The Plan Commences

by Kristen Ashley

  On that, he spun again and stalked to the door.

  “King Aramus,” I called.

  He twisted at the waist and barked, “What?”

  “I am truly very sorry for the loss of a man you cared for so deeply.”

  “This I believe,” he bit.

  “And I am further sorry for the loss of you, for I was falling in love with you, my king, and your brother died an honorable death, protecting his king and queen. I will carry him in my heart as well, for as long as I am breathing, grateful for the sacrifice he made for you and for me. But in the fury of your grief, you killed something not as precious, but it was coming to be precious to me. And I will mourn its loss, not as you clearly mourn, but I shall do it all the same.”

  As I spoke, he turned fully to me, his neck inclining, the rage seeping out of his expression.

  It was then I turned away from him and moved toward the bath and my dressing room.

  “Ha-Lah,” he called.

  I kept walking.

  “Ha-Lah,” he repeated.

  I did not miss a step.

  “My queen, come back to me,” he issued his command, albeit gently.

  At that, I stopped, turned only my head to him and looked him in the eye.

  Mine were brimming.

  At the sight, he flinched.

  “Never,” I whispered.

  And with that vow, I walked away from my king.

  The Priest

  Cell of a Go’En, Go’Doan Temple, Fire City

  FIRENZE

  Sitting cross-legged upon a pentagram surrounded by sacred symbols drawn on the floorboards in chalk, black candles lit all around him, the priest closed his eyes, felt the whoosh in his stomach, and in astral form, his spirit left his body and he soared the astral plane.

  Gleeful.

  Joyous.

  Victorious.

  The Beast was almost there.

  And he was angered that a ritual had taken place without his master in attendance.

  As it should be.

  All of it was just as it should be.

  Thus, the priest was smiling when he took astral form in the chambers of his lover, Rupert.

  His smile died instantly.

  For what he saw was Rupert abed.

  Inside a woman.

  He was grunting and sweating, his cock thrusting in her cunt, his tongue in her mouth.

  And when they broke the connection of their lips, his Rupert, his lover, his chosen one, his favorite, smiled with lust and bliss and love at the female.

  In his body in Firenze, the priest felt fire blaze in his stomach, as his eyes in his astral form narrowed.

  And as his lover bent his head back to the woman to take her mouth, the creatures the priest brought forth through magic slithered across the floor.

  At his command they waited.

  He’d give his lover one last thing.

  And after the priest endured the revulsion of watching her cry out her ecstasy, he endured the heartbreak of watching Rupert throw back his head and shout his climax, thrusting deeply inside her through it as he would do the same when he took his priest.

  That was when the asps struck.

  His thigh.

  Her ankle.

  There were gasps.

  Then Rupert pulled free and rolled, his eyes growing large as he stared at the snake slithering over his lover.

  He brushed it off as she bolted up and screamed.

  Many bites of the asps brought near-instant death.

  One bite, it took a bit longer.

  And Rupert was far from stupid.

  He did not take a blade to himself or his female to slice it across the punctures and try to draw out the poison.

  It was far too late for that.

  As she started to pitch in agony when the venom reached her veins, Rupert’s eyes searched his chamber.

  And he found his priest.

  “Why?” he asked.

  It was then, the priest grew perplexed.

  “Why?” he queried in return.

  Rupert had no answer for he was curling into himself as the pain struck his system.

  She was already writhing.

  “Why?” Rupert cried, his face beginning to contort.

  “You are mine,” the priest answered. “Or were.”

  “Yes,” he pushed out feebly. “I was.”

  The priest blinked.

  But he had seen…

  The female rolled off the bed.

  Dead.

  Well, that didn’t take long.

  “We would…” The priest looked back to his lover as he spoke again, Rupert’s eyes to the vision of him, no attention to the woman, “rule the world.”

  “I will now, without you,” the priest told him.

  Rupert shook his head, but seized, his much larger frame taking longer for the venom to vanquish it.

  “You…you…” Rupert forced out, awkwardly indicating a snake slithering over the bedsheets, “are weak. You do not…do not…understand loyalty.”

  “This is not loyalty,” the priest sneered.

  “There was naught but you,” Rupert whispered.

  The priest stared.

  “He will…he will consume you,” Rupert wheezed, spasming into himself. “And you will…you won’t…have that first ally. You will…be alone and he will…be master.”

  The priest’s corporeal form in Firenze felt a frisson of fear trace up the back of its neck.

  “Emerald oil asps?” Rupert rasped. “You fool,” he whispered.

  And these were his last words.

  His chosen one’s eyes open, the priest saw the light of life blink out.

  But Rupert was correct.

  Rupert’s chamber was in his manor in Airen.

  There were no emerald oil asps in Airen. They were only in Firenze.

  And they had a particular bite, a bite that left a unique mark. One that, if observed by someone knowledgeable in the subject, was easily recognized.

