastating war if one crumbles.
“I will have men investigate before the queen arrives,” Kong states, and my toes curl into my boot when I hear his deep voice. It’s smooth, yet rich and dynamic. I sometimes hear his voice in my dreams.
“Perfect,” Cairo states.
“Then the campaign will head northeast and visit the Upper-tower for—”
“What about Breaker Ledge?” I pose, needing to get there. I have secret plans. “It is a place of historical significance,” I add. “My brother has fought many wars on that led—”
“My queen,” Cairo interrupts, his voice smooth, yet powerful, like molten lava, burning all in its path and leaving a shiny slate. “We have this planned for your protection.”
I swallow and straighten, my spine so rigid it would break before it bent.
They continue discussing the itinerary, but I become acutely aware that they prefer me to be seen and not heard.
So, I tune them out, gazing at the stone walls where textiles hang, depicting The Cradle. Places. Events. Tributes. The sight makes me dizzy. I may not be ready. I may never be ready, but it is now or never. It is my legacy, and there are secrets.
About babes and thieves.
About treaties in the dark.
I know where I must visit, I need not listen to the conversing men around me. Once we are on the road, I will have more power to command. Without Cairo or Rome, I will be the highest authority.
Won’t I?
“And you will take the CR—Common Relations—Guard with you,” Rome says, pulling me from my deep thoughts, though his voice seems slower, deeper.
“The people will want to see your campaign in detail. We will play the highlights on the weekly Trade Updates. I’ve had him follow me for most of my life. You will get used to him.”
“I am sure I will,” I say, suddenly feeling detached, as if I am acting.
As if I am playing at queen. As if… I am not real.
“Well, you seem to have everything planned. I will continue to prepare.” I rise to my feet, and the men follow.
They bow as I take my leave from them, my hurried heels giving away my anxiety.
I part my lips and draw in heavy, thick air, walking fast to keep from sceptical eyes. I know this feeling. I hate this feeling. One moment I can be planning a campaign across The Cradle, prepared, determined, ready—and the next, I am overwhelmed by tapestries.
Skinny reality…
I press my fingers to my neck, feeling the heavy thumping of my pulse as I stride back toward my wing, trying to…
Form grown-up thoughts.
Maybe I should cut my hair.