Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Tuscany
I finish my first-light treatment early and step from the shower into my suite, skin still warm. My carry-on lies open on my mattress, half-packed.
Overwhelming.
The journey north will be a tight squeeze inside the tank with my Army ladies. The interior is a maze of metal; there is little room to manoeuvre. But I'm petite, so I can sit in a corner with my small case nestled beside me...
I need my personal effects. My ointments, a book, gloves, and a hairbrush… at the very least.
And Eagle Rome.
Just in case.
By crown-light, we will be on the road, travelling for many hours, away from The Estate, from my fort of seclusion—from my comfort zone.
Yes, just in case. I tuck Eagle Rome into my bag.
Quietly, Ana, my favourite from my Army, walks in with an armful of towels. I try not to appear too eager to converse with her, and she holds her gaze low and respectful.
I watch from the corner of my eye as The Trade Nurse gathers her creams and blood pressure monitor, packing them into her treatment kit.
‘I hate nurses’, a little voice inside my head says, and I shudder.
The treatments don’t hurt anymore, but they used to.
Before my brother became the king, in the decade after my Rite, the nurses would scorch my skin from my muscles, layer the area with stem cells, to force regeneration.
Forever young. Flawless. The pain that followed saw me in my room wailing.
Then weeks of tender skin. Even silk sheets felt like hundreds of tiny blades those nights.
It's been so long, but I can still smell the burning flesh…
The nurse bows, then leaves.
As soon as she is out of sight, Ana rushes toward me. “My queen.” Her voice is barely a whisper. “I finally have word from the man who will show you around Ruins S. He has offered to give you a small tour, never done before, and assures complete safety. He will meet us at Breaker Ledge—”
I sigh hard. “We are not going to Breaker Ledge anymore.”
“Why not?” Ana frowns. “Why—"
“What else did he say?” I press.
She clears her throat, and glances at the entrance, wary of eavesdroppers. My Army ladies are coming and going from my suite like madness—it takes all hands to pack and organise the Royal Tank.
“That you are to go to the shore at first-light,” she says. “Alone. And he will find you.”
I scoff. “I will not be going alone.”
“That is what I said, my queen,” she assures. “He said you could take one other, and he does not want a war, so he will not be causing any harm to the beloved Queen of The Cradle. His words, my queen.”
“Am I beloved now?”
She looks at me as though I am clueless and misguided. “You are, my queen.”
I rub my temples. “But they have mapped the entire campaign out in gruelling detail. To be safe, of course.”
Safe. What is that?
That word triggers me.
As a young girl, before that night, I thought I was safe. Stood centre stage. Sunshine. Vibrant. Full of silly words when my mouth wasn’t full of chocolate. After that night, the word safe lost all meaning.
The Cradle isn’t safe. I’ve known this for a while but hid away. Safe in my wing. In my isolation that I despise and yearn for.
That is… until several months ago, I heard a story from a Common girl. A story of stolen babies and corrupt dealings. After I heard this story, I realised I couldn’t hide any more. I had to act.
I look at Ana. Brown skin, big eyes, perfect figure; she is prettier than the rest of my Army because she was Born For Silk.
Once a breeding girl whose lord died, leaving her with no place or comfort.
I gave her a place with me. She is different from the others in my order; she sees the grey others ignore.
And she heard the story, too.
“But we are not safe,” I say. “You and I both heard the story that night at the Common Community.” Checking over her shoulder, I’m aware our privacy is fleeting.
The story comes back like a flash of memories behind my eyes.
“And it is about a half man, half eagle. The tale goes that this man visits the Endigo and asks them to do horrific things… He is a ruler, you see. He gives the Endigo permission to hunt women, allows them to keep the bodies, the flesh, so he can steal their babies.”
“What does he want the babies for?”
“For The Trade, of course.”
I swallow, aligning myself with the present, with Ana. “The one that girl told us. Where a half man half eagle—presumably my father—traded with raiders to kill women, so the Trade could sweep in and collect the orphans? Take the babies for the Trade.”
