6. Rani
6
RANI
T he arguing stretches well past mealtime. So long in fact that the Al’fa had food brought to the chamber. He is as stubborn as bedrock. Immovable, absolutely certain of his own rightness, and unwilling to consider any other view.
Rosalind is mercurial, never seeming to fully commit to either side. She appears careful not to draw too hard a line with either myself or the Al’fa, but I see through her charade. She moves us steadily toward a middle ground, her true goal.
I have very little leverage and I know it as well as everyone else in the room. Mostly I am relying on personality and desperation to bluff my way into what I want. Beyond that all I have is the truth. The Shaman’s madness will awaken the Paluga and once he does life under the mountain will be reset. It will not destroy only my people, but all of us.
“We do not know that the surface is again habitable,” Rosalind counters.
“You brought your people here and disrupted my peace,” the Al’fa snaps.
“Peace?” I ask softly, arching one eye as Rosalind scoffs.
“You do not know the meaning of the word,” she counters, her voice harsh.
The arguing spirals, no agreement in sight. Every time we near consensus, the Al’fa shifts course, dragging us back to stalemate. Za’tan steps out of the shadows, arms crossed, scars catching the flickering torchlight. His growl cuts through the chamber like a blade.
“Your ‘truth’ is a desperate plea wrapped in fear. The Paluga is a ghost story.”
His voice rumbles, cutting through the chamber. His scars catch the flickering torchlight, making him look more beast than strategist. Drogor, calm as ever, stands with his four arms laced behind his back, observing the fray like a predator scenting blood.
“Ghost stories do not have bones,” I counter, keeping my voice steady.
“Enough!” The Al’fa slams a clawed hand onto the stone table, the force reverberating through the room, a crack echoes sharply.
Za’tan stills, but openly glares at me. Drogor merely lifts a brow ridge.
“We are trapped in the dark while danger brews above and below,” the Al’fa says. His gaze flicks between us. “You, Queen, may yet be an asset, but tread carefully.”
Za’tan’s lip curls. Drogor gives a slow, deliberate nod, but it is Rosalind stepping forward with the finality of a judge.
“This deadlock is a waste of time,” she says. “Whether you believe in the Paluga or not, the Shaman has unified the desperate Urr’ki under him. If their rebellion fails, which it will without help, then the Shaman’s forces will come for us.”
Za’tan’s growl deepens, but Drogor hums softly, rubbing his chin.
“For once, the human is correct,” Za’tan sneers.
I narrow my eyes at Za’tan.
“For once?”
He smirks faintly, ignoring the bait.
“The Shaman, Paluga or not, is the clear and present threat,” Rosalind continues. “We are outnumbered and pressed against a wall of stone.”
The Al’fa straightens. The bone chest plate rattles as he crosses his arms, his talons tapping against his arms.
“And you suggest an alliance with the Queen? With the leader of the Urr’ki who hunted us for generations? Who invaded my territory and even kidnapped your people?”
“And how do we know she won’t betray us the moment we close on her city? Or after we help dispose of the Shaman, likely having taken losses of our own forces to return her to her throne?” Za’tan asks, barking a bitter laugh.
“Then we all die under the Paluga’s maw,” Rosalind speaks before I can.
The silence that follows is heavy. Drogor’s voice cuts the stillness.
“What do you propose, Queen? What price for your cooperation?”
The Al’fa watches me intently, waiting. I press my hands flat against the table.
“Return me to my throne, and we will stop the Shaman, together, then we will forge a new path. A path towards peace between our peoples. We will end this generational war.”
“And what guarantee do we have of your loyalty?” Za’tan snorts.
“Survival is my loyalty,” I say quietly.
“And survival means abandoning old grudges,” Rosalind adds, giving me a sidelong glance.
For a moment, there is stillness. Then the Al’fa stands, towering over us all.
“You will remain here. As our guest, and our captive,” he says. “If you speak true, prove it. Bring me proof of your influence. Drogor, Za’tan, you will both watch her closely.”
Za’tan’s expression is clouded with suppressed anger, Drogor’s unreadable. Rosalind’s gaze lingers on me with a flicker of intrigue. As we all stand to leave, Rosalind catches my arm subtly, guiding me away from the chamber. The Al’fa notices but says nothing. Guiding me to a quiet side corridor, Rosalind leans in as we continue walking.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” she murmurs.
