In the twilight of her reign, it was accepted by all – grudgingly or not – that there had never been such a queen as Cen.
She had moulted early, fed deeply, and sprung skyward while others were waiting for their wings to dry.
She had seized the far shores from the fierce men-of-many-arms (at least, above the tidelines, which was all the land worth having) and defended them.
She had transformed, through patient agriculture and wise appointment of drone-ministers, some of the poorest fields of the land into rich, verdant fields whose nectar overflowed beyond abundance.
And she had hatched three daughter-queens, a number unheard of.
But a queen, though long-lived, is mortal still. And so among all that Cen had done and commanded to be done, her pilgrimage to the lone half-pine was perhaps the least-noteworthy of her deeds. In fact, it was nothing more or less than expected. She made the journey in orthodox garb: bare wings, empty-legged, in humble posture, and she petitioned the flightless martyrs upon its trunk for entrance, and once inside she made all the correct venerations towards the Endless Rings of the lone half-pine’s interior.
It was all in complete accord, as it had always been, until the very moment of her departure, when Cen, queen of queens, halted on the very stoop of the sacred halls. Her escort, a great hulking labourer, nearly stumbled over her abdomen.
“Pilgrim?” she inquired of the queen.
Cen turned, and although her mien was still of utmost humility, and although she did not raise her voice, and although there was no hint of force, aggression, or threat in her words, when she stated “I must see the high abbess immediately” there was simply no question of anything but.
The abbess was a little surprised to have guests. Her last had come nearly a year ago, on the same day as always: a lone flightless apprentice, wings only just started to wither in their bindings, bringing news and her yearly meal. She had lived out nearly half her life at the very top of the half-pine without any other visitor.
But she was a good host, and made a place for Cen to sit upon the floor of her cell; and an excellent listener, and made Cen a silence to talk into.
“I am old,” said Cen.
The abbess nodded. In truth, the two were of similar relative age, though not absolute. Cen had ruled when the abbess’s grandmother was young: the span of a queen was no small thing.
“I am old, and soon will die,” said Cen.
Another nod. This was factual. Of course, from the abbess’s perspective everything was due to die fairly soon after its birth, but she understood many people, especially the powerful, did not comprehend this of themselves until it was almost too late.
“I am old, and soon will die, and when I die,” said Cen, “I wish to be embedded among the crypts of the martyrs.”
The abbess tried to nod and freeze up and jolt at the same time and fell over with the shakes. Cen politely did not move or speak while she composed herself.
“The crypts of the martyrs,” she continued, “are holy and unviolated. Ten thousand thousand bodies lie there, in amber, and there is room yet for ten thousand thousand times that again. I know it is prohibited for one with wings to lie among such pious relics, but I must request it of you, abbess, for a very simple reason.”
The abbess, freshly re-seated, nodded successfully once again, although somewhat shakier than before.
“I have three daughter-queens. One would consume me, and be of no fret to mind. Two would battle equally, and to the victor, the world as seized from my innards. Three is unheard of, and for years now I have considered its consequences. One will band together with another to destroy the third, and each will betray her conspirator, and in the end, there will be no victor capable of eating from my carapace. My throne will hold only corpses.”
Cen raised her head, and for the first time since her approach to the sacred half-pine she carried herself as a queen. A quiet queen, but a ruler nonetheless. “But if my body is placed beyond reach, there is no prize to squabble over, solely a kingdom to rule, a mantle to shoulder. And without the ichor that flows within me, it will be a taxing enough job to fulfill three daughter-queens fully. One ruler in three parts.”
“Then you must go to the crypts,” said the abbess in a high, dry, shaky voice that had not been used in over forty years. And Cen said no word in return, but simply touched antennae in the fullest thanks possible.
And queen Cen returned from her unexceptional, expected pilgrimage as if nothing had happened. And nothing did happen for a further year and forty-six days, until the night her body cooled and never warmed again.
Six flightless martyrs descended upon her chamber from hidden means, and took her body upon hidden paths, and after walking in silence for a long week while the land mourned around them, unknowing, they bore her up the winding heights of the lone half-pine and placed her in the smallest, humblest cavity in the grand chamber of the crypts of the martyrs.
The sap covered her within the day, and hid her precious corpse forever, as she had wished. And then the six martyrs sealed themselves as well, for they knew full certain that this was a secret that should not be spoken of.
Cen’s daughters did not kill one another. Cen’s daughters did not hate one another. But Cen’s daughters were not best pleased with the governing of the land.
The eldest, Can, was displeased, as she was sure she was the mightiest of the three, and would have triumphed in the struggle for their mother’s body. The middle child, Cin, was displeased, as she was sure she was the craftiest of the three, and would have been able to trick the other two into duelling to their dooms. And the youngest, Cun, was displeased, as she had always felt that their mother had liked her the most and would have bequeathed her remains to her.
One thing they did have in common: they all were sure they were better rulers than their sisters.
“What foolery are you engaged in, pressing the men-of-many-arms into the tideshores themselves?” Cin would demand of Can. “The land is useless to use! It is a waste of time and effort!”
“Why have you been meddling with the drone-ministers of the heartland?” Cun would demand of Cin. “They were mother’s choices, and your dismissal of them before their lives had ended casts unfavourable light upon yourself in the eyes of the people, no matter how apt their replacements.”
