In the Skin of a Nunqua (11 page)

The visionary swayed, putting one hand on the floor for balance. “What about the invasion? The king must know that the Nunqua will attack, so he can prepare the Willovian forces to fight.”

“We will not reveal that information until the king dies and Rega Bayla is crowned,” the old monk said. “We must convince her of the necessity of our continuing presence.” A drop of black liquid clung to the side of the beaker. The old monk lifted the vial, letting the drop fell onto his outstretched tongue.

“If we cannot see her future, how can we convince her of our indispensability?”

Another monk warned, “It is possible the Guardians of Willovia will not endorse her as queen. They may fight to place someone more suitable on the throne.”

“Rest assured, my brothers, our order shall prevail as it has for centuries. The royal bloodline will continue.” The old monk put down the beaker, then lifted his hands, watching them turn to bones and then to dust before his eyes. It was amazing how one drop of liquid held such power. “Perhaps a new perspective is needed—a young scholar who hasn’t become immune to the potion. We’ll search for a pupil with a strong mind, who can overcome this blockage of our visions concerning Rega Bayla. It’s been a long time since a new monk entered our hallowed profession.”

“But our ranks have always numbered twenty,” the visionary said. “Inducting an apprentice now would fly in the face of our traditions.”

“Have I ever told you what a great service you’ve done for us?” The old monk turned away from the visionary. “Truly, you’re a fine and outspoken member of our family. Your mind is so focused on seeing the future of the royals of Willovia, you haven’t tried to see your own future. Aren’t you at all curious?”

“To look into my own future would cause insanity. You taught me that.”

“Yes,” the old monk said. “I want you to know you’ll be buried in a place of honor, among kings and queens, your name resounding to the highest heights, your sacrifice a glorious example to us all.”

Monks swarmed about their brother. The visionary sprang up from his knees and ran for his life, slipping through feeble fingers. The blanket fell from his shoulders, and his bare feet encountered sharp shards of the broken cup strewn across the floor. A trail of blood followed the visionary. He pushed on the door to escape, but it was locked.

“Do not be afraid, my brother,” the old monk said. “It has been foreseen.”

Monks seized the visionary and refitted him with the chest plate and ankle weights. Then they forced him back into the tub, where they left him until the next day.

The visionary’s death came from unexpected hands—hands committed to ensure the continuation of the royal line of Willovia, whatever the cost.

*

Magen wheezed inside the dusty tent at the edge of the Outer Boundaries. The wheeze turned into a rattling cough that shook him to his core. He had endured the cough, the sickness, for over a year now: night sweats, swelling under his armpits and in his neck, an ache in his chest. He wiped his lips with a cloth. Pink froth splotched the material. How much time did he have left? Death didn’t scare him. His main concern was Bayla.

“A messenger to see you, Your Majesty,” one of the guards announced from outside his tent.

King Magen stepped into sunshine. On the grassy valley of the Outer Boundaries were hundreds of busy soldiers wearing blue armbands. Weapons and horses stretched across the field. A flag emblazoned with a falcon soared above Magen’s tent.

Among the royal guards and advisers prowling about was a monk dressed in robes of blue. The dark eyes in the monk’s gaunt face gave the appearance of evil. A necessary evil.

High-ranking commanders surrounded a young messenger who looked ready to soil his underclothing in the presence of so many superiors.

“I hope you’ve brought me good news,” Magen said.

The messenger blurted, “It’s from Commander Gy at the Hedgelands, Your Majesty.” He lifted the parchment, his hand shaking.

Poor fellow. Magen took the letter and patted the young man’s shoulder to calm him. “I’ve been waiting days for this. Commander Kyros, please show our friend where he can find some food and rest. He is to be commended for his service to Willovia.”

Magen returned to the privacy of his tent and tore open the letter. It had Commander Gy’s mark on it, and a symbol indicating that all was well. The body of the letter was short. The encoded script stated only that Bayla had asked to train. He needed no more information than that. Magen cursed to himself. Everything was going according to the Guardians’ plan.

If only his wife had lived! If only he had sired other children—sons to bear the burden of leadership. Magen remembered when he had undergone the training: the aches and pains, the undignified treatment, the last test. How could he put his little girl through such an ordeal? There was one hope. Bayla was reaching marrying age. Perhaps she would find a suitor during her training—a strong soldier able to lead the military in her stead.

Magen destroyed the letter and returned outside. He moved away from his guards and advisers, motioning to them to keep their distance, and listened to the sounds of soldiers as they worked. Men in the distance trampled fields, raced horses, practiced with swords, and marched with spears. Some sat alone with their backs against rocks, reading or writing letters.

Commander Kyros approached and bent his head. “My king.”

“Kyros, forgo the niceties, if you please. I’ve made a mistake. I should never have let her leave. Bayla is vulnerable. She’s not ready.”

