Four Dead Queens(12)
Corra pressed her fingers to the crest stitched on the shoulder of her suit: a strand of DNA twisting together to form a loop—symbolizing community—and willed stillness to settle upon her skin.
Beyond the painted crests stood the advisors. They were all talking at once, their faces drawn in concern. There had always been an heir to inherit the throne before the passing of a queen—part of Queenly Law. A queen must give birth to a girl before she turned forty-five. Even Corra’s future daughter would be required to have her own baby girl before this milestone, ensuring the royal line.
Without a queen per quadrant, the borders that had safeguarded Quadara for decades would fracture and blur. No one wished to see the nation return to its combative past, and it was believed the quadrants, and their respective queens, maintained the peace. If Quadara weakened, they risked other nations turning their attention to the wealthiest continent. The palace, and the governing advisors, could not risk Quadara’s future.
The advisors hushed as Queen Stessa made her entrance. Her short black hair was twisted and curled around her gem-laden crown, reminding Corra of a bird’s nest. Dark red lines were painted in intricate patterns across her copper skin, leading down to her neck, where a ribbon was tied to symbolize the injury that had taken Iris’s life. The rest of her outfit was subdued—for a Ludist—a simple brown dress to represent the earth to which Iris would be returned, although metaphorically in this instance. The queens were laid to rest within the Queenly Tombs, hidden in the labyrinthine tunnels beneath the palace.
Stessa bowed to her sister queens, shutting her brown eyes briefly to reveal red-stained lids. The death mask complete. A shudder ran down Corra’s spine. She was glad Eonists didn’t have such strange and opulent customs. To draw attention to yourself was disrespectful; you should be staying quiet and contemplative when faced with loss.
“Apologies for my tardiness,” Stessa said, taking her throne. And though her face was an image of grief, Corra could see no lines pulling down the corners of her lips. The youngest queen appeared to be the least affected of them all. Perhaps it was because Stessa had known Iris for only a year? Or perhaps it was because Ludists took pleasure in the strangest of things. Everything a game, a reason to celebrate, flaunt an elaborate outfit and eat a wasteful amount of food.
Would Stessa fear her own death? Or would that be considered part of the game of life? Corra wondered. As an Eonist, Corra shouldn’t believe in the queens above or life after death, and yet she did, hoping she would one day be reunited with her mother. And now Iris.
“Let’s begin,” Marguerite said in her commanding voice. It felt wrong to begin without Iris, as though they were sullying her memory. The advisors took their seats. While Marguerite’s presence was reassuring, it was clear no one knew what to do or say.
“Well?” Stessa asked after a moment of silence. “What do we do now?”
Iris’s advisor, a tall and stern-looking woman with a wisp of white hair, stepped forward. “I will speak for my queen and for Archia.”
The sister queens glanced at one another before nodding.
“Go ahead, Alissa,” Marguerite said, her shrewd eyes prepared to analyze.
“Thank you, Queen Marguerite,” she said. “As you all know, Queen Iris did not have a female heir. She was trying for children, but she had yet to have a fruitful match.”
A lie. The truth was that Iris never even tried to find a match.
Corra glanced at Marguerite. Marguerite also hadn’t produced an heir after years of trying. She’d been unable to carry to full term—even with the assistance of Eonist medicines. Whispers had spread through the palace that she never would.
There hadn’t been fewer than four queens for over four hundred years—not since the tenth king of Quadara had taken a wife from each region of his nation. To taste all that Quadara has to offer, he’d famously said. When he had died unexpectedly and his four young wives had yet to produce any heirs, the queens decided they would rule in his place—one for each land of their origin. It had been the simplest solution.
Marguerite spoke, her shoulders inclined toward the advisors in front of her, her probing expression unchanged. “Surely we have prepared for such an event?” She glanced to her advisor, a tall man with a round and pleasant face named Jenri.
Jenri nodded. “Yes, that’s correct, my queen. Queenly Law states that a female relative is allowed to take the throne in the absence of a female offspring.”
Corra knew in these circumstances it wouldn’t matter who this woman was, as long as they continued what the king’s four wives—the original queens of Quadara—had started.
She could feel the tension; the palace needed an Archian heir, before the Quadarian people learned of Iris’s passing. Only queens could uphold Queenly Law; without the laws, the nation would fall to disarray and give voice to those who questioned the relevance of the four queens and the walls in today’s peaceful age. And it would further fuel the uprising stirring down on the Jetée in Toria; they wanted increased access to Ludia and Eonia, unhappy with their place in the nation’s hierarchy.
Marguerite tried to keep her people appeased, allowing them to continue to run all trade for Quadara, but she knew they wanted more.
Alissa nodded to Jenri. “We will begin our search to replace the departed queen at once.”
“Departed?” Stessa snorted. “Iris was murdered! Her throat cut! You speak as if she chose to leave us.”