We set our course north and walked. It was a long way to the Pit, to the city I had bought with such a heavy price, but we had nowhere else to go. I hoped Tamura and Imiko were alive, and yet I feared what the Emperor's armies might have done. There were villages along the way, and we found food and new clothing, but little welcome. News of Juntorrow spread far faster than we moved, and it was difficult to hide my appearance. A one-armed woman with flashing eyes and a shadow that moved of its own accord; the Corpse Queen, murderer of Emperor Aras Terrelan, scourge of Juntorrow, mother of the Cursed. We were run out of more than one village no sooner had we arrived. Still, we found succour in some places.
With the Emperor and his line dead, his control was broken. The Terrelan army fractured, their control over the kingdom splintering. Terrelan broke apart into dozens of disparate states, each claiming independence. Some were ruled by military law, others by the local aristocracy, and some were even unionised into a form of citizen government. It did not take long for the first skirmishes to break out, a prelude to a new war that would eventually consume the continent of Isha. More of my legacy. An empire fallen to ruin, engulfed in strife. No wonder the Corpse Queen is hated and feared in equal measure. But I did it. I swore time and time again, whispered promises to myself each night down in the Pit. I renewed that vow up on Ro'shan, and again on Do'shan. I swore I would kill the Emperor and turn the Terrelan Empire to ash. And I did it. A younger me would have rejoiced, blind to the consequences.
One night we came across a tavern, a roadside inn, days away from the nearest village. Hardt and I arrived there on aching feet. We had secured new clothing, and I had even bathed at the last village, but days on the road made such luxury seem like ages past. The owner had heard of me but put little stock in rumours and tales of small women being monsters in disguise. For once I did not educate him on his mistake. Little is ever given away for free, and though we had no money, the owner allowed Hardt and I to work a day for food and a dry roof. Hardt worked the kitchen and I did what Pyromancers often do by way of work: I made fire where it was needed. I think, in truth, the owner took some pity on me; regardless of winter setting in I did not nearly enough to earn the food and drink that night.
There was music in that tavern, a bard by the name of Reo who played songs I had never heard before. Distant shores and mysterious people, lands unknown and a tragedy for the ages. He held the tavern in rapture with his notes and with his words, and when he was done, he found my table, perhaps drawn there by my flashing gaze. We talked long into the night, even once Hardt had retired to our bed. I told him my story, much more of it than I intended. He made a song of it eventually, The Fury of the Storm, it paints me in a favourable, yet tragic, light.
I do not count myself as a vain woman, but neither do I like to think of myself as ugly. In the days and weeks following Juntorrow, I felt ugly. It went beyond the loss of an arm or the ghoulish lack of flesh on my bones. I was a monster. I had done monstrous things. So, when this bard called me beautiful and meant it, I found myself both flattered and charmed. Even I am not immune to flattery, and sometimes even the most endowed of us need to hear that we are worth others' attention.
Nine months later Sirileth was born.
Chapter 31
Anonymity through fame is an interesting concept yet it often holds true. I was known far and wide, my name spreading beyond the reaches of Isha. Even the Polasians feared the name, the Corpse Queen. Yet you could ask a hundred people who the Corpse Queen was, and maybe five would be able to give my true name. My reputation was known, my alias was known, most even knew where they could find me, but my identity was a mystery. I would wager that fact was the only thing that kept me alive. I didn't know it at the time, but the Iron Legion thought I had died at the hands of the Emperor.
When Hardt and I arrived back at our home we found little had changed. It had grown for a certainty, new life and new faces abundant in the city I had raised from the earth. So many new faces I found myself quite lost amongst them. Tamura ruled in my absence, not with an iron fist, but with a considerate ear. Imiko held a different kind of rule. I could not say how, and she would not, but in my absence, it appeared she had garnered quite the criminal network. Thieves, thugs, whores, and bandits from all over the nearby lands answered to Imiko. You may wonder how long had passed, and I will admit that I certainly did. It had been more than half a year since I had been taken by the Terrelans, and most of that was spent down in the Red Cells. My friends had given Hardt and I up for dead. Oddly, I do not blame them for it, though I will admit to a pang of jealousy when I saw Tamura giggling upon his throne as he handed out orders. It vanished the moment the crazy old Aspect saw us amid the crowd. Tears rolled down his cheeks and he leapt toward us, catching me up in a bone cracking embrace, and flooding my ears with nonsense that almost sounded like a string of questions.
Within a few days Tamura stepped aside, and I reluctantly sat upon the throne of my own little kingdom. I did barely any ruling and left the running of the place to Tamura and Imiko. I ate well and new flesh filled my bones, and I became better used to the new balance of my body. It is frustratingly difficult to perform even mundane tasks like dressing yourself when you only have one arm, and it took quite some getting used to. Oddly I could still feel my arm from time to time, or maybe just the ghost of it. It itched more than anything, an itch I could never find to scratch. You have no idea how damnably annoying it is to feel your fingers itching when you don't even have a hand.
I grew fat with pregnancy, and though I handled it far better than I had the first time, it was still a chore more often than not. Ssserakis was not nearly as insistent on action during the months I carried Sirileth. I still felt my horror's need for its own vengeance, and its desire to return to its own world, but it did not push me toward either goal even once while I was pregnant. There was a connection between my horror and my second child. I think Ssserakis felt as much a parent as I did.
Sirileth arrived in blood and noise, mine and hers. What is there to say about my second child? Not lightly do I name her a monster, but there was always too much of her mother in her to be anything else. But that is a story for another time. I love her. I have always loved her, no matter what is said about her or myself. I loved Sirileth from the moment I set eyes on her, with all my heart. But I still abandoned her. Some lessons I guess I have never learned. Know this, though, it was not willingly. I left Sirileth in Imiko's care because of a threat I could not ignore.
The Iron Legion had found me.
A messenger arrived in the middle of the night. It was mere months after Sirileth had been born and I was feeding her, my shadow draped around us, hiding my beautiful daughter from the world that would condemn her for her mother's sins. I would have been better off trying to hide the world from Sirileth. My second daughter would settle for nothing less than infamy to eclipse my own. Even back then, so small and innocent, she demanded to be the centre of all attention. Even back then her eyes glowed with an odd darklight, like the corona of the sun hidden behind our moons.
The messenger was a tall man, handsome in that rugged way that somehow defies the dirt and grime of the road they cart around with them. He went down on one knee before me and bowed his head for a moment. A sign of respect, traditions maintained. I cared little for tradition.