17. Rani
17
RANI
I step forward, though every instinct warns me to stay still. The weight of the warriors’ stares presses in from all sides, thick with distrust. But it is the Al’fa’s gaze that I feel the most. Heavy, piercing, and measuring.
I steady my breath, forcing my expression into impassivity. The next words I speak will determine whether I walk out of this chamber with influence or quite possibly in chains.
“The Shaman does nothing without purpose,” I say, my voice ringing clear. “You think the raid was a reckless strike. A desperate act meant to provoke your anger. But it wasn’t mere aggression.”
A pause. Some scoff under their breath. Others shift uneasily.
“The Shaman does not risk his warriors without a plan,” I continue. “Every battle, every move is only a piece of a larger game.”
“And what strategy is that?” one of the warriors growls.
“Control,” I say coolly, meeting his glare without flinching.
A murmur spreads through the chamber. The Al’fa’s eyes narrow slightly, his posture still, unreadable.
“You believe he wants war,” I say. “And perhaps he does. But only when it is on his terms. The Shaman does not fear you. He fears what he cannot control.”
More shifting, soft murmurs, eyes shifting from one to another and I see it now. Small ripples of doubt. They are proud, these Zmaj, but if I know anything for certain it is that pride alone does not win wars.
“He wants you to strike first,” I say. “Blind with rage. He wants you to march straight into his trap, to fight on ground of his choosing, under conditions he will have already prepared.”
I let the words hang between us. A heavy silence follows. Then…
“You still haven’t answered my question.” The Al’fa’s voice is even, but there is an edge beneath it, sharp as a blade. “If you are so certain of his plans, tell me, what would you have us do?”
Another test. I meet his gaze, ignoring the quickening of my pulse.
Misstep, and he’ll brand me a liar. Say too little, and he’ll dismiss me.
I inhale slowly, steadying.
“Do not act in haste,” I say. “Be patient. Take control of the field.”
A scoff. One of the warriors leans forward crossing his arms. His tail lifts and slaps the floor twice.
“And what would you have us do, Urr’ki? Wait? Let them raid our home at will? Destroy our supplies with impunity? How is that not an invitation?”
“We don’t sit idle,” I say. “We prepare. We make sure that when we go to war, it’s on our terms, not his.”
The Al’fa studies me. “And how do you propose we do that?”
I brace myself. This next truth will test them.
“We forge alliances. Force the Shaman to fight not only the Zmaj—but the humans, the surface Zmaj, and those still loyal to me.”
A growl ripples through the gathered warriors. The Al’fa’s expression hardens.
“We do not rely on outsiders.”
“No,” I agree. “But you already fight beside humans. And now, I ask you to consider the Urr’ki.”
The chamber erupts. Warriors snarl, voices clashing, but I stand firm, waiting. The Al’fa does not immediately react. He watches the chaos unfold around him, unreadable. Then, he lifts a hand and the room falls silent.
“You believe your people would side against the Shaman?” he asks.
I do not let myself hesitate. This may only be a glimmering chance, but I must take it. My next words will be my riskiest yet, the tidbit of information I’ve been holding back as my final bargaining chip.
“Some already have. There is resistance within the Urr’ki city, warriors who defy him in secret. But without aid, they will be crushed.”
The Al’fa tilts his head, staring silent. Moving slowly he takes a step forward, leaning onto the edge of the table that holds the scale model. Rosalind’s eyes dart from me to him then back to me, silently watching and judging.
“And you expect us to save them?” he asks.
“I expect us to save each other,” I say.
The words land heavy between us. A challenge, yes, but also a truth. The Al’fa’s expression does not shift, but I see it in his eyes. He is thinking. Then, a voice cuts through the tension.
“The Urr’ki do not fight for others,” Za’tan spits. “They fight for power.”
“And the Zmaj do not?” I counter, turning to him. “Tell me, then, why do you fight?”
Za’tan scowls but does not answer. I look back to the Al’fa.
“You fight for your people. I fight for mine. Rosalind fights for hers. And now, the Shaman threatens us all.”
Another pause. The Al’fa lowers his head until I can no longer see his eyes or even attempt to read his face. His shoulders bunch. The silence in the room is pregnant with expectation. Tension building for the coming decision. A decision that will very likely decide the fate of my people.
“You speak well,” the Al’fa says, speaking at last. “But words, no matter how pretty, do not win wars.”
“No,” I say, speaking softly, appealing to him alone. “But allies do.”
He exhales, a slow, measured breath then looks up. He narrows his eyes, purses his lips, and his tail lifts over his head.
“You are asking us to fight for your people without proof they would fight for us, not against us.”
I expected this. I lift my chin.
“Then I will bring you proof,” letting the silence sharpen around me like a blade.
The warriors exchange glances, wary. The Al’fa’s gaze does not waver.
“How?”
If I have learned nothing in all my time as Queen of a people on the brink of extinction it is to listen to everyone. To know all those around you, by name, and to hear their thoughts. Give some amount of care to who they are. Listen to the struggles they face in their lives and learn.
