CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
C HAPTER F ORTY- E IGHT
This iskra witch has always been something of a curiosity to Cressida.
Timid, but not careful. Quiet, but opinionated. Hardened as glass and just as breakable. The splinters are plain to see. One could easily find the fractures and tap a finger to watch them spread. What a fascination she has been.
Now, she inspires nothing but fear.
Cressida watches Yennes as she departs, taking a horse marked with Terrsaw emblems through the back alleys of the Mecca, quickly swallowed by night.
“This plan is folly,” Cressida hisses to Ruby.
The former captain looks as doubtful as Cressida does. “What other choice have we?”
A million choices cross the Queen Consort’s mind. This is not the first juncture in their haphazard plot that has made her consider abandonment. How easy it would be to walk away and return to the palace? To lay next to her wife and be awash in the same sin. She has certainly done it well these past fifty years.
If only she could sleep, she might just do it.
But she is profoundly aware of what will happen when she lays her head down. She will see those faceless visitors. She’ll hear wings and shouts and the cries of children. Slowly, her toes will curl and her throat will clench. She’ll be gradually pulverised by some invisible weight that cannot be lifted. She’ll lie awake, bound to her bed, slowly corroding.
So long has Cressida wrestled with the cost of her complicity. She is too old, too tired to keep the guilt at bay.
No, they are too far down the path already. There are no other choices.
“Get some sleep while you can, Ruby,” Cressida murmurs. “Leave for the Fallen Village before the sun rises.”
“And you?” Ruby asks, her young face turned up to Cressida’s. The older woman remembers looking in a mirror to see a face just as unlined as this, blessed by youth. How insidious the years are, leaching the body so gradually you barely notice life draining away.
Ruby awaits an answer, watching Cressida carefully. When no reply comes, she asks again; “What will you do, Your Majesty, when Alvira learns of your deception?”
Cressida smiles bleakly, ignoring the hammering of her heart. It would hardly do for it to give out now. “I suspect the knife in my chest will make it difficult to do much of anything, Ruby,” she says, nodding to her one last time. “Good luck to you.”
She leaves the woman in the shadows of the stables, walking swiftly back from whence she came, and the palace beckons her. The gates open before she can touch them, the guards nod their heads and make no mention of her being out of her chambers in the middle of the night. It is not their place to question someone of her station. It is not their place to comment on the welling of her eyes. They avert their gazes and allow her passage through the outer tunnels and up the servant stairwell, down the orange-bathed corridors, and through to the quarters where Alvira waits.
She pushes the doors to the bed chamber softly, then lets them click behind her.
Her wife’s familiar form is outlined – despite the utter darkness of the room – huddled there beneath the blankets, smaller in sleep. Less substantial without the weight of that fucking crown.
Here, in this bed, she is just a woman. A woman she has loved well these decades past. A woman who once read aloud her journals of how she would purify the corrupt, right all wrongs, defend the vulnerable, cure the ailed. A woman who once held her face in her hands and declared Cressida the greatest gift on Terrsaw land. A woman who carried her, bruised and bleeding through the streets of the Mecca, promising her a future free of persecution for two women like them. Free of judgement. A world they would rule together.
Cressida lays herself upon the pillow beside her wife for the last time and does not close her eyes. She watches her through the night, brushing the silver hairs away from her face and wondering how she sleeps so soundly while their bed is surrounded by ghosts.
The carriage sways precariously as they trundle through the Mecca.
Alvira and Cressida sit on opposing benches, watching beyond the small windows. The town square is filled with undulating crowds that press forward as the carriage draws near. They throw their rice paper confetti and holler their anthems. The musicians bleat relentlessly, strumming their lutes and banging their drums. But inside the coach, the noise is muted. The faces are blurry. Cressida cannot help but stare at Alvira’s careful joviality, the gentle crinkle in the outer corners of her eyes. She waves graciously, no citizen too lowly for her attentions.
Performers, Cressida thinks. The both of us.
“Did I not ask for that shrine to be cleaned up?” Alvira asks. Her smile does not falter, but her eyes have found the steps that lead to the Fallen Woman. It remains cluttered by hundreds of unlit candles. Despite the crowd’s size, no one dares tread upon the dais.
