THE SUNDERING

The fool.

Nyssa’s icy eyes narrowed, and her spine straightened, shifting slightly upon her ornately carved flower and thorn-laden throne. In front of her cowered one of her courtiers, the presumptuous man caught in bed with one of her blind beauties. No one slept with a royal slave without having to pay, but that was precisely what he dared to do.

Drilling her fingers on the arm of the chair, she lifted her chin for him to speak. Not that she’d believe anything he told her. A smile hovered beneath her pinched lips, ready to break loose. She’d not forgive the transgressors or let them go free, no matter his excuse.

“I give you leave to explain,” she said. “But think carefully before you do.” His sun-darkened skin paled and his head bowed to the floor. It delighted her that with few words, she had the power to make mighty men quake before her. “Tell me, soldier. What gave you the assumption you could touch one of my prized ones?”

His response, though delayed, was almost too quiet to hear. “She isn’t a slave, your Majesty.”

“Oh?” She leaned forward. “Then tell me, what is she exactly?”

Behind her, the guards adjusted their weaponry, ready to enact her whim and to seal the man’s fate. They were apparently smarter than the warrior on his knees. Death was the only way this debacle could end.

“Pardon, your Majesty.” The man sputtered, pausing, and glancing up at her. Gathering courage, his protest rallied in the quiet room. “I love her. The woman—she’s my wife.”

Nyssa’s frown scared him into quickly lowering his head again. “Your wife? Is that so?”

He quivered, his voice shaking. “Yes, my Queen.”

Nyssa stood, her snow-colored gown draping around her with serpentine grace. She took one step, two steps forward, down her metal and stone pedestal to reach the man below her. Without another word, she reached out her hand; and lifted his chin with her fingers. To his credit, he didn’t flinch—much.

“You say you love her.” Her fingers smoothed across his rough-shaven jaw to grip his flesh. The man was handsome, and as she examined him, another thought came into her mind. Using him. But that was too easy, and he’d given himself to another, a woman who belonged to her. There wasn’t anything she could do for him now.

“I do.”

He answered without hesitation. Nyssa’s lips curved into a smile, viperous and cold. She deserved her warrior’s attention. She deserved the devotion from her whores, and from anyone and everyone in the entire kingdom. No one denied her. After all, she was Queen.

She pondered him, his lean strength, and the impressive musculature that his armor didn’t hide. A fine soldier, indeed, all except for his fear. That is what made him worthless to her.

“How interesting,” she said, making him flinch. He knew her reputation, yet he stole from her anyhow. If he thought she was capable of mercy, he was a damned fool. Nyssa pandered to no one. Still, it was nice to play.

She beckoned to the guard nearest the door. “Bring in the slave. I want to see for myself.”

The warrior raised his eyes, his voice reverently hushed. “What are you going to do to her?”

Nyssa’s smile darkened. “Wrong question, soldier, and you have so few of them left. My patience is short, and you’ve almost extended it. I’m Regent. And by the grace of the gods, I can do anything I want.”

The door swung open, and a naked, bound woman pulled behind a guard. Her neck and wrists decorated with heavy chain, her eyes blank and empty. Beautiful, with hair the color of sunset and skin pale as milk. Blinded, as all her girls were. Nyssa pointed to the fallen warrior.

“Put her beside him.” The guard thrust the woman forward, and she stumbled, dropping to her knees. The woman’s breath hitched and caught, tears running down her alabaster cheeks. Gutting the eyes didn’t halt tears from flowing. How glorious those tears were.

The Regent clicked her tongue in disapproval. “Careful, Hugo. She’s precious.”

The guard bowed, a sneer directed towards the accused crossing his face. “Of course, your Majesty. Many apologies.”

The soldier bowing before her shifted closer to her prized whore. Damn. He was bold. She’d admire it if she wasn’t planning on killing him.

Nyssa stroked her necklace, diamond shards that pointed and spiked and wrapped about her neck like barbed wire. Her throne looked similar, laden with gems, twisted and grotesque. She wanted to horrify those that gazed upon her magnificence. By the gasps of the courtiers each and every time one of them approached her, she did. She loved the skulls that lined her crown, taken as a token of war.

Death. She was its master. No one could go against her and win.

The soldier and his bride dared to go up against the Regent? She’d show them how she lived up to her title of Dark Queen.

The chained prisoner spoke, his voice broken. “Please. I beg for audience with the king.”

