What the Queen didn’t say
“Why do I have go to Council meetings? They’re so boring, and you never let me say anything.”
The old Queen watches Blanca smooth her satin dress. With hair the color of a raven’s wing, skin like milk, and a heart-shaped face, she is the King reborn.
“Blanca, I promised your father I would train you. It’s time for you to learn about the realm from the Ministers who run it.”
Blanca snorts and shakes her head. “Isn’t that what you do, Stepmother?”
The old Queen pretends she doesn’t hear the acid in her voice, her curdled orphan’s pain. She should have done more to comfort the girl when the King died, instead of immersing herself in guilty grief. But she didn’t, and now the fruits of her neglect are bitter indeed.
She takes a deep breath and tries to keep her voice even and patient. “I rule the realm, but our Ministers run it. We set the rules, but they make them work. It is important that we understand how.”
A sharp little v appears between Blanca’s wide green eyes. She is displeased, even more so than usual. The old Queen is about to ask why, when a tall man with a thick, corded neck barrels into her study without even a knock. He is the Huntsman, the leader of her husband’s half-feral Guard, the living legacy of a bloody coup that made her husband both a King and a slave.
“My Queen, you remind me of the icy air atop Mount Gloria. You take my breath way.” His words are aimed at the old Queen, but his eyes are crawling all over Blanca, who blushes and turns away.
“What do you want?” The old Queen’s voice is sharper than she intended, but perhaps, she thinks, it’s for the best. She has outlived her charm, but not her ability to instill fear.
The Huntsman bows and smirks. “I have come to take Fair Blanca hunting. I promised her father I would teach her the ways the bow. She is sixteen, old enough by any measure.”
“Please can I go? Please, Stepmother?” asks Blanca, her voice high, eager, and painfully sincere.
The old Queen sighs. She knows she cannot win. “Go on,” she says with a wave.
The old Queen doesn’t sleep anymore. She spends her nights poring through ledgers and trade agreements, and cataloging old regrets.
The kingdom is wealthier than it has ever been. Even the poor have enough to eat; she is proud of her work. Her husband, the King, was a spirited, passionate man who cared nothing for government, or the exhausted cries of starving mothers and their dying babes. And his heir is just like him.
An inky-haired serving girl, one of the King’s many bastards, moves silently as a snake, bearing a single glass of wine on a tray. The Queen has caught this child sneaking glances at her books and papers on several occasions. Maybe I should teach her to read. Maybe I should teach her more.
The old Queen thanks her absently and swirls the ruby liquid, watching it cling to the sides of her glass. It reminds her of the blood that flowed so freely from her husband’s throat. The hours after his death were a cacophony of chaos; somehow, the assassin dissolved into the night.
The old Queen, her face veiled in black, conducted a formal inquiry, but no one could ever agree on who struck the blow. The Huntsman blamed the Ministers. The Ministers blamed the Huntsman. And the people blamed the ghost of the Fair Prince, who was King before her husband, and also died by the knife.
Only the old Queen knows the truth.
It is the moment just before dawn, when the shadows surrender and flee from the sun. The old Queen pads to her study, ready to begin her day. She pauses a moment before she enters. She hears voices, one high and one low.
No, please don’t, not here.
Oh, c’mon, the risk is half the fun.
Stop! I command you! Please.
The old Queen has heard enough. She throws open the doors, and they slam into the wall with a satisfying crash. Blanca’s cheeks flame as she fumbles with her bodice. The Huntsman leans against the old Queen’s desk, regarding her with an easy, gloating eye.
“You, Huntsman! Get out!” the old Queen rasps, her voice still clotted with sleep.
The Huntsman shakes his head slowly. “No, I don’t think so. Blanca is old enough. It is time…for her to rule.”
He takes a step forward, and then another. The old Queen stands her ground, even when she sees that he’s holding a long, thirsty-looking blade.
Blanca clutches at his arm, shrieking, “What are you doing? You said you’d send her away!”
The Huntsman snorts, “This bitch killed your father, and you would let her live?”
The shock and confusion twisting Blanca’s features testify to her ignorance. “Did you? Did you kill him?”
The old Queen is trying to think of what to say, to find words that are both kind and true, when the Huntsman’s blade slips between her ribs, and she slips onto the cold, marble floor.
Blanca puts a pillow under the old Queen’s neck, and holds her thick-jointed hands in her white, slim ones. “Please tell me,” she begs. “Were you the one? Did you kill him?”
The old Queen’s whispered answer is like the rustling of ancient paper. “Yes, I killed him. I loved him, but he had to die. For the people.” She does not voice her final, flickering thought.
And you would have been next.
