CHAPTER FIVE
THE FALSE QUEEN
Servants talk. They see and hear all the tawdry things their employers whisper to each other when they don’t think anyone is watching. It’s part of why Sef and I make such a great pair. She hunts for rumors while I parse out the lies from the truth.
“What did you find?” I call out to Sef (she’s sitting on the edge of my bed) from my place on the floor of my vault, rooting through my notes on the Honorate.
My vault is the size of a small closet, walls lined end to end with chest-high shelves stacked with leather-bound volumes full of information.
They range from the commonplace, like family history, to the arcane, like an Honorate’s darkest secrets.
“Not much. At least, not yet.” I’ve known Sefina Ceraway since I first moved to Widow’s Hall when Luc became Praeceptor.
Everyone resented that he brought me, Opheran street scum, to live with him.
I was supposed to be assigned a team of aikkari selectmen for protection, same as Luc (and every other live-in family member of the Praeceptor in the history of the Republic).
Instead, they assigned me Sef, a maid with no defense training at all.
I never complained. Both because I refused to give anyone the satisfaction, and because, within days of meeting her, I knew they had drastically underestimated her.
Sure, Sef is young, has no magic, and would sooner sprout wings than fend off an attacker.
But she’s also crafty, loyal, and quick to laugh—an invaluable combination I wouldn’t trade for a slew of selectmen.
Widow’s Hall is dreary and lonely. Her friendship is the only bright spot that makes it bearable.
I wedge a book under my arm and emerge from the vault, locking it after me.
It’s tucked behind a hidden door in the back of my closet.
There’s no visible handle; it’s just a crack in the wall that, when peeled back, reveals the tshira-lined door.
A necessary precaution. I safeguard too many secrets to remember them all, and I know better than to keep my arsenal lying around for anyone to find.
My room is so tiny, I take two steps outside my closet and I’m standing in front of Sef, a half pace from my bed. Another thing I never complain about.
I quirk an expectant brow at Sef. “Well?”
“Kaidren’s mother is dead. And you’ll never believe this—” She drops her voice and chin. “She was Opheran.”
The book under my arm tumbles to the floor.
“Kaidren’s Opheran?” Impossible. He doesn’t have a tattoo.
I’d have noticed. Everyone would’ve noticed.
Opheran children undergo a ceremony on our fifth birthday.
We’re marked in golden ink with a symbol of our birth season.
The majority of the year, we suffer the dark season, so most Opherans have tattoos of crescent moons.
I was born in the brief glimmer of the light season, so mine is of a sun.
It’s beautiful. I used to love it. I used to admire the way the golden ink looked against my brown skin. Then I came here, and they looked at it—at me—like I was less than trash. I struggle to see the beauty now.
“He doesn’t look Opheran,” is all I say. “He didn’t sound Opheran either.” Virdeians and Opherans have similar accents, but Opherans linger on their vowels, and their sentences tend to drop at the end. I’ve lived here for seven years, and I still sound Opheran when I’m not careful.
“I know it’s not much to go on,” Sef says, “but I’ll keep digging.”
This is much less than what she usually finds, but it’s still early in the investigation process.
“Thank you. I’ll see what I can find on my end as well, and we can compare notes.
” I move to my desk that doubles as a vanity with the leather book from my vault.
It’s full of everything I’ve collected about Honorate Rishelvu over the years. I snag a pen and a sheet of parchment.
Honorate Rishelvu,
There exists such a special bond between father and son. Almost as special as the bond between a firstborn and his inheritance.
On my honor, I will not direct anyone to search for what you so carelessly gambled away. Provided, of course, that you change your vote in favor of the proposed order on the agenda tomorrow.
Fondly,
Shadow Queen
I sheathe the letter in an envelope and press the Shadow Queen’s seal to it with a smirk.
There’s nothing the Honorate fear more than a scandal.
A position in the Honorate is for life and inheritable by their oldest son—so long as they stay godlike.
Any Honorate who fails to uphold the veil of perfection is in danger.
People have the right to challenge an Honorate if he breaches decorum, and an ousted Honorate can’t transfer his position to a son.
I hand the sealed envelope to Sef. “Can you deliver this tonight? No need for theatrics.”
“Of course.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a stack of envelopes—missives for the Shadow Queen. “Trade?”
“Thank you.” I take the stack of letters, and Sef takes the note for Honorate Rishelvu. I flip open a second book, where I keep track of unsubstantiated rumors. My pen taps idly against the desk as I read.
Shadow Queen,
I’ve heard rumors Honorate Portannis is engaged in an affair with a married Petruvian. I can give you a name if you can ensure the order he is drafting fails.
It isn’t signed. They often aren’t. I jot down the potential affair to look into later, even though I doubt its validity.
Virdei and Petruvia have a strained relationship, to put it mildly. Virdei controls Mount Saidu and more than half of Ophera. Petruvia controls the coast and the rest of Ophera. The feud started around two hundred years ago, when both countries raced to take over the coastline. Petruvia won.
As Virdei licked their wounds, they moved farther up the mountain, where they realized it was full of resources even more valuable than the ocean: tshira and, most important, magic.
Before that, there were a few aikkari scattered throughout the two kingdoms, but there weren’t a lot until Virdei climbed higher up Mount Saidu.
War started again. This time, Virdei had an undeniable advantage and won.
To this day, Petruvia claims Virdei cheated.
According to them, the Republic resorted to cutting off the water supply to everyone below the mountain to ensure their victory.
The details are unclear, but in the end, all that matters is Virdei won the mountain, the tshira, and an army of aikkari soldiers no one else can compete with.
I open the next envelope.
Shadow Queen,
I have a maid who is Opheran. She claims she’s spotted Petruvian soldiers on her land with no consequence. If this is true, can you ensure the order to send more funding to Holsbane Academy passes?
I raise my brows at Sef, who reads over my shoulder. “Any chance this is true?”
“I haven’t heard anything,” Sef says. “But then again, my friends here are Virdeian. The only Opheran I know is, well, you.”
A fair point. Opherans aren’t meant to reside in these hallowed halls. I write down the tip before moving on to the next.
Shadow Queen,
Two days ago, I received a disturbing letter from someone purporting to be you. It seems you have a rival looking to replace you. Please advise.
I frown, more confused than wary. There’s a second scrap of parchment in the envelope, crumpled and creased as though it’s been unfolded and refolded multiple times. The second note is addressed to Honorate Selva Sixmen and scrawled in deep indigo ink.
Honorate Sixmen,
I wonder how much longer that title will apply? An Honorate with no Honor is no longer deserving of his position. The stars see all, as do I. You and I both know there’s not enough snow on this mountain to wash your hands clean of the blood that stains them.
Fondly,
Shadow Queen
My breath catches in my throat.
I read the letter again. And again.
Over the years, I’ve written dozens of similar notes.
This one is signed by the Shadow Queen—by me—but I didn’t write it. It seems there’s a second queen of shadows roaming these halls.