Her breathing shallowed, her eyes narrowing. She didn’t speak, watching as sweat dripped from the man’s forehead down his throat. A throat she’d gladly slice for his audaciousness.

Nyssa ruled in proxy, but it meant nothing. Her son inherited the throne. The day of his twenty-fifth birthday, if he lived, he’d gain Yrurra and control all that she worked for. Not that she’d let him live. The destiny for the pair who waited for her verdict, their hands reaching for the other, was damningly similar to the one her offspring faced. Total submission, just before the ax fell across their traitorous necks.

She wasn’t stupid or naïve. Even her guards had no loyalty to her, yet loyalty wasn’t what she craved. Obedience, fear, the ability to lie, to tell her whatever she wished whenever she demanded it: that is what her servants and the courtiers delivered to her, and she loved each tremble of terror given her way.

Her guards knew their master—her. Every one of them she castrated, taking their manhood and their right. Just as her harem were blinded, those who protected her were stained by the jealousy of her hand. Ruined. Under her like cowered sheep to the wolf that stalked them. She wanted fighters, not men. And what Nyssa wanted, she got.

If her Assassin was as good as his name, and if he found and recovered what she planned to later destroy, she’d gain everything. Each breath of life. Every soul that existed both in this realm and the next. Perhaps then she’d find a measure of peace, knowing no one could steal her reign away from her.

She was the only one who knew that Yrurra bordered a shroud of time and space, of memory and ruin. Another land, another crown to shatter and destroy. She sent her Assassin there, to penetrate the forgotten portal and to massacre the world that paralleled and mirrored them. If he succeeded, she’d never have to worry or fear again. The throne was hers, but only if Sebastian of Zelal brought back his quarry.

The insidious anxiety that her assassin would fail paled the glory of this moment. Gore and temptation, parlay, and destruction, that is what brought her joy. Few things did anymore, and more so as her son’s birthday impended. She wouldn’t feel true satisfaction until the assassin returned with her foe.

Circling her prey, Nyssa eyed the kneeled pair with deepening avarice. Such a shame. If the warrior had been faithful to her, they both might have lived. But taking a wife, a woman from her blinded harem? They sealed their fate. Now they both had to die.

“Surrey.” The warrior glanced up. “Ah, yes. I know who you are. You, who had such potential in my army. You wish to see my son?”

She could tell when he realized he wouldn’t be given grace. His body slumped; his eyes squeezed shut. He spoke daringly despite it.

“My Queen. Perhaps, with explanation, the king will understand.”

A hiss escaped her painted lips. The soldier stiffened.

“Silence.”

His head swiftly lowered, rising again so that his eyes leveled her with disgust and dark hatred. If he were wise, he’d accept his fate. But by the steady glare he sent her, she doubted he’d go to his death easily.

“Surrey and Celena. My two betrayers,” she said, walking around them like a viper ready to strike, each time their bodies stiffening further. Their imminent destruction didn’t stop the man from clasping his wife’s fingers as their hands flattened upon the floor, entwining them together as though their love would save them.

With vicious callousness, Nyssa used the heel of her boot to stomp upon and to crush their fingers, grinding her boot, hearing, and enjoying the pop of bone, the conjoined gasps of disbelief and pain. Celena’s shrieks echoed through the chamber. Her warrior said nothing.

She’d been right about him.

“Surrey,” Celena whimpered, reaching out for her husband as tears rolled down her cheeks. “We have to—“ She paused, her voice lowering further. “Our baby…”

The fingers on her left hand oozed crimson, crookedly distorted, showing a peek of ivory knuckle. That was beautiful; her words were not.

So, the bitch was pregnant. That would soon be rectified.

Surrey slid a worried look to Nyssa, then defiantly took his wife in arm. A frown crossed over Nyssa’s face. As their foreheads bowed to the other, anger grew. It became monstrous.

“Take her,” she instructed a guard. “Slice her belly open. Feed her entrails to the vultures as you mount her head to my castle wall. No one takes what’s mine, never. Let this be a lesson. As for my heartsick warrior?” She paused, the room waiting for her verdict. Succinctly, she answered the unspoken question. Would she give immunity? Her smile curled, devilishly coy. She sliced the air with her decision.

“Burn him.”

A scream of retribution flew from the man’s lips. They pulled Celena away, but even chained and guarded, he attempted to save her. Despite the weaponry turned against him, Surrey yanked two guards to the ground. Not that he’d be able to escape, for more soldiers lined the outer corridors. The Regent made sure of that. Fiery eyes met Nyssa’s, eyes of wrath and war as her blind whore was dragged out of the room.

