Lynn Flewelling - The Oracle's Queen

“I am Tamír!”

Ki stood beside her in that ruined throne room, the acrid stink of the burning city thick in the air, and watched as his friend declared herself a woman and rightful heir to the throne. Imonus, high priest of Afra, had brought Ghërilain’s lost gold stele as proof. It was as big as a door and he could see Tamír reflected in it, crowned by the ancient prophecy engraved there:

So long as a daughter of Thelátimos’

line defends and rules, Skala shall

never be subjugated.

She didn’t look much like a queen yet, just a ragged, tired, too-thin girl in battle-stained men’s clothing. She hadn’t had to strip for the crowd this time, but there was no mistaking the jut of small pointed breasts through the loose linen shirt.

Ki averted his eyes with a vague pang of guilt. The thought of how her body had changed still gave him a sick feeling.

Iya and Arkoniel stood with the priests at the foot of the dais, still in their dirty robes. They’d helped turn the tide of battle, but Ki knew the truth about them now, too. It was their doing, all the lies.

The oath takings and rituals dragged on and on. Ki scanned the crowd, trying to share in the joy he saw around him, but all he could think of at that moment was how young and thin and brave and worn out Tobin—no, Tamír —looked.

He tried the unfamiliar name in his mind again, hoping to make it stick. He’d seen the proof of her sex with his own eyes, but he still could not get his mind around it, or his heart.

I’m just tired .

Had it only been a week since they’d ridden for Atyion at the king’s order? Just a week since he’d first learned the truth about Tobin, his dearest friend, his heart’s brother?

He blinked away the sudden stinging in his eyes. His friend was not Tobin anymore. There she stood, right in front of him, yet he felt as if Tobin had died.

He glanced sidelong at Tharin, hoping the man hadn’t noticed his weakness. Teacher, mentor, second father, he’d slapped Ki when he’d panicked that night on the road to Atyion. Ki had deserved it, and he’d been grateful for the correction. He’d stood fast with Tharin and Lynx a few days later when Tobin had sliced the fragment of Brother’s bone, and the witch’s magic with it, from his own breast on the steps of Atyion castle, calling down the mystical fire that burned away his male body. Horrified, they’d watched as Tobin bled and burned and somehow lived to strip withered flesh away like a snake shedding last year’s outworn skin, leaving in his place this wan, hollow-eyed girl.

The rituals ended at last. Tharin and the newly organized bodyguard closed ranks in front of them. Close by Tamír’s side, Ki saw how she wavered a little as she stepped down from the dais. He slipped a discreet hand under her elbow, steadying her.

Tamír pulled her arm away, but gave him a small, tight smile, letting him know it was only pride.

“May we escort you to your old chamber, Highness?” Tharin asked. “You can rest there until arrangements can be made elsewhere.”

Tamír gave him a grateful look. “Yes, thank you.”

Arkoniel made to follow, but Iya stopped him, and Tamír did not look back or summon them.

The palace corridors were packed with the wounded. The air was rank with the stench of blood. The fish pools set into the floors were stained pink with it. Drysian healers were at work everywhere, overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of those in need of their skills. Tamír looked around sadly as they hurried on, and Ki could guess her thoughts. These soldiers had fought under Erius’ banner and fallen for Ero. How many would have fought for her? And how many would serve under her now?

Reaching her old chamber at last, she said, “Keep guard out here, Tharin, please?”

Ki hesitated, thinking she meant to leave him, too, but she dispelled his doubts with a sharp glance and Ki followed her into the ransacked room that had once been their home.

As soon as the door was closed she slumped back against it and let out an unsteady laugh. “Free at last! For now anyway.”

That voice still sent a shiver through him. Tobin wasn’t yet sixteen, and hadn’t lost his high, boyish voice. Still hoarse from battle, Tamír sounded just the same. In the gathering gloom, she even looked like Prince Tobin, with her warrior braids and long black hair falling forward around her face.

“Tob?” The old name still came too easily.

“You can’t call me that anymore.”

Ki heard the echo of his own confusion in her voice and reached for her hand, but she brushed past him and went to the bed.

Nikides lay as they’d left him, still unconscious. His sandy hair was plastered to his cheeks with sweat and blood, and the bandages around his side were crusted with it, but his breathing was even. Tamír’s little page, Baldus, was curled asleep at his feet.

Tamír rested a hand on Nikides’ brow.

“How is he?” asked Ki.

“Feverish, but alive.”

“Well, that’s something.”

Of the nineteen original Companions, five were dead for certain, and the rest missing, except for Nik and two squires. Tanil would be lucky to survive the brutal torture he’d suffered at the hands of the Plenimarans. Lynx still seemed recklessly intent on not surviving his fallen lord, Orneus, yet he’d come through every battle without a scratch.

“I hope Lutha and Barieus are still alive,” Ki murmured, wondering how their friends would fare without them. He sat down on the floor and ran his fingers back through his tangled hair. It had grown long over the winter. The thin brown braids framing his face hung to his chest. “Where do you suppose Korin went?”

Tamír sank down beside him and shook her head. “I still can’t believe he’d abandon the city like that!”

“Everyone says it was Niryn’s doing.”

“I know, but how could Korin let that bastard sway him like that? He never liked him any more than we did.”

Ki said nothing, keeping his bitter thoughts to himself. From the day they’d met, Ki had seen the weakness in the Prince Royal, just as clearly as Tamír had seen the good. It was like a streak of poor alloy in a fine blade, and had already betrayed him twice in battle. Royal or not, Korin was a coward, and that was unforgivable in a warrior—or a king.

Tamír shifted over, leaning against his shoulder. “What do you suppose Korin and the others thought if they’ve heard news of me?”

“Nik or Tanil can tell us that when they wake up, I guess.”

“What would you think, in their place?” she fretted, scratching at a bit of dried blood on the back of one hand. “How do you suppose it will sound to anyone who wasn’t there to see?”

Before he could answer that, Arkoniel slipped in without knocking. Unshaven, one arm in a sling, he looked more beggar than wizard.

Ki could hardly bear to look at him. Arkoniel had been their teacher and their friend, or so they thought. But he’d lied to them all these years. Even knowing the reason, Ki wasn’t yet sure he could forgive him for that.

Arkoniel must have read his thoughts or his face; the sudden sadness in his eyes betrayed him. “Duke Illardi has offered his villa as a headquarters. The grounds have strong walls and there’s been no plague in that ward. It’s a safer place for you than here. The fires are still spreading.”

“Tell him I accept his offer,” Tamír replied without looking up. “I want Nik with me, and Tanil, too. He’s at the camp we overran yesterday.”

“Of course.”

“And we should save what we can of the royal library and archives before the fire spreads.”

“Already seen to,” Arkoniel assured her. “Tharin’s placed a guard on the Royal Tomb, as well, but I’m afraid there was some looting.”