Ana nods.
“I want to find out the truth about what is happening,” I say. “But they have a strict course for us. Can you get a message to this man? He is to meet us at Windmill Five in eight days. I will have to sneak away. We will have to sneak away.”
Ana stares at me as if my words are too large to absorb. “Of course, my queen.” She swallows. “I will go with you. Do you truly believe Sire is still stealing babes like the late king? I thought he put a stop to it.”
“I need to know for sure,” I whisper. Then I lift my chin, guarded, hating my untrustworthy tone. I am loyal to my brother. I do trust him… don’t I?
“I believe him to be a man,” I say in my defence, and stroll across to the vanity, my fingers reaching out to touch the brush…
Last night. Kong was here with me. I recall it as if I were merely an observer, not the fragile queen being spoon-fed by an enormous Guardian who is not her own.
One who seems to always be there, catching her, shielding her, finding her.
The one who knows all her—my—secrets, has heard me wail into the night.
"A man…” she whispers, confusion dragging her voice to a pause.
Before the memory becomes too real, I throw the brush in my pack. Before I recall the way his dark eyes pinned me, the thick muscles and veins cording his arms as he dragged my chair toward him, or the way he said, ‘Good girl’ when I ate for him…
I spin to face Ana, dizzy. "Why do we have a king and a queen, Ana?” I shake off the image, walking to my dressing room to collect my purple cape.
I clip it over my shoulders. “Why not only a king, and his Silk Girls, his breeding girls? I’ll tell you.
It’s about control. Men and women need two things.
One is to be governed, to be organised, else anarchy breaks out, and the other is to be spiritual.
A man is terror and muscle and presence, while a woman is compassion and empathy.
He is order, and she is worship. The land needs both.
My brother is a better king than our father, but he is a man.
” I can be candid with Ana, and with her only.
“A man cares for those he can touch and see. A woman can care for a stranger, a woma—”
The door swings open, and Essen strides in. “Excuse me, my queen.” The atmosphere shifts as she carries suspicion in with her. She is dutiful and helpful… But she is not of Turin’s blood, and I believe that still bothers her.
She is not an eagle.
I have often felt that my Army ladies are not entirely… mine. I do not trust Essen with this secret. “We need to get the rest of your items. The tanks are arriving now.”
"Wonderful.”
Her eyes flick between Ana and I, her slow gaze invasive and pointed.
The blood of a lord makes her less amenable to me.
If the colour of her black hair gives any hint, I would wager she is of the Upper-tower.
The blood of the late Lord Batam. Information I shall never know, nor will she.
She once told me I could join her Army if she became queen, so I offered her the same courtesy.
Essen continues her wary analysis of my room, lifting my sheets and emptying the trash can, collecting and organising items for the trip or for storage.
They— Cairo, Rome, everyone except Ana—believe my only motivation is to visit my people, but I have others…
More than once, I have heard that story—of babies being taken from Common Communities. For a better life. For Meaningful Purpose. Given to The Trade by their fathers, by men who do not wish to care for them. It makes me wonder, who can be trusted in this life? If anyone.
I trusted my father.
My father’s face flickers in my mind’s eye.
Stoic. Square-jawed. Proud. I once saw him as masculine perfection.
Once gazed up with hearts, innocence, and juvenile adoration.
That childish image of Turin of The Strait fractured when he visited the first-light after my Rite, congratulated me on my new Purpose, and left my room with the vase that held my womb and one ovary.
I trusted The Trade.
That vase now sits in Master Cairo’s chamber alongside others I do not wish to examine or know about.
I was pulled apart that night.
And my own father knew. I am pieces, in a vase, in The Trade’s regime, in my own mind, but I am not entirely powerless. Not always. Not right now. I’m The Queen of The Cradle, and I’ll collect the pieces I have and the power in them to learn about my people.
Make a positive impact.
Positive changes.