Chapter 99

An Introvert’s Guide To Being An Undead Queen

The Whisperer’s intervention throws me into a deep depression. The whole point of being queen was to be in a position where no one could dictate to me, but here I am, helpless as a babe in the face of my unwanted god’s pettiness. Or madness. Or whatever justification he has for meddling in my affairs.

The wind whistles through the ruined arches as I look out across the remains of the city. In it I can hear the god’s whispers, taunting me, reminding me that I can never be free, that I am trapped in this endless existence of servitude with nothing but a cracked veneer of freedom and a tin-pot crown to warm me. Gah. Or perhaps I am losing my mind and I am a true disciple of the dark god?

In the past the Whisperer let me do as I please. True, there was always the feeling of being observed, the occasionally expressed displeasure but that was the extent of it. Now he is behaving like a jealous lover; a power-crazed, insane, jealous lover.

I slouch across the arms of my obsidian throne, with a thundercloud on my brow and refuse to move for several days. Glowering at the sad crimson stains that are all that remain of the clerics, I snap at anyone who is brave enough to speak to me. In the end Roland and his team of wights clean around me in silence. I do not protest as they remove what is left of the bodies, merely watching them with storm-filled eyes.

When Roland brings up a wheelbarrow to start removing the sand I stop him.

“Leave it,” I say, curtly. The sand is from the Whisperer’s desert and it did not disappear with the night as I initially suspected it would. Each grain is a tiny skull, beaming and perfect. “It shall serve as a reminder.”

Roland bobs his head and continues on his way, leaving me alone with my dark thoughts. And they are very dark. Part of me feels that I am overreacting, but there is something here that revolts my very essence. It takes me the better part of a week to untangle my emotions.

Light slides around me, the cycle of day and night flickering across the ruins as I sit unmoving, introspection chewing at me like a hungry ghost.

The Whisperer has granted me immortality, yes. It was unrequested, a violation, but I have grown to enjoy it. I made the best of the situation. I have grown accustomed to power. Indeed, I believe I wear it well. After all, there are benefits. With vast power comes vast crafting opportunities, for instance. I have created so much, done so much, things I would never have even dreamed of when I was an insignificant hedgewitch sleeping under my forest eaves. I should be grateful.

And yet… I tap my fingers on the arm of the obsidian throne. Tap, tap, tap. Dark clouds gather over the summit of Castle Rock, spitting rain down on me. I do not move, letting the water drip down my face like a marble statue.

In theory I should be happy.

My bony posterior rests on the throne of a vast kingdom. My enemies are destroyed (at least until what remains of the clerics mobilises for retaliation). I need to consolidate my reign, certainly, but I am, to all intents and purposes, immortal. There is time.

I am important. People bow and scrape when I pass by. Half the peasantry seems to think I am some kind of goddess in my own right. So what if I am not allowed to treat with the servants of other gods? So what if there are limits to what I can freely choose? Is it not a reasonable request from a covetous deity? Tap, tap, tap.

The power of lichdom is all good and well but it comes with its own price. Not my body, I don’t care about that, not anymore. But I detest being the centre of attention. I abhor the administration… the people managing. In truth I long for simplicity, for quiet. I long to be back at my cottage with Jenkins, and my garden. It vexes me sorely that I have not even had a chance to rebuild my cottage, always the consolidation of power has taken precedence over what I, myself, want.

Yes—I would miss Roland, Sir Timothy, Rachel, and the Fairhaven girls, even ghostly, ghastly Old Jennet, but you do not need to be queen to have friends? Surely?

Hmm. This is the heart of it.

I do not care for the power, it has always been the means to an end. Likewise, I do not care for immortality. Death holds no terror for me. When it is my time I will embrace it willingly. As things stand I am due to spend an eternity under the Whisperer’s thumb. I am barely one year into my new life. Who knows what else he will take umbrage too over the course of a thousand years? Now it is clerics, but what about witches? What about my garden? My cat? My crafts?

I drum my skeletal fingers on the arm of the throne. Besides the death of my loved ones, there is only one thing I truly fear: and that is the Whisperer himself. His intervention renders all my sacrifice moot. It will not do. No god is worth giving up autonomy for. Ergo, there is only one one sensible solution.

The Whisperer needs to die.

I relax on my throne, admiring the stars as the wink in and out of existence high above. Clouds are scudding along the bowl of the sky, scrapping the heavens with their silken veils. This epiphany brings with it, a certain peace. I know what I need to do, the decision is made.

Now I can set about figuring out the slightly more difficult how.

Of course, this will be the biggest project I have ever undertaken, and the most dangerous. I will break it down into manageable pieces. First things first. Information. Can a god even die? Or be unmade? Information, research, then action, and all of it must be kept secret. Failure will be catastrophic, not only for me but for those I love and the fledgeling kingdom I am building. I need to take my time, and go carefully.

The Whisperer must hear nothing of these dangerous thoughts, they must stay in my head.