It has been my experience, though it might seem such a small thing to do, it opens many doors. Mostly, it makes them comfortable. Comfortable enough to talk and to share things that they would never say in front of the ‘Queen’ or, as I am now, the prisoner.
The Zmaj have responded no differently. From the guards on my door to the ones who bring supplies to my room, food and fuel for the fire. Clean blankets and fresh water to cleanse myself. They come, they talk, and they share. And this being one of my last cards, I’ve been holding it back for the right time to put it into play.
I take a deep breath and brace myself. This has to work. I need this alliance more than they do, but only on the surface. I know the Shaman’s plan and he is both cunning and devious. If my people fall, if I fall, nothing will stand in his way of destroying the undermountain. Urr’ki, Zmaj, and human alike.
“Elara.”
At the mention of her name, something shifts. There is recognition in the Zmaj warriors’ eyes. Tension. But my eyes are on Rosalind. She clenches her jaw, squinting her eyes, making the wrinkles there more prominent.
Murmurs, growls, and hisses fall into silence while I wait. Letting the name sink in. Letting them realize that I know it at all is my revealing information, extending trust. Rosalind takes a step forward, uncrossing her arms. She places her hands on the edge of the table and the soft drumming of her fingers is the only sound in the room. She locks eyes with me, leaning in.
“What about her?” she asks, her voice soft and calm, but the storm in her eyes gives it all away.
“Elara is in the Shaman’s hands,” I say.
“Heh,” the Al’fa scoffs, his wings rustling and his tail rasping across the floor rapidly. “You cannot know that.”
“Can’t I?” I ask, arching an eyebrow.
He narrows his eyes and grimaces. Za’tan huffs, shaking his head. The group of warriors look at each other in clear confusion, having no idea what we’re talking about. I notice all of them. I watch them all, cataloging every glance, every hesitation. Each tells me something. Each might become leverage.
“Only if you are still in contact with the Urr’ki,” the Al’fa says.
His words are carefully measured. His eyes boring into mine, but no matter how devoid of emotion he sounds, the threat is very real. Khiara growls and the leather of his armor creaks as he shifts his weight, one hand dropping to where a weapon would be in any other circumstance.
“I am not, you know this,” I say, holding his steely gaze.
“Then how do you know?” Rosalind asks.
“Because I listen,” I say, “and more importantly, as I’ve told you repeatedly, I know the Shaman. I understand how he thinks. You sent the humans into his domain and he’s lost those who have returned here. He will use her as bait. A way to weaken your unity and to fracture any possibility of an alliance.”
The Al’fa’s jaw tightens and he darts his eyes to Za’tan then to Drogor on his other side. The two advisors shift uncomfortably. There is something I am missing. I know it as much as I know I will draw my next breath. My next words are a gamble, a guess at what that look means. The risk is great. If I play this wrong it could set them against me.
“Unless I miss my guess, she is not just a human,” I say. “She is a symbol of your bond with them. If she dies, what happens to that bond?”
There is a murmur of unease. The Al’fa’s gaze sharpens as he looks to his advisers. The group of Zmaj opposite him grumble disagreement. I’m not right. Not exactly, I see that, there is something I’m missing.
I keep a frown off my face, but my heart is racing in anticipation and as much as I hate to admit it, fear. Fear of saying the wrong thing, of destroying the one chance I have to save my people.
“You think he is holding her out as bait,” Za’tan says at last. “To what end? How would doing that fracture any alliance?”
It is an astute question and I am not surprised that it comes from him. Za’tan is full of bravado, much like the Al’fa, but he is also smart.
“I do not know for certain,” I say, pursing my lips. “I cannot because I am not there. But as I said I know him. I have had a lot of time to think about what he is doing, what his goals are, and to understand how he rose to power. That gives me insight.
I propose that he is trying to goad you, the Zmaj, into attacking. Before you’re ready. He must, by now, suspect I am here. And he very well knows that I am, by far, his greatest weakness.”
“Then why are you alive?” Drogor asks, speaking up for one of the first times.
I allow a smile to play across my face.
“Because,” I say, “if he killed me, I would become a martyr. Killing a Queen, no matter how you go about it, would become known. Someone would slip and it would come out. Instead he kept me captured. Those who rescued me,” I turn my eyes momentarily to Khiara, “say that he led my people to believe I was very ill and that was why I wasn’t seen in public.”
I can’t take my eyes off the three Zmaj at the head. The Al’fa, his second Drogor, and Za’tan all know something I do not. It needles at me. It’s important. I can feel it, but what is it? I wait and I watch, trying to figure it out.
“What is it you propose?” the Al’fa asks at last.
I hold my tongue. Three paths before me and which one I choose could be the choice that either saves or dooms my people.
I could ask him to confirm the alliance, but with the antagonism of the warriors in the room, they would never support it. That would not allow him to handle his people on his own terms, bring them into an agreement and could very well push him away from any alliance at all.
I could propose a rescue mission. A small op with one or two of my Urr’ki to lead it with the sole intent of saving Elara.
Or I can ask what it is I’m missing. Dangerous. Admitting I do not know something is antipathy to everything my father ever taught me. He would see it as weakness. A King, or a Queen, always knows everything before anyone else. At least in appearance.