“The advisors decided against it,” Cressida tells her. “With all the attention on the Sabar girl, they thought it might rouse the rebels.” Indeed, their chants can still be heard through the more peaceful celebrations.
Alvira allows a slight frown to ruin her otherwise perfect portrayal. “Why haven’t they been detained? I remembered the advisors agreeing to that much, at least.”
But any orders to have the protestors removed had been undone by Cressida just that morning. “There are so many of them now, dear,” Cressida says placatingly. “It is not possible to gag them all.”
“I should have the archers pick them off from the parapet,” Alvira says icily, waving to a child on the shoulders of his father. “Be done with this… obsession. ”
The carriage trundles on toward the palace gates, passing through the thickest cluster of spectators. As soon as the wrought iron clangs shut behind them, the crowd moves in, pressing against it to claim their position. Soon, their Queen will address them from her balcony.
They had passed through the Mecca on their traditional route without incident. The skies were clear of Glacians and the crowd, though split in their affections, were docile enough.
Cressida breathes a sigh of relief.
“Let’s get this over with,” Alvira grumbles. “Adrik will be at the Boulder Gate by nightfall, and we should be too.” The carriage door swings outward and a hand is proffered to help the Queen alight.
The courtyard is behind palace walls, free from the townsfolk’s view. Only two guards await them here and Alvira notices immediately. She searches the courtyard, her brow furrowed. “Where is the rest of our escort?” she demands of the guards present, as though they are to blame for the miserly security.
“They’ve been sent to the Fallen Village, dear,” Cressida says lazily, flattening the lines in her skirts. “The last thing we need is for the Ledge escapees to run off now.”
Alvira looks as though she might argue. After all, it was not an order she had sanctioned. But her eyes dart to the sky and she shudders delicately. “Very well,” she says, holding her hand out to Cressida. “Come, dearest. Let us remind our people of what we’ve given them.”
Cressida ensures her lips press into a thin smile. She makes her fingers intertwine with Alvira’s and she tries to still their quaking.
“Are you cold?” Alvira asks, then turns to a footman waiting at the stairwell. “Fetch Her Majesty’s pelisse!”
“No,” Cressida says amiably, squeezing Alvira’s hand. “Do not fret, Veer. Let us have this business over with.”
Alvira stops her before they can begin to ascend the stairs that will take them to the balcony. The guards at their backs halt in turn, their armour clattering at the sudden movement. The Queen holds Cressida in her stare, cradles her there, as she always has. And Cressida knows what words will come next. Words of placation, of reassurance. A reminder that everything in Cressida’s life will be well. Alvira will make it so.
No matter the cost.
“This day will pass soon enough and tomorrow everything will be returned to the way it should be.”
Cressida denies herself the cowardice of turning her eyes to her feet. She forces herself to look at her wife and to hide the feeling of her chest caving in. “Of course.”
Like the courtyard, the balcony is empty of waiting guards, but this time, Alvira does not comment. The archers on the parapet above are enough to console her fears of a revolt and though the crowd swirls menacingly beneath them, they hardly seem a threat from this height. They are insects funnelling through the Mecca’s winding streets, easily squashed.
That is how Cressida has always thought of them. It is far easier to do so, than to think of the faces and minds and families they are made of.
It is why they loathe me, she thinks. They notice the way I look at them, desperately trying not to see.
That is where Alvira and her differ. Alvira looks wilfully at them now, eyes darting from face to face, scrutinising carefully. She sees the patched clothing of the children, the wayward hobble of an amputee. She sees the elderly jostled by the well-dressed, the women with black eyes and bruised jaws. She sees those of high station, seated within the palace gates below, and those that must remain behind, separated by the luck of their birth. She sees them all and it does nothing to her.
When Cressida looks, bile collects in her mouth. It has always been better not to see.
“Good people of Terrsaw!” Alvira calls, her voice projected onward by the town criers who repeat her words like an echo down the streets. “I humbly thank you for these illustrious celebrations!”
There is a cheer from the crowd, though its effect is watered-down some by the corresponding heckles. All hail the Queen! is interlaced with the ever persistent Bring Sabar home! The maelstrom below builds.
“On this day, my Jubilee, we commemorate those who fell so that we could remain, and we celebrate fifty years of freedom!”
