by Sunny
All those long, lonely nights spent apart from him were a worthwhile sacrifice, to see him like this now.
The Morells entered the dining hall, and all eyes turned to them. To the tall, bearded warrior and his healer wife that many had thought dead and departed. And to the two additions to their family—their sons, Dante and Quentin.
Here, where I had not expected it, was vulnerability.
The dining hall was a mass of patterned colors, each guard wearing the individual dress uniform of his Queen’s court. My table’s livery was gold and ivory, set against black trim. Sitting around me, my men were like an array of golden petals set around my black-gowned center.
Nolan, Hannah, and their sons wore simple clothing. There were no uniform colors declaring to whom they belonged. There had been no time, and no need perhaps, to have custom livery designed for them. They could have worn clothes that bore my Court’s colors, but they hadn’t. Probably a deliberate and cautious choice after I had requested separate quarters for them. They didn’t know if I had I brought them here and washed my hands of them already. I had left them awash in a sea of uncertainty, and as a result, they were vulnerable now in this period of transition. As they paused at the threshold, all eyes in the room watched to see at which Queen’s table they would sit. To see who, if anyone, protected them.
Nolan glanced in my direction, but with no acknowledging nod from me, no indication of what I wished, he began leading his family toward a table set in the opposite corner of the hall, farthest away from me.
A part of me wanted them to go there. To have Dante far, far away from me. Another part of me screamed that until they pledged themselves elsewhere, they were still under my care and protection.
The latter voice won.
“Join us.” My words were spoken softly. But they were easily heard by Nolan. With a grateful look in his eyes, he changed direction and headed toward us.
“You are mistaken, Nolan. It is my table where you belong, is it not?”
The voice was a low, smooth, feminine one belonging to a Queen I was not familiar with. A tall brunette with blond-streaked hair. Not the natural kind that came from sun and surf. With the Monère’s sun sensitivity, that would be very unlikely. No, these blond highlights had to have come from a bottle, from the human magic of a beauty salon. She sat in a corner table surrounded by six of her men dressed in forest green and yellow saffron. She wore the traditional long black gown of a Queen, but again, a human touch here—it was couture. One that had a label like Versace, or something of that ilk. She was a handsome woman with lovely blue eyes set in a strong, proud face. The only thing marring her features were her lips. They were too thin, making her mouth a tight, straight line, indicating a rigid, cruel nature or a parsimonious one. I’d be willing to bet it was both, that she was a greedy covetous thing, and not too nice on top of that.
From the look of ownership in her eyes as she gazed at Nolan and his family, and the sudden tension in Nolan’s and Hannah’s shoulders, I had a feeling that I was looking at their old Queen. The one who had not allowed them to marry. The one for whom they had faked their deaths in order to flee.
“No, milady,” Nolan said quietly, continuing to guide his sons and wife to me. “We are sworn to Mona Lisa’s service now.”
“No, Nolan?” she said with a dangerous gentleness. “That is not a word that Mona Sephina’s men ever say to her.”
Sheesh. A Queen who referred to herself in the third person. I guess you could add “huge ego” to rigid, cruel, and greedy.
Her voice changed. Became hard and whiplike. “You are mine! I have not released you from my service.”
It would have, of course, been impossible for things to go so smoothly for me. To think that just once I could come to High Court and not cause an uproar. I sighed and deliberately stepped over the line that would make this Queen my enemy.
“No,” I said, deliberately stressing the word that Mona Sephina’s men never said to her. Poor schmucks. “They fled you and became rogues. Which means you lost what once belonged to you. Too bad, so sad. But,” I shrugged, “that’s our law.” Mentally, I patted myself on the back for saying our law, and not your law. See? I was getting better. “I found them,” I continued, “and now they are mine. Willingly,” I added, unable to help adding that last twist of the knife.
My words stabbed her dead on. She rose to her feet with fury. Let me tell you, that gal had a lot of inches on her. She must have stood at least six two. Taller even than Rosemary, my Amazon cook, although maybe only half her girth. Still, she was a formidable thing, solidly built, almost half a foot taller than me, and outweighing me by at least fifty pounds. And the way she held herself bespoke of a confidence that had me thinking this Queen might really know how to handle herself in a fight. Gee, I really knew how to pick ’em.
