Free In the Skin of a Nunqua by R. J. Pouritt

Commander Shanti? Revolution? War? Your duty is clear: Bayla will pass the trials, especially the final test.”
    Shanti avoided eye contact and remained still. The king smelled like alcohol. No, not alcohol—medicine.
    “Know this. If your actions aren’t in the best interests of Willovia, my punishment will be severe: I’ll put your head on the chopping block.”
    She must show no emotion. An emotional soldier was a weak soldier. Shanti focused on the in-and-out of her breath.
    King Magen moved behind the desk. He sat in the chair and waved the back of his hand at her. “Dismissed.”
    She lowered her head.
    “Be prepared.” He picked up the quill and dipped it into the pot of ink. “It is almost time. Ships are stationed offshore and awaiting orders to attack.”
    Shanti left the room.
    The two royal guards who flanked the doorway outside the king’s quarters wore blue uniforms with white trim and held spears decorated with gold filigree. No longer in the king’s presence, Shanti turned to the familiar faces with a casual air. “Boys . . .” She bowed and spread her arms, playfully taunting their inability to respond while on duty. “I shall see you both after the feast.” The royal guards stared into the distance, as she had done only moments before.
    She descended the spiral staircase and stopped to look through an arrow slit built into the curved wall. The opening faced the city of Erbaut, with the sea behind it. Shanti leaned the side of her head against the stone to view rooftops and roads. Through the slit, distant figures of men, women, and children meandered in and out of view. The king’s threat disturbed her thoughts. If Rega Bayla failed the trials or the final test, Magen would have her beheaded.
    She imagined herself being paraded through the streets of Erbaut, with her hands tied behind her back and dressed in her ugly blue and white royal guard’s uniform. A mob of people encircling her, pointing and laughing with their mouths open so wide she could count their bad teeth. The throng parting to create a path. A hooded man holding an ax, next to a bloodstained block of wood and a basket near his feet. The basket slightly larger than her head. Spectators cheering, pushing her toward the scrawny man wielding the blunt ax, his exposed arms wrinkled and thin like an old woman’s.
    How many blows would it take?
    It wouldn’t come to that, would it? The Guardians’ mission would encompass one summer of her life, when she would teach the princess to become more than a princess. Her part in the plan would be justified, rewarding: push Bayla to the breaking point, pretend to be a traitor to Willovia, show everyone that Bayla would put the needs of her kingdom before her own safety, reveal the plan, congratulations all around, and move on.
    Nothing was that simple, and plans had a way of unraveling. Shanti thought of Bayla and touched her neck. Even Caravey wouldn’t be able to heal her if the king took her head.
    No sense thinking too far into the future, though; now was the time to concentrate on the task at hand. She tore herself away from the arrow slit to continue down the staircase and find the princess.
    The Daughters of Fortunate Birth lounged in an elegant room, waiting for the nightly feast to begin. The women stopped chatting when Shanti entered. With a sideways nod of her head, Shanti ordered the temporary guard to leave. She remained by the door, watching the princess, studying her in secret.
    Rega Bayla sat near an open window looking out over the sea. A caterpillar crawled on the windowsill. Bayla stroked the bristles of the insect with her fingertip.
    The princess wore a dark green dress that billowed in the spring breeze. Geckos, painted in emerald hues and garnished with small jewels, had been drawn on her wrists. Her hair cascaded down her back, and her long nose had a regal bump. She picked up the caterpillar, cupping it in her hands.
    “Rega Bayla,” said a woman with pink