“Your concern is admirable but unwarranted, sir. Commander Gy is at the camp. Surely you trust him. Sixty guards protect her.”

“Sixty guards prepare her . . . punish her. I have not forgotten what it’s like.”

“Rega Bayla comes from a hearty lineage. She is certain to excel in her training.”

“Always the flatterer, you are.” How he wished to speak with Gy. Gy would tell him the truth. “What about
her
?”

“Who?”

“Shanti,” Magen said.

“She is no threat. If Shanti shows even the smallest sign of treason, she’ll be eliminated. It’s taken care of.”

“Is it enough? Do you have children, Kyros?”

“No, sire.”

“A wife?”

“I’d rather have the pox,” Kyros said.

“You prefer men?”

Kyros scoffed at the idea. “Women serve their purpose for a night or two. But a lifetime? That’s too long.”

“I see. You’ve never known love.”

“Your loyalty to your wife is commendable, even after her death. My sincerest condolences. But love is not for me. Lust will suffice.”

Magen laughed, then coughed. He pulled the cloth from his pocket and wiped his mouth. “A rare moment of honesty from you. How extraordinary! My doctors say I’ll see her soon, my Sera. The monks tell me we’re due for an invasion. A
real
invasion.”

“You believe this, sir?”

“Yes, though I will not be here to see it.”

“The monks have predicted this?”

“I don’t need them to tell me everything.” King Magen cleared his throat as Kyros looked away from the unregal display.

How could his daughter handle such pressure alone? Magen had asked the monks for an idea of what would happen to her after her training. Would she marry and have heirs? Would she rule?

Those damnable monks had given him no answer.

11

Queen of the Bugs

A
fter breakfast, Bayla
“waited with the soldiers in the archery field. She wore the same brown uniform as the others. The sleeves of her jacket were rolled up to her wrists, and the breeches sagged at the knees. By contrast, Shanti’s uniform fit like a second skin. Both Pirro and Aiden had finished their time in the kitchen and were also in attendance.

What would her father say if he knew that his daughter was training with common soldiers? It was thrilling to do something so inappropriate for someone of her station. She was glad her father wasn’t here to overprotect her.

Commander Vittorio barked out the rules of the archery range, adding that anyone who disobeyed his orders would suffer dire consequences. He paired Bayla with a soldier she had never met. They took bows from the many lined up on the ground. The soldier chose a bow for himself, then one for her. “Try this, Rega.”

“Please call me ‘Bayla’ while we’re here,” she said.

He also selected arm and finger guards and quivers for them both. They headed to their target. Hanging from a thick tree branch was a stuffed burlap bag with a crude red circle painted in the middle.

“Done this before?” he said.

“No.”

“I’ll go first.” He positioned his feet perpendicular to the target, nocked an arrow, drew back the string, aimed, and released. The arrow hit the side of the bag and caromed off into the woods. “Damn . . . Oops, sorry, Rega. Now you try.”

Bayla mimicked his stance and pulled an arrow from her quiver.

“Just aim down the length of the arrow,” he said, “and try not to be nervous.”

It took all her strength and a couple of tries before she pulled hard enough on the string to bend the bow. The arrow fell short of the target. She expected to hear laughter. No one laughed.

“It just takes practice,” he said. “Try again.”

Two more attempts, and Bayla was still no closer to hitting the target. Her shoulder muscles hurt. The commanders were behind her, no doubt scrutinizing her lack of skill. Bayla drew back the string again, ready to shoot another arrow.

Commander Vittorio moved next to her and pushed firmly on the middle of her back. “Stand straight,” he said. “Don’t lock your knees. Move the index finger of your drawing hand to your cheek.” He lifted her elbow. “Let the arrow do the work, Rega. The key is to be calm and relax.”

She released the arrow. It hit the side of the burlap bag and caromed off to join her training partner’s arrow in the woods.

Vittorio crossed his arms and glowered at the commanders standing behind them.

Gy, Jun, and Shanti moved away.

“They’re gone, Rega. It’s just you and the target. Concentrate. Clear your mind of everything else.”

“Bayla ignored the ache in her shoulder. She aimed, held her breath, and released the arrow. It struck the bag inside the target, and she jumped for joy.
Like a girl
“. Vittorio watched her antics and sneered. She stopped jumping and put on a serious face.

“Better,” Vittorio said. “Not great, but better.”

She and her partner each took several more turns. Archery was much more fun than working in the kitchen. Lunchtime drew near, and the soldiers took a break.

“Rega Bayla,” Commander Gy said, “it’s time for you to see a small portion of what it takes to become a commander.” He shouted over the heads of resting men, “Commanders up!”