In truth, as I know all too well, we are often the last to know. But one does not let that be seen. Our people follow us, they depend on us, they need us to appear to be more than we, inside ourselves, are.
A Queen is a symbol, not a person.
Our people do not follow the woman; they follow what she represents. Strength. Certainty. Hope.
Three paths stretch before me, each littered with risks.
I could demand the alliance now and risk alienating them.
I could propose a rescue mission and gamble on their mercy.
Or I could admit what my father would have called unforgivable weakness: ignorance.
I meet the Al’fa’s gaze.
“It is clear there is something I am missing,” I say, my voice steady. “Before I make any proposal... I would know what it is.”
His eyes burn into me. Warmth suffuses my belly, sucking the moisture out of my mouth. His eyes are locked onto mine, boring in, interested and also interesting. I have never taken a lover. There wasn’t time even when such desires did arise. I know, of course, all about sex and loving, but my people always came first, not my own needs or desires.
Yet, despite that, I never would have considered in all my life what it would be like to make love to a Zmaj. Looking into his eyes, seeing his lips, the cool color of his scales, in this moment, I do wonder. The idea isn’t new, but it is fresh and strong. Oh so strong. I swallow. Hard. I must choose.
“It is clear,” I say speaking slowly, careful of my diction. Though I am fluent in the Zmaj tongue, it is a bit difficult for my tongue. “That there is something I am missing. Before I make any proposal, I would ask what that is.”
The Al’fa narrows his eyes, clenching his jaw and his right hand spasms, clenching into a tight fist. He shifts his focus onto his warriors.
“Leave,” he says, his voice level and calm but resolute.
The loudest of them leans in, ready to protest, but when he meets the Al’fa’s gaze he hesitates. It’s clear this isn’t a request, but an order. He stays, though, defying the Al’fa for a long moment. That alone tells me much. I know that the Zmaj rule by strength, but this would never happen in my court. Or wouldn’t have. My smallest of orders was always obeyed without question before the Shaman captured me.
The moment of defiance continues. Stretching beyond discomfort. The Al’fa doesn’t look away. Instead a slow smile spreads over his face. His tail rises, slowly, until the end curls over his the top of his head.
It’s so subtle I almost miss it, but the one opposing him pales. The edges of his scales shift in their shade, dulling. Finally his head drops. It’s not a lowering but more as if his neck can no longer hold its weight. His chin almost echoes as it smacks against his chest. He turns, silent, and the rest follow him out.
I watch everyone, judging their reactions to this development. Rosalind purses her lips. Zat’an is frowning deeply. Drogor seems indifferent, but then he is from the surface, not part of the culture of the Cavern Zmaj.
“You ask much,” the Al’fa says at last.
“I ask for truth and honesty, is that what passes for much amongst the Zmaj?” I ask.
Rosalind’s lips quirk into a half-smile. The Al’fa grunts.
“Clever. Maybe too clever,” he says.
“Do you propose to answer my question?” I counter.
His frown returns and he looks, again, at Za’tan. Something passes between them.
“One of my warriors is missing,” he says.
“I do not under—” I cut myself off as the only possibility of how this would connect occurs to me. “No…”
Rosalind is looking from me to him and back again. Then her eyes widen.
“He didn’t…” she gasps. “Who? Are you sure?”
Interesting. She didn’t know this either.
“I know what his intention was,” the Al’fa says. “He came and asked permission. I denied it. He then disappeared.”
“So he is captured or…” I don’t finish the thought. There is no need to put such negativity out into the world by giving it words. “Then we must act.”
“And what do you propose? A rescue mission?” Drogor asks.
“Yes. But not just for the two of them,” I answer.
The Shaman narrows his eyes. I hold steady.
“There are Urr’ki within the city who are ready to defy the Shaman. If we can reach them, if we can show them that they are not alone, they will fight. And with their aid, we can strike at the Shaman from within as well as without.”
A dangerous gamble. One I cannot afford to lose. The Al’fa considers me for a long moment.
“You offer much,” he says. “But you have no guarantees.”
“There are no guarantees in war,” I say. “Only choices.”
Another heavy silence. Then he speaks.
“I will consider your words.”
It is not a yes. But it is not a no. It is something. I bow my head, hiding the relief threatening to show.
The Al’fa turns to his advisors, taking Rosalind in with his sweeping gaze.
“Leave us.” A hesitation, then they obey, filtering out. Rosalind stands, defiant, owning her space. She and the Al’fa stare at one another for a long moment before he slightly bows his head and speaks again. “Please. I would like a moment alone with her.”
Rosalind purses her lips then gives a sharp nod. She catches my eyes as she walks towards the door. I see support in her look and I am grateful for it. The door drops shut behind and her and I am alone with the Al’fa.
“You play a dangerous game,” he says.
“I play to win,” I answer.
A flicker of something in his gaze. Respect, perhaps. Or something more dangerous.
“Very well,” he says at last. “Bring me proof, Urr’ki Queen. Prove to me that your people will stand up for you. And then we will see where our paths lead.”
I incline my head, my heart pounding. I have bought myself a chance. Now, I must make sure I do not waste it.