Cayla Kluver - The Queen's Choice

The look she received from me in return was less than friendly. She had, without warning, put me center stage in what was sure to be a controversy. I hadn’t even adjusted to the idea of taking the throne; I didn’t need all Faefolk discussing the possibility, wondering what the Queen’s gesture meant. I held out the Anlace to her, wanting it gone, but she wrapped her hand around mine, trapping the knife in my fist.

“Keep it,” she whispered.

A painful throbbing began behind my eyes, the tension spreading its tendrils to my temples, and then, like a thorned vine, to my heart, squeezing slowly. Ubiqua gave an address, but I couldn’t make out a word. I left as soon as I could, not wanting to be in the presence of so many questioning gazes, not wanting to feel the anxiety and pressure they created. The Council especially was examining me, seeming to wonder how this daughter of a youngest child had risen to wear the Queen’s dagger on her hip, to pilfer it away from its owner and from Illumina, its rightful inheritor.

With the sun setting, I withdrew to my alcove and closed the door behind me. Though I wanted to believe I had shut out the world, even here I could not hide from the burden my aunt had handed me in the form of a gold-pommeled Anlace.

I stalked back and forth across the main living area, covering my mouth to keep near-hysterical gasps from razing my throat. Instead, they came short and fast through my nose, and dizziness threatened to overtake me. My life was no longer mine to control. By a single deed, I had become something more than I wanted to be in the people’s eyes. My aunt had known that I was, consciously or unconsciously, keeping a back door open, and without hesitation she’d closed it.

My desire to protect my voice lost out to frustration, and I screeched—one long, harrowing note that threatened to shatter mirrors and glassware, as well as my own eardrums. With a forceful but ill-conceived sweep of my arm I knocked the nearest object from the tabletop. I drew up short as it shattered, and, suddenly subdued, tiptoed around the table, glass crunching beneath my boots. Fragments in white, scarlet, and gold sparkled at me, and I slipped to my knees to survey the wreckage. The ruined decanter had been a gift from my father upon my betrothal to Davic; it had also been a much-beloved possession of my mother’s, the blown red glass matching the sinuous patterns in her wings.

“No,” I moaned, cradling a piece with golden inlay. I wanted to blame Ubiqua for inciting my temper, or my father for entrusting the piece to me in the first place, but my heart refused to accept excuses. I alone had broken this precious keepsake.

Filled with remorse, I had a sudden urge to go somewhere, anywhere that wasn’t here. Recalling Illumina’s comments about Zabriel, my self-pity transformed itself into grim determination. I could not let this change happen in my life until I had exhausted all other options. The broken decanter was an omen of the dreams that would be lost to me if I stood passively by.

I hurried to the bedroom, pulled out my leather travel satchel and shoved in the essentials—a small flask of Sale, jerky, a change of clothes, herbs, bandages, and other minimal medical supplies, an extra blanket for warmth, and my money pouch. I stripped off the brown dress I’d worn for the memorial in favor of warm leggings, a woolen tunic and my heaviest jerkin. The last thing I grabbed was a cloak. Looping the strap of the satchel across my chest, I started for the main room, but my eyes fell on the Anlace I did not want lying atop my dresser. I halted, allowing my gaze to linger. Without understanding why, I picked it up and pulled my long-knife from its sheath, replacing it with the Queen’s weapon. After adding my own blade to my pack, I stepped through the doorway.

“I knew you’d be doing this.”

Davic was sitting on the sofa, having come in while I was preoccupied with packing, tacit disapproval written on his face. I sighed and grabbed my bedroll, my mind searching for words that might appease him.

“I know you don’t understand, Davic, but I have to go.”

“You don’t have to go anywhere—unless you believe there’s nothing worth staying for in Chrior. For Nature’s sake, you’re hurt, and you just got home from your last trip! Why won’t you let us help you? You ought to be here with your family, with me, for more than a few days. Or is that notion so insufferable?”

“This isn’t about you,” I snipped, wishing he wasn’t between me and the door. Deciding this wasn’t the time to argue with him, I made my voice more placating and tried again. “I’m sorry, but you don’t know what’s going on.”

“I’m not stupid, Anya.” He stood and crossed his arms over his chest, toeing the mess I’d made of my mother’s decanter. “It’s obvious Ubiqua overwhelmed you today. But is it too much to hope you might try to make sense of it around the people who love you?”

“Is it too much to hope you might trust my judgment?” My spine stiffened in irritation. I wanted his boot out of the broken glass. I knew he wasn’t doing any more harm than I’d already done, but I couldn’t reason myself out of an irrational reaction. Instead, I pointed at the shattered pieces.

“Stop it. Leave the decanter alone. I’m going to fix it. I’m going to fix it, Davic!”

He withdrew his foot and watched me with more concern than ever.

“I’m going to fix it,” I repeated more calmly, enunciating clearly. “When next I’m home. There’s just something I have to do first. I want to be with you, but there’s something else I have to do.”

Now that I sounded less crazed, he rolled his eyes. “Sneak out in the dead of night without telling me or your aunt or your father where you’re going? Stay away for Nature knows how long? Is that what you have to do?”

“No!” I dropped my pack at my feet, its thump indicative of how angry I was at the assumptions he was making. “I’m going because Queen Ubiqua is dying.”

The lines in his face fell away, and he paled. “What?”

“Yes. She’s dying. And she didn’t send Illumina on her Crossing, she sent her after Zabriel. Only Illumina doesn’t have a chance of finding him—it’s her first time in the human world, after all. She’s essentially been set up to fail. I’m going to find him instead, bring him back here if I can and remind him what it means to be the Prince. That throne is Zabriel’s, not mine. It shouldn’t be mine.”

“You’re scared of it.”

“Is that so hard to comprehend? Is that so wrong?”

“No. But you should be realistic, Anya.”

He took a step toward me, and I backed away, troubled by his words. He halted, his arms falling limply to his sides.

“What do you mean?” I demanded.

“How long might it take to find Zabriel? What are the odds he’ll even consider ascending the throne? I think you could better spend this time preparing for what’s coming. Maybe...once you understand your duty better...it won’t be so daunting.”

I took several deep breaths, trying not to show Davic my true reaction to his words, his sensible, oh-so-typical-of-Davic words. He always walked the easiest path, always let everyone around him dictate who he was and what he would become. It would be easy to succumb to the way things were, easy to surrender my hopes and dreams in the face of resistance. But fighting would show me how much power I had over my own life. Maybe, just maybe, I had enough power to alter my future. Fighting to find out now was better than never knowing.

“Give me three months. I’ll find Zabriel, and if he’s unwilling to be the heir, I’ll do as you say. I’ll accept it all.”

Davic studied me for a long time, aware of the finality in my tone, then released a humorless laugh.