Jun, Shanti, and Vittorio each had their own bow, quiver, and arm guard. They moved in front of the targets, and soldiers gathered around as the commanders awaited instructions.

“Fifteen paces,” Gy said. “Three arrows.”

They walked away from the targets as instructed. General laughter ensued as the soldiers realized that Vittorio’s short legs gave him an unfair advantage.

“Four more paces for you, Commander Vittorio,” Gy said. “Any commander who misses the target will retrieve every arrow from this field, and the soldiers will be free to go back to camp.” Gy directed his next command to the spectators. “All right, men, let’s hear some noise.”

Bayla cringed as an onslaught of curses and verbal abuse spewed forth from the soldiers around her. Her face flushed with astonishment at the cruel words that the men directed toward Shanti, Jun, and Vittorio. All her life, she had been shielded from such language. These men were her guards, chosen from the ranks for her protection. The bloodthirsty dragon painted by Aiden now made sense. No longer sheltered with the privileged, she stood among soldiers now.

All three commanders were calm in the presence of the cursing men. As Shanti prepared to shoot her first arrow, they turned their venom on her, bellowing that she was an insignificant woman and had no right to wear the uniform. They howled and hollered that she was forced to be a soldier because no man would have her. They called her “mangy bitch,” “hard-riding wench,” and every other name unfit for polite society. Shanti’s arrow flew quick and straight to strike the burlap target, low and left but inside the circle.

Commander Jun prepared to launch his first arrow, and the soldiers’ malice turned on him. They called him “half-wit,” “donkey dung,” and “bastard son of an infectious whore.” His arrow also struck inside the target, high and right.

Commander Vittorio faced the insults. He raised his arms, bow in one hand, arrow in the other. “Is that the best you’ve got, ladies?” Even with the profanities heaped upon him, Vittorio managed a perfect shot.

Shanti’s next arrow plunged deep into the target. Commander Jun hit the target’s center, while Commander Vittorio’s second arrow landed almost on top of the first.

“The foul language of the soldiers intensified. On her last try, Shanti drew back on the bowstring and took aim, oblivious of the soldiers cursing her. Bayla wondered how she could ignore such an intense berating. How could
anyone
“? Shanti released the arrow, and it sank into the target. A perfect shot. The men’s jeers turned into cheers. Soldiers now ridiculed the male commanders for letting Shanti outdo them. As Jun’s and Vittorio’s third arrows landed close to center, the insults changed to praise.

The soldiers’ hostility evaporated like steam. Now Bayla understood why the verbal abuse from the Daughters of Fortunate Birth had not affected Shanti. For the Fortunate Daughters’ words were nothing compared to what she had just heard. The commanders walked among the others as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, and the soldiers showed no ill will toward the commanders.

Bayla helped retrieve arrows from the archery field, noting that the Commanders were exempt from this duty. A devious smile lifted her lips as she thought of calling Shanti a few obscene names at a later opportunity. If the men could do it, why shouldn’t she?

*

Shanti joined Commander Gy, who leaned on a tree at the edge of the horse pasture. A wisp of smoke curled above his head. She breathed in the smooth vanilla aroma of the pipe—his sole weakness. A short distance away, Bayla held the reins of her stallion and argued with Commander Vittorio. Vittorio seized the reins from her and gave them to Zindar. The stallion reared.

“Is Vittorio doing what I think he’s doing?” Shanti asked Gy.

“He wants to see if the princess’s talent in riding is because of her horse or because of her skill.”

“But even I wouldn’t be so mean as to let someone else ride her horse.”

Gy looked at her.

“Okay, I probably would. But Bayla has a special attachment to her horse. From what I understand, she’s the only person ever to have ridden him.”

They watched Zindar try to calm the spirited stallion. It swung its head in an attempt to yank the reins out of Zindar’s hands.

Shanti yelled across the field, “Bayla!”

The princess now held the reins of a tame roan. She glared at Shanti. The stallion stood still and snorted, its ears pointed backward. It pawed the ground once.

“She does have a gift,” Gy revealed.

“You know? Why, you’ve known all along that Bayla’s a witch!”

“Her mother had the same gift,” he said.

Shanti viewed the odd scene with amusement. Petite and proper Bayla expertly handled the roan, while muscular Zindar bounced astride the menacing stallion, who was unaccustomed to the weight of the stranger. The horse bucked as though it had never been broken.

“You realize,” Gy said, taking a puff from his pipe, “that she’s just like you.”

“I’m no Daughter of Fortunate Birth,” Shanti said.

“I think ‘fortunate daughter’ is an inaccurate description of Bayla. Even you said she was unhappy at the castle.”

Zindar fell from the stallion and got up, patches of dirt clinging to his uniform.

Gy continued, “You both have been put into situations you did not choose. You both have put up tremendously thick walls to hide your true selves, and you both have a certain power.”

