All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [59]
She raced up the stairs of the Sixth Tower, the so-called Oaken Keeper of Secrets.
It was not wise to keep the Queen waiting. Ever.
She paused outside the chamber to adjust her skirt and smooth her Paxington jacket, to make sure her hair was just right.
Jezebel sensed Sealiah near. They were connected through the Pact of Indomitable Servitude, the oath that broken and damned Julie Marks had taken to transform herself into Jezebel. It made her a part of Sealiah’s will, Julie’s soul consumed and replaced by the shadow of the Queen of Poppies. Jezebel felt this in her very atoms. She did not struggle against it. One might as well try to struggle against breathing.
She entered the chamber, bowing low, not daring to look upon her Queen before instructed to.
“I shall tend to you in a moment,” Sealiah said. “And rise. Submission becomes most young girls . . . but not you.”
The Queen of Poppies had dressed to kill today. A sheath of gossamer metal clung to her curves—liquid dark-matter silver that had been in existence before the mortal Earth had been dust gathering in void.
Jezebel’s gaze settled on the emerald that sat in the delicate V of Sealiah’s collarbone. This stone was the personal symbol of Sealiah’s power. It pulsed, daring any who desired it to try to rip it from her.
Jezebel had a sliver of that stone within her left palm—a gift and living link to her Queen.
Her fingers rolled into a fist. How she would love to taste more.
She averted her eyes from this obvious temptation, however, and her gaze landed upon the curved daggers, Exarp and Omebb, strapped to Sealiah’s thighs . . . as well as the broken Sword of Dread, Saliceran, sheathed on her hip.
That terrible blade was said to have been broken as it struck the Immovable One in the Great War with Heaven. It had killed thousand of mortals and Immortals. The metal wept venom equal to the rage of the one who wielded it.
Jezebel then turned her attentions to the map table. It was a model of the Poppy Lands from the Valley of the Shadow of Death across the Dusk End of Rainbow to Venom-Tangle Thicket. Miniature infantry and fungus bat squadrons, Lancers of the Wild Rose, and Longbow of the Order of Whispering Death guarded key strategic locations . . . waiting for the enemy to make its move.
Bumblebees flew from open windows and landed upon the table. Covered in pollen and sticky with nectar, they waddled, buzzing among the unit markers and pushing them to their latest positions.
Sealiah plucked up one black-and-amber insect, its stinger half the length of its squirming body. “Tell the Lancers to pull back to the Western Ridge. Bury antipersonnel mines as they go.” She then blew on the creature, and it took to the air.
“Now,” Sealiah said, and finally turned to Jezebel, “how was school?”
Her Queen was, as always, breathtaking: bronze skin, her hair gleaming copper and streaked with platinum, and eyes that knew the depths of seduction and addiction.
Jezebel had to resist the urge to fall down in worship. “I passed entrance and placement exams without incident, my Queen.”
The entrance to the Paxington Institute had been obvious to her Infernal senses. And between the answers provided for her, as well as weeks of intensive study from tutors, Jezebel had earned a B+ on the written exam, of which she was extremely proud.
Her former incarnation, Julie Marks—when she bothered to go to high school at all—had scraped by with Cs.
“Of course you passed.” Sealiah arched one delicate eyebrow. “Or you would dare not show your face here.”
Jezebel felt her cheeks heat, and she carefully averted her eyes so her Queen did not see the hate within.
“Tell me about the twins,” Sealiah ordered.
On a side table, the Queen unrolled the circular mat for a game of Towers, a game that to Jezebel seemed part checkers, part chess, and had a long list of rules that seemed improvised half the time.
“They passed their tests, too. We are on the same team: