ESSA #2
They must be lovers, I thought, stolen away to this little-used part of the palace to enjoy some privacy. But the woman’s light brown hair, her posture… and the man… those bulky shoulders, that thick velvet cloak. I recognized them both. It was Auntie Dreya and Lord Natath.
I ducked back into the stairwell and peered out around the corner again. The two were talking earnestly, their body language relaxed and familiar. Not lovers, maybe, but certainly not enemies, either. Co-conspirators, perhaps. Dreya spoke again and placed a hand on Natath’s chest. He laughed.
Gods, I needed to get closer, to overhear what they were saying. But no. Nothing stood between us but bare hallway, stone floor, and stone walls with nothing to hide behind. Try to eavesdrop, and I’d surely be discovered.
Then, they’d know I saw them talking together.
Don’t let your enemy know you know what you know. That was another Torouman saying…
Auntie and Natath continued to talk, oblivious of me. I spared them one more glance, then departed, continuing my ascent up the long, winding stairwell.
I found Mother’s rooms in ruins. The bed chamber had been cracked open like an egg, the sheets blown off and caught on a piece of debris, flapping in the wind like a ghost. The expensive Koratainian rug squished under my feet, soaked from some prior rain.
Beams and stones stood out, jagged against the night sky.
Mother’s wardrobes stood open, ransacked either by thieves or wind.
But her hairbrush still sat on the table beside her bed, as if she’d just set it there.
Her scrying bowl still stood on its pedestal, obsidian-black and full of still, ominous water.
A pair of her boots stood slumped near a chair, as if she’d just slipped them off and might be back at any moment to put them on again.
All of it blurred for a moment, and I pressed my fingers to my face, wiping sudden tears from my eyes.
I didn’t think it would affect me like this. I’d barely spent any time in my mother’s chambers, even as a girl. It was her private place, her sanctuary. And she was a private person. But seeing it torn apart like this, open to the elements…
I shook my head, clearing my thoughts. I wasn’t here to grieve or to reminisce. I was here to learn something—if I could.
Mother’s desk stood in the far side of the room.
I crossed to it—careful on the floor, which now slanted slightly toward the open air and a deadly drop.
One by one, I opened the drawers and rummaged through them.
I found her royal seal and a stick of wax.
Two daggers. A pack of candles. Quills, paper, and ink.
Correspondence from the barons in the north and a duke in the south—all of it, very dull.
Reports from the Front on Dorhane detailing troop movements, reporting on casualties, and listing crates and barrels of food to be procured.
I banged the final drawer shut with a sigh.
I don’t know what I expected to find here, I thought to Othura before realizing she couldn’t hear me.
I raked my fingers through my hair, annoyed.
“Really, Mother? That’s all you’ve got for me? Nothing?” I muttered.
The silence mocked me. With a groan, I threw myself backwards onto Mother’s bed. It was far enough away from the elements that it was dry, and I closed my eyes, thinking that I might just fall asleep right here. The thought made me smile.
Kortoi and his company had been bold to let me wander the castle unattended.
It showed they were sure they had the upper hand.
But if they awoke and found me not in my chambers, I could only imagine the search that would ensue.
That would show the truth of my situation—that I was no princess. No queen. Only a prisoner.
“What would you do, Mother, if you were me?” I asked.
And just for fun, I used my dragon stone to stir up the wind a little, as if in response. And I heard, next to my head, the flutter of papers. I rolled, raising up on my elbow, and found a book lying on the bed next to me.
A journal, I thought hopefully, snatching it up.
But I wasn’t so lucky as that. It was just a book, an old copy of Queens of Maethalia: A 4000 Year History, by Paloremus.
I knew it well. It was a classic, a book Auntie had forced me to read no less than four times in my studies.
Mother had one of the stories bookmarked.
It was “Enth Loraet Opheema,” the Tale of Opheema.
It had been one of my favorites growing up.
Opheema, as the story went, was the eldest of her siblings, but she was also the weakest—something I could relate to.
Opheema was pure of heart while her siblings were all schemers who had been subverted by the dark arts and were plotting to kill her and take the throne for themselves.
The siblings were mighty warriors, while Opheema was small and sickly.
But she had a plan. She repeatedly exposed herself to scorper venom to develop immunity, then invited her wicked siblings to bathe with her in a bathhouse where the water was steeped with venom.
One by one, the others all died, and Opheema went on to become a great queen…
I sighed. There were so many strong women in Maethalia’s history.
And none of them ran away. They won with cleverness and an iron will.
But even Opheema didn’t face odds like I faced, surrounded by so many enemies.
Lacunae. Golenae. Gray mages. And at their head, Natath and his noble council—and, of course, the Prelate.
Somewhere in the distance, in a sky revealed by the room’s missing wall, lightning flashed, followed by the boom of far-off thunder.
I looked down at the page. A woodcut illustration stood out in the moonlight, a depiction of Opheema rising from the waters of the bath, naked and triumphant.
This had always been one of my favorite stories. Perhaps because Opheema had found her strength and gained her triumph from a moment of such vulnerability...
“And so will I,” I whispered to the stars. “Somehow…”