Another resounding compilation of applause and jeering. Cressida spots members of crowd being dragged to its edges by the Queen’s guard.
“We will eat the food of our lands, reap the rewards of our labour, and sleep peacefully in Terrsaw’s bosom without fear! Tomorrow, we will begin another decade free of threat. Another era on the land the Holy Mother granted us. Each day takes us further from those years spent in darkness. Our children will continue to grow, looking to the sky unflinchingly, and we, as a people, will continue to prosper!”
Cressida’s breath quickens. In the distance, she can see that great mountain looming, and she knows she must do it now.
“So, bow your heads with me now, good people. Let us acknowledge those brave souls who shield us from horror and pain. Thank them for their sacrifice. For without them, we would be returned to those dark days.”
“YOU SACRIFICED THEM!” comes a shout, though Cressida cannot find the speaker among the crowd. The words are met by a rumble of assent. The crowd roils.
“ Bow your heads! ” Alvira shouts, her voice amplifying. Only Cressida can see the blue veins stretched taut down the column of her throat. “ And be thankful for this era of peace and safety. Let us pray our blessings will continue!”
But silence and prayers do not reign. The quiet is broken by the growing cries of the rebels interspersed among those too fearful or too selfish to follow suit. It starts small. The call of “Bring them home,” hardly reaches the queens up on that balcony at first. But soon it is ten who take up the chant, then double that. By the third call, it is a hundred or more – too many for the guards to silence and Alvira’s cheeks pinken. Her eyes flash with violence.
And the time is now.
The time is now.
Cressida steps forward.
She leaves the shadow Alvira casts, aligning herself with the Queen. And oh, how she loathes it.
The crowd does not quiet upon her approach to the balustrade, but Alvira does. She looks sideways at Cressida as though she had threatened to throw herself over the edge. A sight, Cressida is sure, many people in Terrsaw would be happy to see.
Cressida fills her lungs, lifts her chin, and quietens the voice within begging her to stop. To step away. “An addition to our celebrations today!”
The upper classes and first waves of the crowd fall quieter, likely taken aback to have her address them. It takes a while longer for the message to ripple back through the town criers. By then, Alvira’s confusion is plain.
But it is only mere confusion she pins Cressida with. Not betrayal. Not yet.
“Terrsaw, we come to you today with news of good fortune! News you’ve long awaited hearing!”
The crowd jostles in anticipation, but it does not break. It waits, breath baited.
“Cressida,” Alvira says quietly, the last sounds floating from her lips as her breath catches. “What–?”
Cressida continues before courage escapes her. “The Ledge-dwellers have been liberated!” she calls to them, the words clear.
They rebound. She sees it as comprehension dawns. As it spreads.
She hears Alvira’s intake of breath, the first prickles of duplicity reaching out to clutch her heart.
“The people of the Ledge have been returned to our lands!” Cressida continues. She feels that window of time narrowing. Will Alvira set her guards on her now and call her insane? Or will she follow where Cressida leads her. Is she capable of doing so? “They wait and rest in the Fallen Village. Reuniting with the home they were taken from!”
Bafflement seems to ring out, suspending time. It heightens as the crowd stares at her, at each other, and then it begins to break. Mutters turn to cheers, wails. They grasp one another, frenzied and jubilant. Parents hoist children into the air. Grandmothers weep. Lovers kiss.
“Never shall we allow our people to be forsaken to the Glacians!” Cressida shouts now and it sounds like a battle-cry. “Never shall we repeat the mistakes of our history! We will welcome our fallen ones back into our kingdom and we will stand together against any who wish to haul us back up that mountain. We are of Terrsaw!”
“WE ARE OF TERRSAW!” the crowd calls back, greater than any chant before it. “brING THEM HOME! brING THEM HOME! brING THEM HOME!” On and on it goes, the crowd dancing to its chorus, exultant.
But Cressida takes little notice. She studies Alvira instead and waits for the ax to fall.
Alvira does not call for the guards. She does not pretend to smile at the crowd with good grace. She merely stares at Cressida, shock and treason colliding.
The Queen does not act, and it unnerves her.