  If those bite marks were identified …

  And then there were those asps that had killed the Dellish prince’s intended that very night…

  And if these were connected…

  “Blast!” the priest cried, spiriting the asps back to their realm and speeding his way through the astral plane to his body, his eyes opening with a snap.

  He stared at the walls of his cell, his body unmoving.

  He could jump atop a horse and ride like blazes, but it’d still take at least two weeks to get to Rupert’s manor.

  His body and perhaps the nature of those bites would be discovered long before.

  The priest could send no bird. There had probably already been dozens of birds and messengers dispatched, sharing the news the Dellish prince’s betrothed had perished to the venom.

  If the connection was made, if inquiries into Rupert commenced, all before they’d brought the Beast to the surface, it could be disastrous.

  Not to mention, the others would be furious at this juncture in the raising of the Beast that he’d taken one of their own. They were close, but they couldn’t know how long it would take to complete the rising.

  They’d need to replace Rupert.

  Train the replacement.

  This would take weeks.

  More likely months for the priest was weeks away from even bloody getting to them.

  And the priest did not wish to even consider what Thom would say about all this.

  “What have I done?” he whispered.

  There was naught but you.

  “How could that be?” he moaned.

  No.

  No, he had been betrayed.

  You did not betray your master.

  This was naught but a setback.

  And the prophecy had fallen with the death of Farah.

  They had time.

  All the time they needed.

  He would leave that day.

  They would advance a new conspirator. It did not take long to train a man t
o rape and kill.

  At such, they were naturals.

  All would be well.

  A delay.

  They had no one to fight them now.

  When the Beast rose, all would be theirs.

  Or his.

  And the Beast would be his new chosen one.

  He did not need Rupert.

  It was as it should be.

  Or it would be.

  Soon.

  38

  The New Queen

  The People of Firenze

  Fire City

  THE DAY OF THE MAJESTIC NUPTIALS OF THEIR KING

  On their way to the pits, Silence of the Dellish sat before their king on his steed known as Hephaestus, a horse revered as one of the strongest, fastest, most graceful mounts in the realm, as his father was, as the mare he sired was.

  The mare, known as Epona, having been given to their future queen by their king.

  She was the one who trotted beside them as she did to the parade, riderless.

  Silence of Wodell was bloodied, shockingly so.

  But her chin was up, and her eyes remained straight, her shoulders squared, as their king held her tight to his body, protection in his grip, pride in his bearing.

  She entered the necropolis with no apparent trepidation.

  And all who saw her watched.

  Closely.

  Her skin was so pale naturally, it could not be known how she fared when she left the necropolis hours after.

  What was seen, as the people of Fire City crowded the stands around the tarpits to watch the death march of the latest traitors, was King Mars taking the royal podium with his bride.

  He then lifted her—arse to the stout railing that guarded the podium from the tar, her back to the pits.

  But he moved into her, sliding his arm around her waist to steady her on her perch, pressing his hip to the side of her leg, and she cuddled into him, twisted to face the tar.

  While all others stood—for there were no chairs anywhere around the pits, the stands, or even on the royal podium—their king found a way to make his bride comfortable.

  This, many thought odd.

  Some thought it sweet.

  Though others did not.

  However, they would eventually discover why he did as such.

  She showed no emotion as the four men walked (or more aptly limped, trudged or dragged themselves) into the pit.

  She continued to show no emotion as they sunk, so very slowly, and writhed, awkwardly, and eventually cried out as the tar burned and their desperate, useless struggles pulled them deeper.

  Until the blackness covered their faces, the last part of them to disappear, as they frenziedly tried to draw in air before their lungs would be filled with nothing but pitch.

  Though she was caught, on more than one occasion, yawning.

  And also, it appeared her brows drew together (as did her future husband’s, in a much more ominous way) when one of the condemned shouted, “Long live The Rising!” before taking his first step into the tar.

  The three final traitors were hung by one ankle from a hastily erected apparatus that looked like a yardarm, but on land.

  Their throats were then slit.

  There they drained of lifeblood and there they remained, even after that lifeblood was gone, and it was whispered they were to be left there to be fed from by the raven and crow, eagle and falcon, hawk, vulture and owl.

  And the Mar-el king had his vengeance away from the sea.

  As the King of Firenze had his vengeance as usual.

  At the pits.

  With his bride at his side appearing bored, but it would prove (as she fell asleep against her king in his arms on the ride home), she was simply tired.

  This explained a number of things.

  The people of Firenze found this understandable.

  She’d had a grueling night.

  It would be an exciting, busy day for the populace of Fire City and all its many visitors who had journeyed to the city for a glimpse of their king on the day of his majestic nuptials and the celebrations that would happen after. For they had little time to make their way from the pits to jockey for position along the parade route, up the foothills, into the crags and around the mesa in the Sheeonee Mountains that overlooked the city and the enormity of the glassy, smooth surface of Fire Lake.

  Many thought it a great shame their future queen’s neck was stippled with purple, for her gown was resplendent.

  Stark white.

  Well off the shoulder.

