Of Whispers and Daggers ✓ [TLRQ #2]

Chapter 19.2 - Leavi

War provides little time for mourning. With the siege, they decide to have the Queen's funeral and Sela's coronation tonight. Preparations start immediately.

They alert the whole castle, but even with so many gathered, the atmosphere is hushed and dead. Between my page's uniform and the distraction of tragedy, I'm assumed to be another servant—which I suppose I am anymore. I help Maera and the Princesse prepare the dead queen's body. I've cut open my fair share of cadavers, but there is something inherently more morbid and intimate about glamorizing a woman as though she's going to a party while knowing she'll never go anywhere again. Once that's done, Maera and I ready the Princesse—the Queen now.

We meet the two princes in the hall, and I follow the royals like a shadow. In the softly lit corridors, the three hold strong silhouettes. Heads up and shoulders level, they glide across the stone more like regal ghosts than mourners. There's something coldly disconnected about the way they carry themselves, and even earlier, in the way they made their plans. I have the strange notion that perhaps humanity is just a mask these ethereal creatures wear. Or perhaps this woman wasn't really their mother.

Perhaps she was simply their queen.

I scold myself for thinking such things; surely Aster is mourning. Even I would if my mother had died. He's just better at hiding it.

Torches crackle on the courtyard's perimeter as we enter. The stars shine down on a large, cobblestoned garden, a giant pile of wood dominating the middle of the space. Above us, quiet, still people stare out of dark archways.

In the daylight, this place must be beautiful. Right now, it feels haunted, and the dry wood reminds me of bones.

We're the first to enter the garden itself, but as we drift down the cobblestone path toward the woodpile, other doors to the courtyard open. Twelve Ladies in elaborate maroon dresses flow in, followed by four mages—three women and one man—all wearing dark red cloaks.

Behind them, two female musicians enter and take their place on either side of that door. They each raise a small instrument to their chins, their other hand holding a bow over the strings. They look toward the royals, and in front of me, Sela nods.

They play. Their music is soft yet piercing, and it sends chills over my skin. It sounds like reaching for the sky but never being able to grasp it, like searching for a memory long forgotten, like abandoning everything you love in the world. My throat tightens as I blink back tears.

The four mages spray the air with powder, incanting softly. One's hands begin to move, the others' resting on her shoulders. Above the wood, blue wisps form in the air, and my breath catches as they coalesce into a three-dimensional figure of the deceased queen. The magician's hands twist, and the queen is replaced with a series of images from her life. Her as a child, her with a crown being placed on her head, her hand-in-hand with a man, her standing over three small children, her sitting on her throne. Finally, the image reforms into the original one. The queen smiles at the crowd. She waves as if to say a final goodbye.

Then she disappears.

The music crescendos. The male mage tosses powder toward the musicians, muttering something as he draws his hands back toward him. The door between the players swings open, and a small procession of soldiers marches out. Leading are two women in chain shirts, with jeweled swords strapped to their waist.

Behind them marches another two women, both bearing a blue flag. The air is still, though, and the banners hang limp. In the corner of my eye, the male magician's hand twists. The flags snap open, revealing a r'muer and reaching tree, both emblazoned in silver.

They continue down the path, and after them come six male soldiers lifting a silver tray. On it lies the body of the queen. Rustling echoes through the courtyard as everyone, even the Ladies, drops to their knees, and I hurry to do the same. The leaders split to each side of the wood pile, a flag-bearer following each one, and the soldiers march down the path. In unison, they halt, their final footstep ringing in the air.

The music ends.

Sela rises gracefully. Arms spread out, her crystalline voice calls, "My country, tonight we mourn. We mourn our Queen Díane, a mother not just to me, but to all of us. Let our cries shake Antium itself and whatever lies after. Let our lament be so strong that not only my mother hears us, but our First Mother hears as well. Wherever the lost queens of Morineaux stand today, let them stand knowing that they are not forgotten. Make the Jacqueline line proud. The night is here, and the time for sorrow is now. Mourn with me, my Morineaux."

A second passes so silent, I swear no one's breathing.

Then Sela begins to sing. Her voice is alone only a moment before the mumurmed, haunting chorus of everyone joins her.

"Glory to our Lady Queen

For long did you reign

And your power, beauty, majesty

Are still ours to proclaim

Glory to our Lady Queen

Who was and will forever be

In life, our image of Jacqueline

In death, our strongest memory

Glory to our Lady Queen

Though you lie past Avadel

On your wisdom, we still lean

And of your splendor, we still tell

Glory to our Lady Queen

For death cannot stop your reign

Jacqueline follows a Jacqueline

And so your name will yet remain."

As the last note fades away, Reyan stands. He's quiet, but his voice carries. "Soldiers faithful to the Queen in her life, let us be faithful to her in her death. On my mark."

"Yes, my lord," they say as one.

Reyan draws his sword, and on either side of him, the women who led in the Queen's body also draw theirs. Three sword tips hold steady over the woodpile as the soldiers slide the tray onto it. As soon as it's secure, the men drop to their knees, heads bowed.

In front of me, Aster rises. Stepping past Reyan, he tosses powder at the pile and murmurs, "Vrye." He reaches his hand over the wood, and a single drop of blood falls onto the stack.

Where the drop fell, a small flame blossoms, licking at the wood around it. Standing, the other four magicians copy Aster's actions, and soon, fire engulfs the pile.

Knees bent, head down, I mourn with Morineaux as their queen turns to ashes.