She didn’t wait for questions. She could barely breathe to answerthem. The Gold Guard monitoring the radio in the dining room glanced up as she grabbed one of the portable windup radios amassed on the credenza beside the front door and went outside.
She didn’t so much approach the campfire she’d spotted from her window as wind up there through the imposed will of her body. Her mind was entirely elsewhere, on the looming moment of truth, on Selah’s betrayals, on the state of her mother’s body.Alivemight well have been an overstatement for her mother. She could have reverted to flesh, but who was to say that flesh wasn’t in parts, chum dashed against the rocks of the Fanged Coast?
The air outside was still thick and damp, but it was cool and quiet. Yemi slowed at the water’s edge. The fire was indeed a campfire, and a healthy one at that. A wire mesh grate was propped atop columns of stone surrounding it, as if someone had used it for cooking. On a rock beside the firepit rested an upturned tin mug and a mismatched kettle she didn’t recognize. There was no sign of who’d left it.
She rubbed her fingertips together curiously, remembering the dirt that had tumbled into the sink earlier. The prints in the trampled earth surrounding the firepit seemed to match her boots.
Hadshedone this? Had the fugue part of her that longed to be released from her royal compulsory civility woken in the night to encourage her to consume the stone and give in to its demands for the power she craved?
Yemi held the fertility stone—no, the seed of Ursla’s power—up to the firelight and watched the flames seemingly invert themselves to swim inside it. It was warm to the touch in a way that was soothing, not threatening, as if it were alive and content to be in her grasp. Almost mechanically, she lifted the kettle and, finding it already filled with water, placed it on the grate over the fire. She took its place on the rock beside the lake and cranked the little radio until it crackled to life. And then she breathed as she listened, leaning forward over her knees and watching intently for the steam to begin rising. The late-night hosts’ banter was different from the day shift, in that it was evident they weren’t expecting too many listeners.
Nothing about Dorian Drake yet. Yemi sighed as she watched steam rise from the kettle and the hosts threw to commercial. She brewed her tea in the tin cup, watching the stone sizzle and disappear into the liquid dark.
Suddenly, there were radio sounds of shuffling and poorly muted voices, as if someone had partially covered the mic with their hand, and then the hosts returned, much more awake.
“Uh… friends, we’ve received a letter from someone claiming to be Queen Yemaya.”
“Wait, what?”
“It doesn’t bear the royal seal, but—”
“Of course it doesn’t. My ring was stolen,” Yemi muttered bitterly to no one.
“We have confirmed a handwriting match. This is a letter from Queen Yemaya, delivered anonymously as far as I know, and dated yesterday. I’m reading it now, and—”
“For gods’ sakes, just read it aloud.”
“Will you relax? I want to be careful. It’s a very—”
“Read it!”
“Fine! Fine. Just make sure the Harpy knows who to come after when she gets wind of this. Ahem.”
To the Beloved and the Traitors of Ixia:
My apologies for having left you so unguided these few weeks. Theft, it seems, is the preferred mandate of rule in some countries. Only recently has ours been one of them.
I was distressed, to say the least, to be forced into a position where my responsibilities to you had to be abdicated or else my life was forfeit. I was even more distressed to learn of your disappointment in the penalty of a traitor in my care. While my decision may have been regrettable, I believe that if asked, he would say he’s grateful to be alive to regret his own. If asked, perhaps he would record for you the vicious tirade against my murdered family that lost him his tongue.
None of us has had proper time to mourn the death of the Bear Queen, and yet news has reached me of the organization of committees determined to rip her from our national memory. What will come of our shared history, our sacrifice, the blood of your kin and mine mingled together on our battlefields, if such a thing is allowed to come to pass? She cannot be erased, just as you cannot be erased. And yet Dahlia Drake pursues the impossible.
I will not pretend I am as endearing as my mother or as sweet as my grandmother. I am not as jovial as my father, nor as given to whimsy as my grandfather. Like many of you, I was bred in war. My constitution is molded by it. And so, I respect the Ixian people enough as warriors to be direct with you: My interest has only ever been in justice. But I require it as much for myself as any of you. You should know thatmy return will be aided by all the divine and terrible forces owed to me as a descendant of the Mer. Together, these are forces against which there is no worldly defense, though my hope is that those of you who have slurped down the Drakes’ poison will try. It will be fortunate for you who remain that my allies are Ixia’s allies. Those who seek the peace and prosperity of a united Ixia should greet my legions unarmed and in praise or supplication. The rest of you will be dealt with accordingly.
Either you are loyal to your queen, to your gods, and to your country, or you are conspiring to self-service with the backing of a pretender. Either way, I am inevitable.
Her Royal Majesty Yemaya Blackgate
Mer Queen of Ixia
Yemi clicked off the radio. The time when she’d have cared to listen to the commentary on her actions had long passed. Her mouth dried and a chorus of excited hisses rose in her ears. Even her skin prickled as her nerves primed themselves for the adrenaline rush of a promised fight. It was strange to hear her words from someone else’s lips. She eyed the tea nearly boiling in its cup. Dawn would come soon, and with it the expiration on Ursla’s offer.
Footfalls crushed soft earth behind her. They were easy, relaxed. Not a threat. Yemi turned slightly to confirm it was Nova before standing and placing her mug on the rock beside her as deftly as possible.
“Derring brought you a gift. They were a little terrified to give it to you, though.” Nova handed Yemi a red saddlebag. Yemi wordlessly opened the flap and rummaged for an opening in the bundled dark fabric within it. Her fingers finally found a smooth, hard surface, muted silver in the glow of the fire.
She freed it from the bag to find it was her coronation mask, only mostly completed.
“They wanted you to know whose side they’re on, in case you had doubts,” Nova added.