  The bodice that cut just above her breasts was decorated in an intricate pattern of gold beads. The sheer white sleeves that fell at the wrists in panels so long, when she was standing, if she didn’t have her arms raised, they trailed the ground, were trimmed also with these beads. And the high waistband under her breasts was also patterned in elaborate gold beading.

  The floating train at the back of the gown weighed heavily on the high slit at her left leg, completely exposing that extremity after King Mars spanned her tiny waist with his large hands when he took her from Hephaestus and put her on her gold-sandaled feet.

  This before he walked her up the mountain path set everywhere from dust to high branches of trees with bunches of bright red blooms and streaming crimson ribbons.

  This path also smoked with burning coils of incense that scented the air amber. This for their Muse god (who would spark creativity, clear-headedness and elevate them). Then there was the scent of rose and cedar, for their Grace god (who commanded love and assisted positive energy). And last, cinnamon, for their Spirit god (who established balance and offered enlightenment).

  While watching, from palace to altar, it would be determined by mothers and daughters in a manner that meant in the following days and months a rush on white silk and gold beading was had in the marketplaces. Thus, not dozens, but hundreds of brides wore much the same to their own nuptials.

  As many had already worn (or soon would) versions of the red dress Silence of Wodell had worn days before to the parade.

  At the end of their marital march, King Mars led his bride to the long panels of crimson and gold silk sheers that were twisted in the high canopies of cedar trees to form an altar above the bride and her groom. They stopped atop a bed of cedar needles that had fallen to the ground naturally and was now entirely covered in red rose petals.

  There, only large coils of cedar and rose incense burned in brass plates around them, significantly heightening the smell of cedar in the air, the rose of the pedals they trod on, scenting devotion to Grace and worshiping love, lust and good energy.

  As it should be at any wedding.

  Silence of Wodell stood at her king’s side in her white and gold gown, her hand held in his pressed to the side of his bared chest (bared, except the leather straps crossing it, of course). Their backs were to their guests and his people. Their gazes were to the trees through which the lake could be seen, the snowy tips of the Sheeonee reflected in its surface.

  Her shoulders were covered in the fall of black curls that went to her waist.

  The muscles of his broad, brown back were also covered in his thick, dark hair and crossed with his kingly swords that bore rubies and emeralds in their hilts.

  The black-robed priest to the Grace intoned in front of them until it was time for their now Relict Queen to approach them with the ebony box of marital chains.

  Their king chained his wife first, and it would be oo’ed and ah’ed over for the next days, weeks, indeed done so in a way it would continue for years, the memory of their tall, mighty king bent to their small, dainty queen, the grin playing about his lips as he threaded the gold and diamonds and onyx and rubies through her marital hoops.

  And it would be clucked and cooed over for the next days, weeks (and possibly years), the memory of their small, dainty queen hesitantly, but reverently—and those close caught sight of (and later shared wide) the tears trembling in her eyes—while their tall, mighty king stayed bent so his new wife co
uld chain her husband.

  But most, it was sighed and whimpered over when she’d latched the end of her chain to the hoop at his lip, gaining his honesty for their entire marriage, and to a gasp from his audience, he’d immediately caught her at the back of her head.

  There he’d fisted her shining curls in his long fingers and shoved her face in his wide chest as he bowed his back and roared his triumph to the cedars, the snow-capped mountaintops, the lake, the city, and the nation of Firenze.

  Their king was pleased with his new queen.

  As it should be.

  This he did before he pulled her head back by her hair, rounded her with his other arm, scraped her bodily up his frame, held her tight to him with her feet dangling above the ground, and took her mouth in a ravenous (and very long) kiss.

  This last had the rest of the assemblage roaring.

  And they did this in a way that it carried on and on, down the long mountain path, along the parade route into the city, all the way back to the palace, even if thousands of them had no idea why they were cheering.

  Proudly wearing her chain, with his Dellish-no-more bride at his side bearing his, King Mars then lifted her ever farther, to her surprised cry, to seat her on his shoulder, curling his long, powerful arm around her curvy white thighs.

  And as such, he carried her back down the mountain to their waiting steeds, the blades of his kilt swaying, the heels of his sandals steady on the rocky earth.

  The people of Firenze would talk much about the majestic nuptials, but little about their king deciding to wear more traditional gear to his wedding.

  They liked the new leathers he and his men had been displaying.

  They’d always liked the kilt.

  However, they suspected (what they did not know was rightly) that he wore his kilt to honor his father.

  And the people definitely approved of that.

  Once King Mars had his queen down the mountain path, only then did their king finally seat their new queen on her own mount.

  Surrounded by their Trusted, with her white skirts trailing down the flank of her horse, her shapely, pale legs bared to all eyes, skillfully settled in her saddle, dark hair streaming down her back, their new queen alongside their king galloped to the palace amongst loud cheers and shouts, floating red petals, coins tossed at the hooves of their horses and lit arrows scoring through the sky and popping cheerfully mid-air.