“Aren’t we both?” I reply.
Rosalind smiles faintly, no warmth behind it.
“Perhaps. But I see opportunity. We are not so different, you and I. We both want our people to survive.”
I study her carefully. “And how far would you go to ensure that?”
“Far enough,” she says. “But we’ll need each other. I have some influence with Drogo and the Al’fa listens to him, but Za’tan is harder. He will never trust you.”
“Yet you would?”
“I trust necessity,” she says after a momentary pause.
We reach a junction where guards wait to escort me.
“Follow me,” Rosalind says, eyeing the two guards at the junction.
One of them is a cavern Zmaj, recognizable by the duskier scales and the dark claws, while the other is a ‘surface’ Zmaj, part of the group that came with the humans. I don’t know when they or the humans showed up. Having been a prisoner of the Shaman for so long any reports Urr’ki scouts brought of that happening never made it to me. One thing I am certain of is that the surface Zmaj are tightly allied with the humans. Which is helpful as it keeps the number of factions vying with each other to three instead of four. Less helpful in that I’ve seen no leader among them that isn’t firmly under Rosalind’s control, leaving me with no leverage to use against her.
I nod agreement. Rosalind exchanges a glance with the surface Zmaj and something brief but loaded passes between them. He says something too soft to hear to the other Zmaj and then leads the way.
Rosalind and I follow the two Zmaj. Vapas follows in our wake, softly grumbling. We don’t go far before Rosalind speaks.
“Here,” she says.
The two Zmaj stop. The cavern one growls, looking at the other, but nothing more. Rosalind steps through the leather door. I follow in her wake. Vapas is on my heels, but I stop and look over my shoulder at him.
“No,” he says, reading my intent before I speak.
“I will be fine,” I say, placing a hand on his arm.
He stares at my hand for several heartbeats and for a moment I’m not sure if he’s going to agree or not. At last, with a growl, he steps back and posts himself before the door.
The chamber Rosalind selected is small and quiet. It’s tucked behind the main hall, a perfect place for private meetings and secret deals. There is no mistaking the message. This is no accident. She has pulled me aside where no advisors or warriors will hear, leaving the Al’fa behind to stew in his own stubbornness.
The room looks as if it has been used for storage. A heavy, scar-scored table anchors the small, dim chamber. A single torch flickers in the wall sconce, casting shadows across the rough-hewn stone walls. Crates are stacked along the wall behind the work table.
Rosalind moves to stand on the far side of that table and crosses her arms over her chest. Her gaze sharpens, calculation flickering in her weary eyes. She could be an invaluable ally or a terrifying enemy. I must navigate this carefully.
“You asked for this meeting,” I say, stepping inside. The leather door rasps shut behind me. “Is it because you tire of watching the Al’fa beat his head against a wall?”
“He’s not the only one.” Rosalind’s lips twitch in a ghost of a smile.
I remain standing, a portrait of regal composure despite the storm around me.
“Speak your mind.”
Rosalind leans against the table, exhaling as if removing a mask. She stares at her hands for a moment, then her fingers begin a slow, rhythmic drumming as she looks up, meeting my steady gaze.
“We’re not so different, you and I.”
“No?” I ask, arching a brow.
“We both know we can’t afford this war between our people. The Shaman is not only your enemy, he’s ours too.” She pauses, eyes narrowing. “And yet, here we are, entangled in the hatreds of the past.”
I glide forward, slow and deliberate, coming to the edge of the table so that I’m directly across from her.
“It is not posturing to protect one’s own.”
Rosalind tilts her head, studying me carefully. She purses her lips.
“Even if protecting them means watching them die underground while any hope of a future slips from your grasp?”
For a heartbeat, I say nothing. The truth of it cuts deep, but I refuse to let her see the wound.
“You believe me desperate,” I say at last.
“Aren’t we both?” she asks with a humorless chuckle.
The honesty in her voice surprises me. She is sharp and controlled, but beneath it I sense fatigue, the strain of leading a dwindling population, and perhaps even a hint of guilt.
“You see my position clearly,” I admit. “But you underestimate the danger. The Shaman will awaken the Paluga. I know many believe it to be a myth, but it will bring ruin on us all, not just my people.”