Power and madness—two sides of the same coin
“. “I have no power,” Shanti lied.

“It’s not easy to command, yet the soldiers listen to you. They wouldn’t follow a fool.”

The stallion ran past Zindar and sideswiped him into the trunk of a tree. Zindar dropped to his knees. He stood, wiped the dirt from his clothes, and then chased after the reins of the horse.

“Why did you choose me to train Bayla?” Shanti said. “To test her?”

“Because I believed that the princess could have easily manipulated the men, but not an obstinate, spiteful woman such as yourself,” Gy teased.

“Thanks a lot,” she said.

“More importantly, I wanted to show Bayla that a woman can command.”

*

Bayla headed toward the roped enclosure for the horses, with two carrots as a peace offering for her stallion. Someone touched her arm.

“Zindar.”

“Rega Bayla, I’m sorry about today. I was just following orders.”

“I know,” she said.

“If it makes you feel better, I’m sure I’ll have many bruises from being pushed around by your horse.”

Bayla cast her eyes demurely to the ground. “He can be unmanageable at times.”

“You seem to handle him well.”

“I raised him from a colt.”

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry, Rega.”

“It’s all right.”

Zindar left, and Bayla entered the horse enclosure. The stallion didn’t come over to retrieve the carrots she held out. He was holding a grudge. Not wanting to force her horse’s actions, she tossed the treats to the ground. It was ironic that the stallion should snub her just as the soldiers finally stopped ignoring her. She assured herself that the grudge was merely temporary.

*

Shanti drew wavy lines on a sheet of parchment. The torn map rested on the table in front of her, and men looked over her shoulders as she worked.

“Is that a valley or a ridge?”

“It looks like a valley,” someone answered, “only it’s supposed to be a mountain.”

“Where’s the river?”

Having them criticize her efforts was infuriating, especially since they were right. Her copy was a poor imitation of the original.

The soldiers continued their appraisals. “That’s not how to draw a road. Aiden should make the map.”

“Aiden’s a good artist. Let him do it. That way, we won’t get lost.”

“Where is Aiden?” she said.

They pointed to some men playing cards at a nearby table.

“Aiden!” Shanti shouted across the pavilion.

He put down his cards and came over, wincing at her pathetic effort. “The proportions are all wrong, Commander Shanti,” he said. “You need to draw guidelines first.”

“You could do better?”

“Yes.”

“How long would it take you to duplicate this map?”

“Two days, maybe three.”

“Shanti rose from her seat. “Aiden, you’re exempt from training for four days, after which I expect you to hand me a copy of the map. If your work is substandard, if you rush, I’ll require
four
“perfect copies of the map, and you’ll perform your regular duties plus guard duty every night until all copies are finished. I’m being more than generous.”

A soldier hit Aiden with his elbow. “Four days without training. Take it.”

“I was having lousy luck with the cards anyway.” Aiden sat in Shanti’s place and drew guidelines onto a blank sheet of parchment.

What a relief to have someone else tasked with drawing the map.

Bayla leaned on the waist-high wall of the pavilion, tucking her arm close to her body in an awkward position.

Shanti strode over to her. “How are you feeling, Rega?”

“Excuse me?” Bayla said.

““
How
“are you feeling?”

“Fine.” Bayla stared into the woods.

“Is your shoulder sore from archery?”

“No.”

Shanti moved behind the princess. “Raise your arm so I can see for myself.”

“No.”

“I’m trying to help. Hold out your arm.”

Bayla lifted her chin, then her arm.

Shanti grasped the elbow with one hand and pressed her fingers into Bayla’s shoulder with the other.

“Ow!”

A few men looked their way as Bayla cringed at the pain. This didn’t deter Shanti from kneading the tenderest areas. “The muscles of your shoulder are knotted.”

“All right, I admit it. It hurts. Now will you please stop? Ow!”

Shanti dug her fingers deeper into the sensitive flesh. “Afraid of a little pain? This is nothing, Princess.” She continued rubbing the knots.

“Stop it, Shanti!”

She moved her fingers underneath Bayla’s collarbone and pushed upward on the nerve located just under the skin.

Bayla bent forward and shrieked, but no soldiers came to her aid.

“Quiet,” Shanti whispered. “Take the pain and stop whining. When I ask you a question, I expect an honest answer. Do you understand?”

“Loathsome bitch,” she said loud enough for only Shanti to hear. “Get your hands off me.”

“Such pretty language, Rega! You think you have everyone fooled, pretending to be so proper.”

“Let go of me.”

“As long as you wear the uniform, you’ll address me as ‘Commander.’” Shanti took her hand off the pressure point and twisted Bayla’s arm. Bayla squirmed but did not cry out. A rustling came from the bushes. Then growling.