The Queen of Attolia (The Queen's Thief #2)

by Megan Whalen Turner

“Be cautious,” said the other. “Do not offend the gods.”

“That was the message. For me, alone among mortals, the gods send their messenger to tell me to stop whining. That’ll teach me to go hide in a temple.” “Eugenides—” said Eddis. “And I thought that I was doing fairly well,” he said bitterly.

“There are a lot of things that a person with two hands couldn’t steal,” Eddis said. “So?” “Surely if it’s impossible to steal them with two hands, it’s no more impossible to steal them with one. Steal peace, Eugenides. Steal me some time.”

“I didn’t come to Sounis to blow up His Majesty’s warships. I told you someone else had to do that.” “What did you come for if not to murder my king?” “I came to steal his magus.” “You can’t,” said the magus in question. “I can steal anything,” Eugenides corrected him. “Even with one hand.”

“All right,” she said at last. “Go and steal the queen of Attolia.”

“This is the stupidest plan that I have ever in my career participated in,” he said. “I love stupid plans,” said Eugenides.

“Before you make a decision,” he said, “I want you to know that I love you.”

She said venomously, “I might like the earrings? As much as I would like to marry a half-grown boy? A one-handed goatfoot?” She used the lowlanders’ slang for the mountain people of Eddis. “When I am actually willing to marry you, I will wear your earrings. Don’t wait for it, Thief.”

He would lose his sight, and his hearing, his power of speech before he finally died. Dead is dead, he had told himself over and over. Dead is dead. But worse than dying was knowing that she would be the one to take those things from him. Because she hated him.

He couldn’t see, except to see the queen dancing in her garden, couldn’t think except of her dressed in palest green with flowers embroidered around the neck of her gown as she watched them cut off his hand. My God, he thought, I am so frightened. O my God, if you will not save me, make me less afraid.

Who was the Thief that she would love him? A youth, just a boy with hardly a beard and no sense at all, she told herself. A liar, she thought, an enemy, a threat. He was brave, a voice inside her said, he was loyal. Not loyal to me, she answered. Not brave on my behalf. Brave and loyal, the voice repeated. A fool, she answered back. A fool and a dead one. She ached with emptiness.

What a fool to fall in love with someone after she had cut his hand off. Well, she might be fool enough to love him; she wasn’t fool enough to believe he loved her.

“She’s too precious to give up,” he said. “But she won’t talk to you.” “No,” Eugenides said painfully. “And she won’t listen to me either. And if she won’t listen to me, how can I tell her I love her?”

“Do you believe me?” he asked. “Yes,” she answered. “Do you love me?” “Yes.” “I love you.” And she believed him.