In the Skin of a Nunqua (25 page)

“Tell whomever you want; I’m not going in that deathtrap.”

“It’s harmless. I’ve traveled in these tunnels for years, since I was a kid.”

“Then it’s an
old
tunnel, which makes it even more of a deathtrap,” she said.

“Do you want me to hold your hand?”

“And upset your girlfriend further? I’ll wait here until things have settled down, then go back into the city. She’s weakening; she can’t control the animals all night.”

“Shanti, get in the tunnel.”

The caves didn’t scare her; neither did the ledge. But the tunnel was different. The tunnel was a cramped, convenient grave. “Don’t leave me in there, Aiden.”

“I’m not going to leave you. Relax.” He crawled into the hole, holding the lantern.

Shanti, terrified, lifted her torn skirt and crawled in behind him.

25

Women’s Work

“
Y
ou’ve been challenged,
Willovian,” the Nunqua warrior said to Jun. They were alone inside a tent large enough to sleep ten men, but on this night, twenty-three men crowded the cold space, snoring, shivering, and starving. Threadbare blankets were folded on the floor, and small baskets of personal items held down the cloth edges of the tent to keep the wind out. The baskets contained combs, soap, extra socks, and letters. A rusty metal firepot in the middle of the shelter warmed the space. Smoke rose through a metal flue in the top of the tent.

“Do you know who I am?” the warrior asked.

Jun, with a scruffy beard and worn clothes, only gazed at the fire, which gave little comfort.

“Like I said, you’ve been challenged to a sword fight. This town has a small arena. Gitonk tells me you’re quite good. If you win, extra food will be given to the men in your tent. The one who challenged you wants a fight to the death—not a normal request, I assure you. Fighting in the arena is a sport. Winners are always treated well. If he wins, he will kill you. You may do the same according the rules of the arena, or you may show mercy by cutting his arm.” The warrior made a slashing motion across his forearm with the side of his hand. He turned to leave the tent.

“I will not fight for you, General Delartay.”

“So you do know who I am. It’s a challenge, Commander Jun. You cannot refuse.” Caravey Delartay inhaled deeply. “I’m curious. You were at the camp in the Hedgelands. Whose hair hangs from a string in the pavilion? Who made Shanti so mad that she cut his hair?”

Jun continued to stare at the firepot, his stomach growling in hunger and his skin itching from fleas.

“To fight is an honor. Your challenger is obsessed with revenge. He wants to flog you, then kill you. He plans on killing the other commanders who humiliated him. He has devised a special revenge for Shanti. Zindar believes he could actually be king one day.” Delartay shook his head. “Nunqua do not look favorably on traitors of any sort. He has served his purpose. Zindar’s death is his own doing. War won’t last forever. The resources of the Willovians will unite with the power of the Nunqua. Your existence here, this prisoner-of-war encampment, is temporary. I am not your enemy.”

“Oh, yes, you are,” Jun said.

“How very noble,” General Delartay said. “And stupid.”

*

Shanti emerged from the tunnel into a small space with dirt walls, which appeared much like the room she had just left. Aiden opened a door and led her into a tidy cellar where she could finally stand straight. She stretched her arms and stood on tiptoe, feeling like a snake that has just shed its skin. “How did you know where I was?”

“Come upstairs and see for yourself.”

“Are you a Guardian?”

“I suppose I am now. Come on up. There’s medicine and food upstairs. And a brush for your hair.”

Shanti ascended the steps behind Aiden. They entered a pleasant open room with carved wooden furnishings, a table and chairs, artistic knickknacks sitting on shelves, paintings on the walls, and a pot of tea infused with aromatic spices, simmering on a potbellied stove.

A woman, a stranger, approached and looked at the bite and scratches on her neck. “You certainly made her angry this time.” Aiden’s exact words.

“I’d like you to meet my mother, Kiana,” Aiden said. He and Kiana had the same color hair and eyes, the same complexion, and the same easygoing manner. Aiden’s father, the castle painter, was also present, with two young girls who looked to be 14 or 15 years old. Another Guardian, a brawny man, had come to check on Shanti, also. A woman with beautiful white hair and a pink shawl entered the room, supporting her broken arm. Shanti thought she looked like a broken angel.

“Madiza,” she said. “Did you foresee this?”

“I saw the possibility of it. My dear Shanti, we need to talk. First, get some medicine on that bite and have something to eat and drink. You’re safe here.”

Aiden took Shanti’s weapons and put them in a wooden trunk. His sisters helped their mother grind herbs with a mortar and pestle to apply to the bite wound. The vivacious girls talked—so different from their quiet mother and Aiden. They even brushed and braided Shanti’s hair, chatting the whole time, asking a new question before she had time to answer the last. Quiet Kiana put a blanket around Shanti’s shoulders then gave her a cup of hot tea before leaving her alone with Madiza.”

