Notes in the Margins

From this prompt: The hero of this story is a competent woman ruler who has an artificial limb. On the way to the story's conclusion the hero encounters a mute person. This person has a uniform. Plot

Buying magic within city limits can be deadly. Country folk have it much easier " and do not realize it. All they have to do is stand in a field of barley for a fortnight and wait for a lizard to come, or smooth narcissus over their lips and slip into a flower for an evening. 

It takes more time, but you’re less likely to get caught in a corner, or find yourself lost in the space between stones. Many trip over desperation or tread through white, for magic is only sold in the deepest places of the city. But you have to be careful and keep yourself afloat, as you delve deeper. You don’t want to tumble into the under city. Or onto the next page. 

The mute had returned. She had seen him standing beneath the hemlock as she had made her way to the courtyard. The soldiers had just returned " she was on her way to welcome them " and he was in uniform. Of course, he would be with them. She had sent him with them. But she hadn’t thought " the idea hadn’t struck " but it had. Queen Maeve became finally aware, when she saw him, of the dreams. 

She saw him before she realized he was there. She stopped, her hand on the column beside her (her good hand, not the hand he took), her sandal nearly slipping off as she wavered in her half-step, and could only utter a surprised, uncharacteristic, “Oh!” But it was a breath, only a breath, and it was gone. 

He couldn’t speak to her. He only watched her. But his hand spoke. He had never been very expressive with his eyes. But his hands, limp and almost equally unexpressive, hung at his sides and his forefingers gave the slightest, miniscule twitch, and fear wound its way from the stone at her feet, through her legs, twisted into her heart, and clung to her tongue. 

The ivy whispered in her wake as she hurried past him and her heart resumed its old, familiarly rapid beat. And still, she could not tell if it was caused by hate or love. 

It must be a death sentence, was all she could think as she addressed her troops. She waved her gold, hollow hand as she did so. They wanted to see it. They had gone fifteen years without seeing it, as they fought for a woman they did not believe in, out in the dangerous Print. But they believed in the hand. It allowed them to accept her. She, too, had sacrificed for her country " for the Notes. And they allowed the hand to make up for her inadequate gender and refusal to take a husband.

“My men. We are proud to have you back in our great city, back in the safety of the Margins, and we relish and celebrate your victories, and pray for those we have lost. You have fought well against words of Print and bravely crossed the tumultuous seas of white. Your sacrifices will never be forgotten, nor go unrewarded. Celebrate tonight, and rebuild your lives.” 

The cheer was momentous. The cheers were always momentous. They approved of their leader, even if she was a queen. They approved of the Hand. 

None of them would ever call her that to her face. But she knew that was the universal name. Queen Maeve was only used for formality’s sake. She considered dropping the title altogether and simply going by the Hand. It would make history’s job easier. Few would remember the minor detail that she was a woman. 

Shaking every soldier’s hand took five hours. Three hundred times as long as her speech. She did the math with her lips tucked into a noble smile, her golden hand outstretched for them to touch. Traditionally, she would have firmly gripped each soldier’s hand. There were stories of the kings of old having to wear ice-filled gloves after an army’s return. But Maeve only had to stretch out her golden hand for each to touch " and some more enthused men to kiss " and they were more than satisfied. They served the Hand, after all. Not her. 

She thought of the man who gave her the Hand " or took her original one. She thought of the exchange. A hand for a tongue. He, doused in his romance, had been merciful, but selfish. He wanted her to always remember what she took. Or gave up. She, always judicious, took his tongue. To forbid him from telling a soul. 

Constantly, she looked for him. Glared down the line of men dressed in the traditional red. But he was not there " he did not come. 

It must be a death sentence, was all she could think. It would be impossible to tell whether she went to buy the magic because she truly believed it was a death sentence, or because she simply told herself so many times that belief followed. But she went, into the depths of the city, careful not to tread too far down. Here, you were so deep that you could see gleaming white through the cracks in the stone, if you looked hard enough. 

She kept her sleeve pulled up over her golden, hollow hand. She did not know what would happen, if an unsavory character found her here. Perhaps it would be better to see it, for they respected the Hand more than the virtues of an ordinary woman. But, still, she slid her sleeve down. She desired her own death sentence, in place of his. 

He stood in a deep nook. She almost passed him, but she felt the pull of the nook as it grabbed onto her and tried to shove her into white. Her step quickened and hurried away and her eyes slid toward it. But they met his smile instead. Was it made of white? 

“My Queen,” he stooped in a mock bow, his black eyes on hers, his smile filled with teeth. 

Her gaze bore down on him, but she did not respond. He would have his own way of understanding who she was. But she kept her left arm carefully to her side, to forbid the sleeve from slipping one inch.

He reached into his grungy cloak and pulled out what she was looking for with a flourish: Aconite. The queen of poison, dressed in a mourning cloak of purple. Like she is already grieving the loss of her soon to be victim. Maeve looked upon death, held lightly in the magic seller’s hand. 

“How much?” 

“Twenty gold pieces, my royal Hand.” 

She glanced up at him at the mention of her never mentioned nickname. But all she could see were teeth, so she buried her head in the collar of her cloak and rummaged through her pocket, grabbed a handful of coins, and thrust them into his outstretched hands. He spent a moment counting, then flashed teeth at her, and handed her death. 

It was heavy in her pocket as she walked back. It took up its own heartbeat that paralleled her brisk footsteps. It made her sick. 

She used her love to kill him. As he knew she would. Or, maybe she just hoped he knew. Maybe she was terrified at the possibility that he actually desired only her love and not the trappings that went along with it. But she was careful, always careful, and she was the Hand. 

The purple petals were visible along with the usual tea leaves. He looked down at them as he raised his cup to his lips, eyes on the violet bits of death. 

Her heart ached when he muttered, “The only way to kill a king, my love. You use me, as always.” And he smiled before taking a sip. 

Her expression did not change. She was cold and hard, just as the hand. But she wept over the body of King Meliali Rex, rightful king of the Notes. Maeve, simply Maeve, at that moment, wanted to die, for she had lived, up until that moment, off the idea that he was still alive. But the Hand seized her opposite wrist and wrenched her back. The Hand ruled, not Maeve, but she had to give up everything for it. 

Author's Note

Please please please review! I'd love some criticism

Reviews

[Wolfwind]

Wow! What a mental explosion of goodness! The analogy of writing woven into the tale of a royalty, ruling and deception and control was amazing! I loved this.

There were a few places that I felt that I thought could have be elaborated on a bit more. But that's just me. I think over all you capture a series of scenes with precision.

Fantastic Ink!
Aaron