“How do you expect to get anything done mooning endlessly in the royal chambers?” Can would demand of Cun. “Mother left no word to us beyond do-as-we-see-fit; what do you think to uncover with all your furtive searches? A notice of your inheritance? Insolence! Connivery! Idleness!!”
And so the days wound by, bitter and bickerer, until fifteen years had passed, when each of the three sisters made a discovery.
“Sisters,” said Can, “this morning I woke with aches in my joints. And I see by your faces you two have felt this. Without mother’s body, we will not live to her age.”
“Sisters,” said Cin, “this morning I finishing combing the archives. No queen has ever produced daughter-queens without first consuming her mother. Without mother’s body, the kingdom will lie without heirs.”
“Sisters,” said Cun, “this morning I found a loose bit of flooring in mother’s chambers. Behind it lay a dusty and disused passage, and in that passage I found an old, old speck of pollen. It came from a half-pine.”
And the three sisters agreed that it was right and necessary that they retrieve the body of their mother – to split equally among themselves, of course – and Can didn’t mention that her body had ached from battle, and Cin didn’t mention that her studies had also suggested that consumption of a fellow daughter-queen would serve as an adequate substitute, and Cun didn’t mention that she had found the passage ten years earlier and had been considering the proper way in which to exploit this.
And none of them mentioned what they already had begun to plan for the others.
The trail was well-hidden, by care as much as by age, but the three daughter-queens had access to the finest scouts in all the land and they traveled hard on their heels with a great winged vanguard of labourers commanded by drone-generals of great size and girth. Less than ten days after the meeting in the morning the army of the realm swarmed outside the trunk of the lone half-pine, and the three daughter-queens hovered above the wingless martyrs that guarded its gates in a most intimidating and superior manner.
“Hail, pilgrims,” said the captain of the guard, although she did so entirely out of ritual for the martyrs were wingless, not blinded. “For what do thee seek entry?”
“Our mother’s body,” said Cun.
“There are no bodies here but those of the martyrs. The crypts are holy,” said the captain.
“The trail we have followed here tells a lie, then,” said Cin. She hurled a mouldering lump at the captain’s feet. “As does this pollen.”
The captain drew back. This was her mistake. It was just a half-step, but Can had been itching all over since the lone half-pine drew into sight, and it was all the excuse she needed.
The wingless martyrs were fearless, impervious to pain or fear, fiercely disciplined on their home ground, and utterly devoted.
They were, however, still wingless. Though they held firm in the winding tunnels inside the lone half-pine, they had posted no guard on the long ramps that led towards the lofty crypts of the martyrs – who would ever dare strike there, or ever wish to? – and when the enemy surged up them they were unable to pursue at more than a crawl, bombarded endlessly from above.
The sisters broke down the door themselves – out of fury more than need, for it was wholly decorative – and as they looked at the ten thousand thousand tombs, they knew their search would be hopeless without guidance.
“Fetch the abbess,” Cin demanded, and in only a matter of moments the venerable holy woman was dragged down from her cell above the crypts between two strong labourer-soldiers.
“Where is our mother?” Cun demanded. “Where have you hidden her corpse?”
The abbess tried to explain that only six wingless martyrs had ever know the location of queen Cen’s body, and that those six had ended their lives solemnly years before, and that even if the abbess knew of its location she would be bound to honour their sacrifice and say nothing, but between the stress and the fury and the fear and the great, stifling bulk of the labourer-soldiers her barely-used voice could manage nothing more than grunts and wheezes.
Can cursed and decapitated the wizened old thing. Spinning to face the glares of her sisters, she spat in contempt and seized a lantern from the nearest labourer.
“I will melt them out,” she said. “One miserable little prison at a time.”
“A waste of time when I knew mother best,” said Cun. “I could recognize her, dead, alive, or frozen in amber.”
“Nonsense,” snapped Cin. “Have drones search this place; they have the brains to recognize a queen and the lack of interest to prevent them from seizing it.”
“Do you say I am stupid?” said Can.
“Do you say I am treacherous?” said Cun.
Cin’s eyes darted from one to the other, and her hands fell to her sword-stinger. “Alliance? Battle? HERE?” she said. “You are simple in truth!”
Can struck first, but not with her still-bloodied blade. Instead she hurled the torch, and as Cin ducked from the blaze, she slammed her to the ground. The middle-sister cursed and clutched and scrabbled to rise, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. She had landed on her own sword.
Can rose, but clumsily, lurching. Cun’s blade was buried in her thorax.
And Cun herself, panting with fear and triumph, turned to face her mother where she knew she must lie, buried in the endless soaring wall of the crypts, and saw only a towering vortex of flame. Can’s torch had set the sap alight. Blackened, ancient bodies withered in their cavities. Amber burst molten, followed by frozen eyes.
“Mother?” she whispered, as the first screams and sparks reached the army.
The lone half-pine stood apart, and burned apart. But when it fell, its height carried it leagues, and the rolling of its timbers farther still.
First the forests, then the fields, then finally the folk above them – soaring panicked from the blazing ground into choking skies.
When others came, years later, such history as they learned of the empty realm had to be pieced together, from scraps, from middens, and even from the old folk tales of the men-with-many-arms, who remembered the invaders from the Dry Above.
It was not a complete tale, but they knew one thing for certain: there had never again been a queen such as Cen.