The treasure for which the Queen had paid Jeunock five years worth of his government paycheck was an instruction manual for the resurrection of the greatest assassin the world had ever known. Four months prior, the assassin had died attempting to kill Alexandria herself, and against her better judgment she had kept his body. The assassin’s name was St. John, and he was not a man. His body did not need food to build cells, nor oxygen to breathe. All he needed was a source of astral aether. In death, he had been disconnected from his source, but this could be undone. Using the thyrean script described on Jeunock’s scroll, St. John could be reanimated and forced to serve a human master. Alexandria was a compassionate woman, but she had no qualms about enslaving a thing like St. John. There was, in her mind, no lower form of life.
Shaemus ‘Storm’ Arkham, brother to the queen, awaited Alexandria at the latrine’s door. Over his thin armor he wore a cloak salvaged from the corpse of the recently deceased Magister Egleton. Egleton’s crime had been treason. Alexandria had not bothered to watch his sentence carried out.
Storm had lived most of his life unaware of his royal descent. Before his induction into the queen’s cabinet, he had lived the life of a mercenary. Alexandria did not have much love for the murderous thing that was her brother, but she did find his story delightful. It was fitting that her long lost brother had lived a life as troubled as hers. What he lacked in courtmanship and manners, he made up for in bravery and cunning. Plus, he made an exceptional bodyguard.
“All’s well?” he asked.
“Ja.” she confirmed. Storm fell into line behind her like the soldier he was, and they set off for her quarters. “But you won’t be part of it.”
Storm looked peeved.
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“Why not?”
“Because you’re my brother.”
“I am also your best soldier.”
“It’s not your safety I worry about.”
“Yes, family image, I know. But I don’t care.”
“Je?”
Storm had spent enough time with Alexandria to understand the northern creole she spoke behind closed doors. ‘Je’ meant ‘why’, but the queen never asked ‘why’ in earnest. She only asked when she already knew the answer. Storm went ahead with his argument anyway.
“Because NOW is the time!” Storm yanked Egleton’s cloak from his shoulders, and the enchanted cloth of which it was made flashed a great many colors in an attempt to camouflage with the passageway’s dancing torchlight. “Politics no longer matter. The people in this city are trapped. They cannot avoid us. They cannot ignore us. They cannot withstand us. We are already the most powerful faction in the world, and with St. John we will be unstoppable.”
Alexandria refused to dignify Storm’s outburst with a response. Much of what he had said was true, but his logic was that of a soldier, and Goldcrest would never follow a soldier. The army with which Alexandria had sought to conquer the continent was still intact. If she wanted, she could conquer the people of this collapsed city, but it would do her little good. Before the remnants of humanity would consider crowning her, they would have to be convinced of the existence of a throne. They would have to become cleansed of their democratic fantasies, and that was not a task for a conquering soldier. This was a task for a politician with a perfect assassin at her side.
“Thank you brother.” Thus, the conversation ended. Storm looked unimpressed. “Hex will return soon. Meet with him for me. Tell him of John and the tasks that must be done. He will be the one to carry them out. Make sure he understands, for I do not wish to do any explaining tonight.”
Storm’s eyebrows climbed his pouting face. The queen ignored him once more.