Four Dead Queens(65)

Why did they continue with this charade? When would the palace admit the queens were dead and there was no one to hold court? I didn’t understand. Had they already located the royal ancestors? Who exactly was I in line to speak with?

“Stop fidgeting,” I admonished, my hand on Varin’s sleeve. “You look like you’re up to something.”

“We are up to something,” he replied, his hands shuffling in and out of his coat pockets. His stolen outfit was too small, but I didn’t mind his shirt stretching over his broad chest. My hands and eyes lingered unconsciously. He shifted away from me, his prominent cheeks darkening. He still wasn’t used to being touched.

The process of gaining access to Queen Marguerite had taken the entire the morning. First, we signed in at the visitor processing room and were inspected for any weapons or dangerous items. Next, we were ushered into a theater with around one hundred other Quadarians who’d traveled to the palace. We were forced to watch all of this year’s Queenly Reports to ensure we didn’t approach the queens with previously rejected requests. Afterward, the guards separated the group into our quadrants.

We shuffled down an arched corridor with the other Torian visitors. Varin kept his head down, hoping no one would recognize he was too handsome to be anything but a perfectly engineered Eonist. He’d hidden his comm line in a safe place outside the palace, to maintain the illusion. He’d slicked his hair back in a traditional Torian style and the two-day-old stubble on his jaw roughened his look. Even I wouldn’t have picked him out of the crowd as an imposter. Still, my fingers twitched, wishing to rake them through his hair—something I’d seen him do countless times—to free his longer locks.

Several crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling like icicles on trees in a winter storm. Everything else was dipped in gold. I struggled against the desire to touch the exorbitant wealth, keeping my hands tucked under my arms. I had to be good. Better. Like Varin. Maybe then they’d reward me with HIDRA.

Portraits of the past Torian queens followed us with their painted eyes.

“They’re so lifelike,” Varin murmured, his hands reaching out toward the paintings.

“Stop touching things,” I said, repeating his words back to him from when we were in his apartment.

The left side of his mouth lifted but he didn’t say anything.

The crowd pushed us forward, everyone desperate to see Queen Marguerite. They were in for a surprise. Varin darted glances at the Torians around us, as though he was appalled by our disorganization.

I had to admit, a part of me was thrilled to be inside the palace. When I was ten years old, I would play the Torian queen—my throne made of ragged pillows—while Mackiel played the queen’s advisor. A favorite game of ours. We usually ended up squabbling over who would rule what part of Toria. I’d always forced the Jetée and its various sordid businesses upon him, and took ownership of the wealthy houses and lawful businesses of the Skim for myself. Mackiel had said I was selfish. I had never argued otherwise.

We would play the game for days, until I tired of the storyline.

“Ruling Toria is boring,” I would say, kicking down the pillow throne.

I don’t remember Mackiel agreeing.

I twisted the comm case locket between my fingers. Had the childhood game meant more to him than a way to pass the time? Had he always wanted to tangle himself with palace politics, to prove he was more powerful than his father, better than his father, while I enjoyed the delights of being a dipper, having access to everything and anything I wanted?

I let the locket fall back against my wrist.

The crowd was funneled by the guards toward a vast opening, taking us along for the ride.

We stepped into a circular room where the high glass ceiling was the apex of the palace’s golden dome. The sun gleamed down onto the elevated Quadarian dial, fracturing the light into streams and highlighting the words carved into the marble tiles around the room.

The throne room.

But we couldn’t see the queens on their thrones—or whoever had taken their place. They were hidden by an ornate wooden partition, encircling the dial. There were four doors to enter through the partition, one for each queen, shielded by a guard.

The crowd gasped audibly behind us. Some Torians pushed forward, eager to see around the partition. The back of my neck prickled, desperate to know what the palace was telling everyone about the absent queens.

“The light of Quadara,” Varin whispered, his eyes drawn to the light streaming down from the dome. “It’s magnificent.” His fingers fluttered as though he itched to paint it.

I nodded, words struck from my mind. Ancient Quadarians believed the nation was born from this very point, spiraling out in a clockwise direction. At first, the land had been fertile and lush due to abundant resources. This first region became Archia, once attached to the mainland. The land then developed to the south; resources were less available but provided an accessible coastline with bountiful seas. Toria. From there, the land changed. To compensate for having few natural resources, Ludists created man-made landscapes and canals and filled their idle time with entertainment. Finally, there was Eonia. As the region nearest to the north, with plummeting temperatures, crops and livestock were unable to survive. Eonia had no choice but to build their sprawling city and focus on technology to survive a mostly frozen land.

There was no denying the room had power.