“Good family.” Shanti held the warm cup in both hands, sipping her tea.

“Yes.” Madiza sat next to her and groaned when her elbow bumped the armrest of the chair. “Gy was hoping that Bayla would marry Aiden. The possibility exists. They both need to commit to that choice, though.”

“Bayla doesn’t always make good choices,” Shanti said.

“She’s young. Are you ready?”

“Ready for what? For you to hex me with a sleeping spell and look into my future? No, thank you. Speaking of which, how come the monks say they can predict the future with absolute certainty, yet you say the future can be altered?”

“The monks’ visions are always true. My insight shows possible pathways. It’s a natural gift to guide others. The monks obtain their information against the laws of nature and use it for themselves. That’s why they are cursed.”

“Better not to know,” Shanti said.

“Afraid? You don’t realize your potential. Come with me into the future. All you have to do is touch my hand and share my power.” Madiza lifted her hand. On her wrist was the opal bracelet.

“That belonged to Queen Serova.”

“Yes.” Madiza touched the dark stones embedded with flecks of color. “I had to do a bit of magic to get it. Serova bequeathed it to Bayla, but the monks did not want the child to have it, so they buried it with Serova. Grave robbers searching for royal treasure are common. I could not let the stones fall into the wrong hands.”

“The bracelet is powerful, then.”

“It is helpful.” Madiza again lifted her hand toward Shanti. “You came out of the tunnel, and you’ll come out of this.”

Shanti set down the cup of tea and pulled the blanket tight around her. She reached for Madiza’s hand. The room disintegrated into a darkness so black, no Nunqua could penetrate it with their mortal vision. Shanti fell into another dimension, stretching as she descended. Her spirit contracted, then regained its regular shape as a familiar room materialized. Madiza stood beside Shanti, her broken arm still wrapped in a pink shawl.

“Interesting.” Madiza took in the long room with portraits covering the walls. “Where are we?”

“The portrait room inside the castle,” Shanti said.

“The portrait room. Perfect! Your power is surprising.”

Power?
Shanti observed the painting of King Magen. It had changed. Magen didn’t look strong and vigorous as in his youth; the painting portrayed a sickly monarch. A heavy chain weighted his shoulders, and he held up two fingers.

Shanti leaned closer to the portrait. “The painting is the same, yet different.”

“Remember, you’re not standing inside the castle. This is a vision. Everything is open to interpretation. The two fingers Magen is holding up, I believe, signify that he was never entirely in control of Willovia.”

Shanti studied the portrait of Bayla’s mother next. Serova’s lips were black, matching the black of her dress. She gripped a leash around a wolf’s neck and cradled a bundle wrapped in cloth.”

“Serova was poisoned,” Madiza said, “when she was pregnant with her second child. King Magen never knew that it was the monks who murdered his wife and unborn son. The monks feared Serova and the child in her womb, so they murdered her. If the king had ever found out, he would have butchered every monk and every friend and supporter of the monks, only to become a bitter man full of hate.”

“Did the monks poison Magen, too, causing his sickness?”

“No, he wasn’t poisoned.”

Shanti looked at a torn portrait. Four scratches split the canvas surface. The portrait showed a sickly monarch whose eyes were rimmed in red. He held a book in one hand; the other hand was missing—cut off. “What happened?” Shanti said.

“Serova,” Madiza answered.

The tiny hairs on Shanti’s arms rose. A woman in a black dress, with pointed teeth and black lips, appeared next to her. Shanti jumped. Had the spirit of Serova always been with them?

“Her power is limited,” Madiza said. “She cannot speak or hurt you.”

Serova raised her arm. Attached to her sleeve were two bats exactly like the ones Shanti had killed.

“Enough of your games, Sera.” Madiza turned to Shanti. “Only when she became queen did she become Serova. Her name is Sera. Don’t fear the dead; it’s the living we must contend with.” Sera changed her appearance into that of a normal, quite attractive woman. She lowered her arm, and the bats disappeared.

Another portrait had four slash marks down its center. “Your temper, Sera, is unrivaled,” Madiza said. The portrait showed a bearded king wearing a shabby bearskin coat. On his shield was the small letter “g,” the symbol of the Guardians of Willovia. A hooded hawk perched on his gloved arm, and the castle crumbled in the background.

“Trouble comes to every life, Shanti,” Madiza said.