That is fine. I have plenty to do while I hunt for the means to end a god’s existence.

Decision made, and stiff as a board, I climb down off my dark throne and go to tend to my neglected duties as queen.

How many days have passed? More than a few from the state of the building projects.

Roland is delighted to see me, I believe the steadfast old draugr has been worried. One day, I will create a reality where he has nothing to be anxious about. That would be nice for both of us. But today is not that day. I greet him with a wave and ask after the others.

It seems my rag-tag counsel has set up shop in the lower levels of Castle Rock, where the rooms are still more or less intact. I thread my way through the dark passages, until I hear the mumble of conversations from a candlelit corner.

They rise to their feet as I enter, in a pleasing display of deference, which I wave aside.

“Welcome back, your majesty!” says King Dunwiddy. The old beggar’s eyes are bright underneath the thicket of his unkempt hair. “Will there be a coronation?”

“Ooh a party!” says Rachel. “Yes, please!”

I shudder.

“No, no, no,” I say, trying to keep the panic from my voice. “We have enough to do, and barely enough resources to do it with. We can work towards a proper midsummer celebration when people have their homes back, and there is food to spare.”

“Very wise,” says an old woman, who sits hunched in a battered old chair to the right. She is wrapped in a colourful blanket and glaring at a half knitted jumper that she holds between wizened hands.

It seems an elderly member of the knitting guild has somehow squirrelled her way into a seat on the city counsel. I think her name is Lily, but all I can remember about her is her absolutely devastatingly good steeking. (*steeking is a knitting technique that requires you to knit in the round, and then cut your stitching vertically. I would rather attempt to gut an undead dragon with a pair of tweezers. Actually, after due consideration, I can no longer question her fitness to hold public office; the woman is a treasure.)

“How are we doing?” I ask. “How does the city fare?”

“Decently,” says Roland. He is standing by the door. He hardly ever sits down, I think it is a hangover from his butlering days. “Everyone who needs shelter has it, in varying degrees of quality. We held off on starting reconstruction on the castle, since I knew you would have input-” I nod vigorously. I do love a good castle. “Food is a concern, with all the returning humans, and will be until mid-summer.”

“I will spend some of Janvier’s gold on non-perishables,” I say. “As well as seeds for this spring. Is the harbour functional? Do we have ships to send out?”

“The harbour is still in some need of repair,” says King Dunwiddy. “But we have some functioning ships, and men to sail them.”

“Good,” I say. “Get those supplies as quickly as possible.”

One by one my counsels tell me of their progress. Dunwiddy is managing the harbour and warehouse district, Rachel is negotiating for raw materials with merchants from along the coast. The witches counsel is managing a hospital and dealing with returning families. Lily seems to be in charge of catering and food logistics. As a team, they are competent, which is good because I have plans for them all.

King Dunwiddy in particular shows real promise, but then he has ruled the seedy underbelly of Fairhaven for years as beggar king. Bringing him topside just means he has to bathe more regularly. In all other respects the politics are very similar.

Once my counsel is dismissed, I meet with Roland and the draugr architect who is tasked with restoring Castle Rock to its former glory. I have some exciting ideas for modifications and improvements.

Most importantly, when I am in residence I want to be able to move around without being gawked at. The architect is happy to include an extensive warren of secret passages and hidden doors. Together we mark them all out on paper, and soon there is barely a wall that is not doubled, or a place that I will not be able to spy upon unobserved. What fun. Listening holes, vents, and eye holes, (all of them made to my height specifications) will be placed in all manner of interesting locations. Wardrobes with false backs, sliding walls, and rotating fireplaces can all be added as we go.

Secondly I order the construction of a queen’s tower. This beautiful, airy piece of masonry will jut far above the rest of the keep, with a handy landing spot for aerial travel, a private greenhouse and extensive gardens and balconies. It will be my private sanctum, and like the rest of the castle it will have nested secret rooms. If I must be a queen I will do it my way: barefoot, beautifully dressed, and with as many flowers as possible.

Social events are inevitable. Holding court, and such. Meetings. However I don’t see why these unpleasantries need to happen to me. I will suffocate if I have to spend all my time in a city. People need a symbol, their queen, I understand that. If I can provide them with a symbol, and a functioning government all should be well.

Like so many things in life, this can be solved with a well put together wardrobe.

Queens are expected to look magnificent, and the queen shall be magnificent. And if it is not always me beneath the robes and trinkets of the office? Well, no one will be any the wiser.

I gather ermine, velvet, the finest silks, the starriest brocade, and a draugr woman with a passing resemblance to myself. Her name is Hester, and when she was alive she was a barmaid at one of the local taverns down by the docks. She seems very happy to go along with my pageantry and already knows how to knit.

After swearing her to secrecy, I introduce her to a surprised Roland and set about equipping the woman with a moon-pale wig. Once she is ensconced on the obsidian throne in a stupendous gown with skirts as wide as a waterwheel and ruffles for days, the illusion is complete, and I am free to pursue my research.