“Alvir–”
But Alvira turns and walks away, her heels glancing off the balcony tiles in quick succession and she disappears behind the curtains that shield the corridor within.
The guards do not come for Cressida. They will remain still until they are given their orders. Cressida follows her wife, abandoning the raucous mob behind her and pushes the curtain aside.
She feels the sting of Alvira’s hand before it leaves her face. Cressida does not reel. She closes her eyes until the ringing in her ear dissipates, but stands stoic, unmoving. When she opens her eyes to Alvira, it is to find tears falling thickly, her wife’s lips trembling, cheeks mottled in high colour.
“You…” she says, stammering. “You… betrayed me?” she barely voices the words. They seem trapped inside her, unable to convey the depth of her pain. Her face crumples and she raises her hand again, surely to lash it against Cressida’s cheek once more but she cannot seem to bring herself to. It sags back by her side again, her arm limp. Alvira turns away from her.
Cressida’s voice trembles, her throat shrieks in pain. She wants to take Alvira’s shoulders in her hands. She wants to kneel before her and apologise, repent.
But she cannot. They are too old for that, anyway.
“Time to face it, my love,” Cressida says shakily, another piece of her heart breaking free. “Time to undo it.”
But Alvira does not turn to face her. She hangs her head and Cressida hears the beginnings of a sob.
They were girls when last she heard Alvira sob. Girls caught kissing in a cobblestoned alleyway. Girls spat on and mocked by bigoted louts with stale breath. One day, we’ll make the rules. Alvira had told her, wiping away her own tears.
Cressida goes to Alvira now. Hesitantly, she touches the nape of her neck with her fingertips. “Veer,” she says. “It isn’t too late. Even the greatest queens must right what is wrong.”
Alvira’s back tenses. Her chin rises. She turns to meet Cressida’s eyes. “I do not recognise you,” she says coldly, and her voice is so filled with ire, Cressida takes a step back. How many times has she seen this fire in her wife’s eyes? Now she burns in it.
“There is a choice to be made, Alvira.” Her voice is beginning to fail her. Fear returns. “There will be a battle. You will need to pick a side.”
“And you ask me to side with those who cannot win?” she seethes. “You ask me to throw Terrsaw to the mercy of the Glacians?”
“The guards will fight with us,” Cressida rushes. “The Ledge people will not be taken peaceably. And the mixed-blooded… Yennes believes they will join us, Alvira. The fight will be even!”
Alvira only stares without blinking, shadows clouding her irises. “I rid the world of Dawsyn Sabar, only to have my wife betray me.”
Cressida swallows. “Please…”
“The fight will not be even,” she says icily. “The guards will follow my orders alone when I place myself on that battlefield and you will stand beside me.”
“Alvira, I cannot–”
“YOU ARE MY WIFE! ” she shouts, spit flying from her lips and speckling Cressida’s eyelids. “And you will not leave me to stand alone in the mess you have made!”
Cressida shudders, the weight she has carried on her shoulders sinking to her feet. Grounding her. She meets the eyes of the woman she loves. “I’ve stood by you in every failing, every triumph, every transgression,” she tells her, her own tears finally breaking free. “And I can stand by no longer.”
Cressida watches her wife’s eyes shutter with each word. Alvira swallows thickly. She leans forward, until the sides of their noses come together, their foreheads touching. Alvira’s fingers gently slide through Cressida’s hair behind her ear, tender and familiar. And Cressida sighs. They loved each other well, didn’t they? They stood the test of time. Surely, enough love remains that some compromise can be found, some–
“Then you have betrayed me a second time,” Alvira says.
Cressida feels the shunt of the blade as it buries between her ribs, but the pain is slower, more subdued. She has already sunk to the floor by the time it begins to bloom, blood climbing up the walls of her throat and filling her mouth, dribbling over her lips.
And the ghosts arrive. Only now, they do not care to stay. They nod to Cressida and leave, one by one.
Alvira’s face is the last thing Cressida sees. It hovers over her, wretched and anguished. Her love. Her wife. Hands stroke her face lovingly. Whispers beg Cressida for forgiveness, but she cannot give it. She is already slipping away.
The Queen Consort closes her eyes and listens to the last remnants of Alvira’s voice, and she does not fear.
Finally, she sleeps.