“Know this, you cold bitch,” he said, fume and fire passing from his lips, finally restrained in a manner better befitting one ready to meet the grave. His arms held behind him, his face bleeding and taut as he warned her of an impossible fate, vicious hatred in his voice. “You may kill the two of us, but you haven’t stopped us all. Beware, your Majesty. An uprising is ready, and then you’ll be the one strung from a pike, celebrated by all as you rot in Hell.”

Nyssa watched him dragged out, her pleasure revealed by the uptick of a smile. An uprising? She hoped so. It was about time those insipid commoners took their shovels and mining picks, fighting a battle she’d longed to have for years. She was weary, and so, so bored. Nothing exciting happened to her, nothing to break the monotony… nothing except the rare displays of madness and rage on days such as these.

She’d gladly take more of them.

Sashaying back to her throne, Nyssa sat, waiting for the next demonstration. None came, and before long a familiar ennui slammed her.

“Send for my son.” A delicate yawn escaped. “It’s time the king learns a thing or two about commanding a nation.”

Santh, the king’s personal valet, piped up from his corner in the shadows of the room. The child was eleven, so his confidence was unfounded. The boy’s bright blue eyes examined her, not a hint of fear in them.

“I don’t think he can attend,” he told her. “His Majesty is busy.”

“Get him anyway.” For the boldness of his declaration, when men older than he didn’t have the balls, she’d spare him the public humiliation of a caning for daring her. “Drag him from whatever bed he’s in and bring him here.”

“Sure,” he said, wily coyness in his reply. “Though I don’t think he’ll be appropriately dressed.”

“I gave you instructions, you beastly little imp.” She resisted the urge to claw him forward with the intention of a beating. “That’s your duty, so do it.” His grin irked and annoyed, his attitude plowing over her authority and smiting it with aplomb. Her sharply snapping tone didn’t bother him. Nothing did, that obnoxious little brat. Nyssa raised her voice. “Bring him, you imbecile. Now.”

Santh scurried out the door, though she suspected his speed had more to do with his personality than her implication of threat. By the gods, children revolted her, more even than the filthy miners, and decidedly more than her own son.

As her fingers tapped, Nyssa gave orders to each sniveling, sycophant courtier that begged her favor, reciting law and sentence for any commoner that dared enter her sanctuary and letting the haze of her boredom consume her. Queenship was tedious, but the throne was hers. The offspring of her womb had no right to take it away from her.

When the announcement of the King bellowed through the room, Nyssa straightened in her seat, poised once more. It would never do for him to see any weakness. Not that it mattered. No one took her son seriously, least of all her.

His face looked sulky as he entered, disheveled, with trousers half fastened. He gave one look to the women flocking against the wall in the corner, then faced the throne. The coward. He never used his royal power and privilege to oust her. If he were smart, he’d do it before his birthday. Of course, she meant to take him down by then.

“Good to see that my son acknowledges duty.” Nyssa leveled a steely gaze at her son but directed her wry venom at the boy that hovered by the king’s side. “Leave. You’ve annoyed me enough. I don’t want to see your face in my chambers anymore today.”

Santh bobbed to his knees, a secretive grin pasted on his childishly smooth umber-brown skin. She saw through him, past the youth and into his loyal, shrouded heart. He didn’t serve her, and she knew it.

She pressed her lips together to fight for having him banned from her rooms, the fiendish little wretch. If he were hers, he’d eat nothing but stale bread and drink brackish water for a week. But the boy wasn’t hers. She had no authority over him except for what she’d already demanded from him.

“Go.” She pointed to the exit, her patience ending.

Santh ran from the room, a whoop and holler following him in the air. Odious child. Even her burliest soldiers liked and tolerated him. She’d never allow herself a similar sort of sentiment. Having any consideration for one of them, the courtiers, or the common people, wasn’t meant for her, a queen chosen by the gods.

The castle and the lands of Velle surrounding it were her home. She commanded it, governing it with a closed iron fist, at least until her son reached his majority at twenty-five. Then, by Yrurrian law, he took over leadership. She refused to have that happen.

Nyssa faced her son and steeled her gaze. Time to set him straight over the true ruler of the land. Yrurra, the home of the gods. The home of the Dark Queen. She never intended to hand her power over. Tiran must die. Anyone who opposed her hung from the castle walls, burned, and dismembered. This was her domain, hers. No one would take that away from her.