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

by Megan Whalen Turner

“Your Majesty, Your Majesties,” said Eddis’s minister of war, correcting himself.

Eddis took note of the comfortable presence of “us” in the queen’s analysis.

“I suppose I must go on doing as I have done all along.” “Hmm?” her minister prompted. “Trust in Eugenides,” she said, shrugging.

How cruel of the gods, she thought, to send her a boy she would love without realizing it.

She ached with emptiness.

“Just asleep,” Eddis reassured her.

At the sound of her voice Eugenides’s head turned slightly, but he didn’t wake. Attolia, seeing the movement, breathed again and pressed a hand to her chest where it hurt.

but for Eugenides these two things were news enough of success, and he had sat down on the floor next to the bed and eaten all the food she’d brought.

Eugenides looked up at her, and Attolia felt transparent, as if her mask were gone, as if he could see her heart and know that a moment before it had been stopped by grief.

“I think when I’m king”—he repeated himself slowly—“when I am king, she can be my first mistress.” Attolia snapped, “You have any mistresses and I’ll cut your other hand off.”

She looked back at him, and her cheeks flushed. She said, with sincerity, “You are a poisonous little snake.”

He reached up to touch very lightly the earring in her ear, a square-cut ruby on a gold backing that matched the design of the ruby-studded band across her forehead.

“No,” said Eugenides, looking sullenly at his feet. “I knew that I had to be king. I just didn’t think about it.”

The queen’s city of Attolia sat in the sunshine like a gem in a setting of olive trees, on a hillside above the shallow Tustis River.

Eddis bore it all patiently. Eugenides looked on, amused.

“Sand,” said Eugenides. “In the soup, on the bread, sprinkled on the meat.”

“No, of course she wouldn’t. I’d say the kitchen feels the same as the queen’s attendants.”

“What snakes and weasels fill your court, Your Majesty,” Eugenides said one evening, in a voice only she could hear, as they turned on the dance floor.

“Eugenides.” Attolia spoke, and he turned back to her. She lifted her hand and laid it on the side of his face. It was all she needed to do. Though his expression didn’t change, she could feel the tremor that went through him at her touch. He was afraid of her. Some part of him would always be afraid of her. That fear was her weapon, and she would encourage it if she wanted to maintain her authority as queen.

“I told her I’d already been hunted in Attolia, thank you very much.”

But it wasn’t the Thief she was angry at, or Phresine. What a fool she was to offer hunting to a man with one hand.

Well, she might be fool enough to love him; she wasn’t fool enough to believe he loved her.

Eddis, hoping she would understand. “She’s too precious to give up,” he said.

isn’t mine to keep or to give away. He has free choice, and he has chosen you. You must choose now.

“Give him back to me,” she said, “and I will build your altar

“Little Thief,” she said, “what would you give to have your hand back?”

“Would you have your hand back, Eugenides? And lose Attolia? And see Attolia lost to the Mede?”

“Do you love me?” Eugenides asked without preamble.

“I am wearing your earrings,” Attolia offered.

Love I am not familiar with. I didn’t recognize that feeling until I thought I had lost you in Ephrata.

Gently she stroked his maimed arm, and he shivered at the warmth of her touch and its intimacy.

Unable to guess the answer, she asked, “Who am I, that you should love me?” “You are My Queen,” said Eugenides.

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