The Queen of Spades
4th Day, 66th Run, 665 Years After
Why does your mind presume to flight when you
Are still like the imperfect grub, the worm
Before it has attained its final form?
There are some rare individuals who are able to, when they set their minds on a task, complete it without any doubt or risk, whatever it may be. Whereas most people might only have a one or two areas in which they excel, of which it could be said they possesses genuine mastery or at least admirable skill, there are these few, perhaps one in ten thousand, who have the gift of being able to move between tasks with ease, to one day write poetry, the next study the stars, the next give a rousing speech, the next wrestle a foe twice their size to the pin, and do it not only without inspiring jealousy in their peers but with a special grace that draws a level of adoration most of us will not even receive from lifelong lovers. Even more rare than those with this gift, which we would not be mistaken in calling something like greatness of being, are those who possess it and use it well. For despite all appearances they are still human, and the conditions that trap all of us snare them equally tight. There once was a boy who grew up on a farm in the estate of a vicious duke, a boy who, had he only the chance, could have written songs remembered for hundreds of years or invented the printing press one hundred years early. Yet his family had no books or instruments, could barely feed their six children, and so he was never able to share the shimmering music in his head or the machines he dreamed of, all of which died as well when stagnant water set an incurable rot within his stomach. Another man on the other side of the world was born into such wealth and education that his talents blossomed quickly, but night by night was given such vicious beatings by his father that he closed himself off from the world, turned to drink, and died when he hit his head tumbling into a ditch. His body lay rotting there for seventeen days.
Princess Ashzeka of the Thorn Kingdom was one of those seemingly impossible people who both had these gifts and whom fate decided to spare from its practical jokes, something which pleased her royal parents very much. When she was eight she was sitting in with her father as he discussed with his advisors matters of trade and war. When she was twelve she was counseling him as one of them. When she was fifteen she was conducting negotiations with delegations from neighboring kingdoms, and this was also the year he became ill. As he lay shivering in bed, alone in his room but for his caretaker Bel, he bid his most trusted servant to fetch his most trusted child from her room. She rushed to his side upon entering and fell to her knees, familial devotion being a gift she had in just as much abundance as any political intelligence.
“Papa!” she cried, “Nobody told me!”
He attempted to lift a hand in a gesture of comfort. When he found he could not move it more than its height above the thick, colorful quilts piled upon his body he let it fall and instead spoke with a voice many years beyond his age. Ashzeka had to lean in close to hear the words which he rasped one painful syllable at a time. The room was lit only by a single oil lamp and the shadows flickering across his cracked lips seemed as if they were trying to silence him.
“I made a vow once,” he said.
She nodded though she did not understand.
“If I die you will carry it.” By the time he forced out the last syllable he was shaking, and he had to spend the next several minutes gasping for air. Ashzeka took his cold, weak hand and held it against her cheek. She could feel it trembling as his body struggled to maintain itself on the little fuel it had left. Every time he managed to draw in a breath, she feared it would be his last. She had studied books of medicine before, watched doctors do their work, and knew what the signs she was reading on him meant. He was only just 40 years old and never touched drink except for ceremonies, yet somehow his liver was failing. She squeezed his hand gently.
Bel watched from next to the closed door of the bedroom. Standing straight with his arms folded behind his back the tall, bald man did not wear any expression as he watched the scene. He had not heard the king’s words and though he knew both the king and Ashzeka would share them if he asked he understood that doing so was not his place. It was the princess’ job to hear those words. His was to make sure the king could give them to her safely, and the thought that he was powerless against the greatest danger to his lord was, for the first time since he was a young child sparring with the older boys, making his palms sweat. The lonely, dancing lamplight seemed to be calling up hundreds of servants to dance with it, shadows on the wall that twisted perfectly in time with one another. The dark spots falling across the king looked like swarming flies. Bel felt the tension release from his body when the king’s lips again began to move.
“They will come. When I die. One day.” Ashzeka felt his hand tighten in her grip. He was trying to comfort her. How different was the hand she now held from that which had lifted her up as a child, which had patted her head in encouragement when she grew frustrated with studies. Her father had never been a man strong in body, preferring to conquer with his pen and purse, but always before this there had been an unshakeable aura of authority around him. What he’d lacked in strength he’d made up with will. Now even that seemed to be gone. Looking into his eyes, she realized that they saw nothing. He had accepted his fate.
“I’m here, Papa,” she said. There was nothing else to say. She would not lie to her father. His response came with unexpected force.
“Don’t try to trick them!” It was loud enough for even Bel to hear, though the servant made no reaction. “I’m sorry. I thought there was no choice. I thought I could win.” His voice softened with every word until it was again a whisper, too soft to hear more than outlines of what came next, just a word that could have been “tomb”, and soon after that there was no sound at all, only an old man weakly moving his lips, and when they finally came to rest Ashzeka knew she was clutching the hand of a corpse. She let it fall to the blanket. Around her, the shadows continued to dance.
From there it was only formalities, the same procedures the kingdom had observed at the death of each of its rulers for the past 300 years. As the funeral was arranged and her siblings enacted their displays of public mourning, Ashzeka spent the time in her room, emerging only during the hours she felt certain there would be nobody to encounter. She attempted to read books but found herself unable to process the words, attempted to draw and found no lines forming in her head. When she attempted to sleep she had nightmares she could not remember upon waking up. After five days of isolation her mother came to visit her. She was wearing the traditional grey of a recent widow.
“You must be able to speak at the funeral tomorrow,” she insisted. Ashzeka watched her eyes as she spoke. For the past several years her parents had hardly spoken to one another for reasons she had never been able to discern, a conflict of avoidance that occasionally erupted into violent screaming and in which Ashzeka tried not to take sides. She had, until this moment, until looking into the eyes of her mother and seeing that her father had already been forgotten, felt that she loved both of her parents equally. When her mother tried to speak again Ashzeka closed the door without responding and fell back into her bed.
The next day she went to the funeral. Her mother gave a speech describing a man both of them knew had never really existed, then broke down into tears and had to be helped back to her chair. Ashzeka did not bother listening to any of the others. She was last to speak and when her turn came was not even aware of what she was saying, though she did recognize a few looks of shock on the faces of spectators as she reached her conclusion and returned to her seat.