A strange sensation enveloped her as she moved toward three new portraits—pictures of the future. Baylova, in a red dress, graced the canvas. The fingernails of her left hand were black, and her right hand dripped blood. At her feet was an army of wolves and dogs. Vultures, crows, and bats darkened the top of the portrait. Hanging on a string around her neck was a lock of hair. Shanti touched her own hair—the same color as the lock in the portrait.

“It is possibilities that we see,” Madiza said.

“Do the Nunqua conquer Baylova, or does Baylova conquer the Nunqua? Is that
my
hair?”

“It is . . . possible.”

Next to Baylova’s portrait was a painting of Commander Gy. He held a sword and a shield, yet he looked grim like the other monarchs. “Gy would make a good king,” Shanti said.

“Look closer. Tell me what you see.”

On Gy’s chest, over his heart, were two holes, through which the background colors of the paint could be seen. Shanti moved her head from side to side. The holes gave the impression of moving with her. Smoke rose in the background: the castle on fire, near a red sea.

“The holes are for his children. If Gy becomes king, his children will be kidnapped, and he will lose them. He will have no heirs to inherit Willovia. Upon his death, civil war will consume the country.”

“He knows this? Is that why he let Bayla be crowned even though she didn’t pass the Guardians’ tests?”

Serova’s appearance reverted to a sharp-toothed, black-lipped female demon. She opened her mouth in an invisible hiss toward Shanti.

“Gy doesn’t know, but his wife, Tova, does. I read her fortune. I suspect she has influenced his judgment.”

One more portrait of the future hung on the wall before them. Long scratches tore the picture of a possible future queen. Ripped canvas obscured the face. Shanti smoothed the canvas to see herself. “Lies.” She stepped away.

Serova, minus her demon mask, pushed Shanti toward the portrait.

“Not lies,” Madiza said. “Possibilities. It takes true courage to look.”

Shanti smoothed the torn portrait. She wore a blue dress with a red sash of mourning. In her hand was a globe, and two swords were strapped across her back. The painting showed her as she was at birth: a half-breed with faded spots. She looked grim and bone weary. Her left ear was deformed, sliced into upper and lower sections. Shanti felt her ear. It was whole. “Why is my ear like that?”

Madiza sighed. “Because the king is a powerful, often violent man. The globe means you will travel far. I think you travel to get away from him. You ran away from him once, pretending to be his spy.”

“Caravey,” Shanti said. “More lies.”

“Is it so hard to believe? Have you truly forgotten? You had a relationship with him. Despite his cruelty, he still cares for you. General Caravey Delartay controls Lord Argu of the Nunqua.” Madiza pointed to a thin string wrapped tight around Shanti’s neck. “I once said that you are a string pulled so tight, it is bound to break. You are also the string that binds Willovia and the Nunqua together—a half-breed. Caravey knows your importance. It’s why he protects you, why he hopes you’ll return to his side. The people of both countries will respect you as queen, even love you. But you will have to sacrifice much.”

“I will not marry Caravey.”

“Then he must be defeated.” Madiza sighed. “But how do you kill a healer? He cannot die by the sword or sickness. He cannot be poisoned. Only Baylova is powerful enough to kill Caravey. I cannot do it. And you won’t.”

Shanti gazed at the red sash she wore in the painting. She would not ask for whom she mourned. Serova’s icy fingers touched the bite mark near her collarbone. The queen had long, dark eyelashes and brown eyes. She seemed young—in her mid-twenties, Shanti guessed. Serova raised one hand toward Shanti and the other toward Madiza. Her demon mask returned, and her hands morphed into claws. She raked the air with her fingers.

The opals on Madiza’s bracelet transformed into black leeches. The leeches burrowed under her skin, leaving bloody pits on tattered flesh.

Serova advanced toward Shanti and slashed her face. Shanti’s skin split, cut by knives of ice. She opened her eyes to throttle the neck of the black witch, break her nose and maybe a finger or two. But she was back inside Aiden’s house. The blanket had fallen off her shoulders, and her tea was cold. Shanti felt her face with her hands: numb but unmarked. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” she said.

Madiza chuckled, then grimaced as she readjusted her broken arm and touched the opal bracelet. “Harmless tricks to protect Baylova. For you or Gy to rule, Baylova must be destroyed. The possibility exists that you destroy Baylova.”

“You’re the ivory ant. You told me that killing the queen would kill the colony.”

“If Gy becomes king, civil war decimates Willovia upon his death. If Caravey rules, the Nunqua alter the landscape of the country by using up our resources without replenishing them. Within one generation’s time, a famine devastates Willovia. Innocent people—children—will starve. Disease will be widespread. Willovia will be a wasteland. Caravey may be able to heal the sick, but he cannot conjure food out of nothing to feed the starving.”