Her fingers strike the table harder, thumping one after another. I study her face. She is beautiful, for an alien. Pure skin, though she is showing signs of age. Worry lines at the corners of her eyes. Other lines around her lips that are telling signs she spends much more time frowning than smiling. But her eyes. Those are hard as the strongest of forged iron and are also filled with a canny intelligence.
“I’m aware. And I believe you, but belief doesn’t solve logistics,” she says after a beat.
“Then why ask for this meeting?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.
“Because I’m running out of time and moves.” Rosalind straightens, coming around the table to stand before me. “Your people know the truth about the Shaman. The Al’fa won’t listen to me. He sees me as an interloper, a necessary evil at best. But you… you can reach him.”
“You credit me with influence I do not possess,” I say, shaking my head slowly.
“But you could,” she counters. “With my backing.”
The offer hangs between us like smoke. I study her, weighing the sincerity in her voice against the sharp glint of what I can only deem to be ambition. That is the thing I am not sure about. What is her goal in this? She clearly wants to protect her people, which is no different than the three of us, but I sense there is more. A bigger agenda she is working towards than that alone.
“And what would your backing cost me?”
Rosalind steps closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper.
“Mutual survival. You help me convince the Al’fa to mobilize against the Shaman, and I’ll ensure your people are not left to rot underground when this is over.”
It is a clever gambit. She offers nothing tangible, yet the promise is too tempting to dismiss outright. Still, I sense there is more.
“You speak as though the Shaman is the only threat,” I say. “But you fear the surface too.”
Her jaw tenses and the frown appears. She inhales sharply, narrowing her eyes.
“I fear that we don’t have enough time. Not enough resources, not enough bodies. Humanity’s future is a dwindling flame. Our species… all of us… we need each other or there will be no future. We’ll fade away.”
“And you would strike a bargain with an exiled Queen who was the enemy of your ally?”
Rosalind’s lips press into a line.
“Enemies are a luxury when extinction is the alternative.”
I cross my arms, watching and waiting.
“You are pragmatic, Rosalind. I respect that. But you have called me here without reservations.”
For the first time, her confidence wavers. Her fingers stop drumming. She sighs, heavily, weariness softens her face as her shoulders sag. The iron strength in her spine giving under the weight of all that she carries.
“I need to know where you stand. Truly. If I back you, and the Zmaj and humans return to the surface, will you restart the war? Will you try to claim the surface as your own and cast us out?”
I let out a slow breath, lowering my head. I uncross my arms, clasping my hands before myself. I allow myself a small, if somewhat bitter smile. Small but genuine. She admits her fear and I feel the reluctance to say it out loud but we both know this is the truth. That this is what she’s worried about.
“My people want peace. I would love to be the Queen that leads our return to the surface, but not at that cost. We lost the war with the Zmaj. I want that to be over. At the same time, I want air, sun, and a future, but I seek no empire.”
Rosalind studies me for a long, silent moment.
“And what of the Al’fa? He will not yield easily,” she asks quietly.
“No,” I say. “He won’t. But even the bedrock can be eroded by the right current.”
“He underestimates you,” Rosalind chuckles, but there is no humor in it.
I allow myself a faint smile. She is right, on the surface, but I also see something more. The Al’fa is bluster and aplomb, but beneath that there is a cunning mind. And maybe, just maybe, something more.
“He will learn,” I answer, my smile becoming more genuine.
The room settles into a loaded silence. Two leaders, both on the edge of ruin, both weighing whether they can afford to gamble on the other.
“Let’s be clear,” Rosalind says at last. “This is survival.”
“Agreed.”
“But it is a path forward.”
I incline my head. “For now.”
Her shoulders ease, just a fraction. She purses her lips, crosses her arms over her chest again, and drums her fingers.
“Then we move together, at least until the Shaman is dealt with.”
“And after?”
“One war at a time,” Rosalind says with a shrug.
There is a wryness in her voice that almost makes me laugh. Instead, I offer my hand. A gesture of alliance, if not trust. Rosalind hesitates only briefly before taking it.
“May we survive what comes next,” I murmur.
Her grip is firm.
“May we stop it first.”
We release each other, neither fully satisfied, but neither walking away. And in this place, in this war, that is the closest thing to victory we can claim tonight.