“Thank you for reminding me of our laws,” Mona Sephina said, suddenly smiling like a cat that had just gulped down an unsuspecting canary. Nolan and Hannah froze, caught halfway between the two Queens squabbling over them.
Mona Sephina’s eyes slid from the parents to focus on the children. And the acquisitive light that shone in those blue eyes as she looked over Dante and Quentin like something that already belonged to her made my stomach clench with foreboding.
“You are right,” she said. “Once they went rogue, I lost all rights to my former master at arms…” Somehow, I wasn’t surprised at hearing Nolan’s previous rank. “…and to my healer. But not to the children they conceived while still under my rule.”
“That law applies to simple bondwomen sworn to your service,” Hannah said, speaking up in her children’s defense. “It does not apply to healers. We have more rights. Our children belong to us.”
“Unless you cast aside those rights and turn rogue,” Mona Sephina said. Vicious satisfaction layered her words. “Then all your special rights are naught. Your sons belong to me. You two boys, come here.”
“No,” I said. I was deriving more and more satisfaction in saying that word to her. I was pretty vague on most areas of Monère law. I just knew what the others told me and what I picked up, as in now. But it couldn’t be much different from human law, I reasoned. Open, as such, to any interpretation you could throw in and get away with.
“Not so fast,” I drawled in a fashion that would have made Clint Eastwood proud, lounging back in my seat as relaxed as Mona Sephina was rigid. “They are no longer rogues. They belong to me now, remember?” I watched with satisfaction as a muscle twitched beneath Mona Sephina’s eye. “As such, Hannah’s rights as a healer still hold. Her children are hers.”
“I dispute that,” Mona Sephina said. And something about the way she said it, throwing it down like a gauntlet, made it seem more significant than the mere words themselves. And, of course, it was—my intuition was good about things like that. Not in other matters, like loving and trusting someone who had freakin’ killed me in another life and slaughtered all my people. But in things like this, it was dead-on accurate.
An expectant hush fell over our dining hall audience, a collective breath held as if they were waiting for something more.
“I challenge your claim,” Mona Sephina said, and the tense, waiting stillness dissolved with an almost audible sigh.
“What does that mean?” My question was aimed at Amber, sitting beside me. He and all my men had gone deeply still.
“In matters where the law is not entirely clear, a dispute can be settled by issuing a personal challenge.”
“You mean, like where might is right, winner takes all? She wants to fight me?”
Amber nodded.
“There is no need.” It was Dante who spoke, as I had somehow known he would. Of all the men here, even more than my own men, he would not want me fighting another Queen—not when I might be carrying his child.
He addressed Mona Sephina courteously. “Withdraw the challenge, milady, and my brother and I am yours. You need not fight to win us.”
Mona Sephina s
tudied Dante and Quentin for a moment, savoring the pain in their parents’ eyes. Smiling triumphantly, she nodded. “Very well. I withdraw the challenge. Come to me now.”
Dante did as she bid. Quentin followed him.
As they walked to her, I told myself that they were doing nothing more than what they had come here to do—to find another Queen to serve. But the agony in Nolan’s and Hannah’s eyes, and the delight in Mona Sephina’s over their suffering, was just wrong.
Another Queen…any other Queen. Just not her.
“Wait,” I said, and Dante and Quentin halted, instinctively obeying me because in their hearts they still belonged to me. “I cannot agree to these terms.” Would not agree to them. I looked to Nolan, the only one of my men of whom I dared ask this because of his right as their father. “Can someone else accept the challenge on my behalf?”
“Yes,” Nolan answered. His eyes held understanding of what I was asking of him, and agreement to it. “If a Queen chooses a champion, he can fight in her stead. It would be my honor to serve as your champion, my Queen.”
“I choose you then, Nolan. Thank you.”
“Touching,” Mona Sephina said with a sneer. “But I have already withdrawn the challenge. The boys are mine,” she said and smiled slowly. “Of their own free will.”
“I dispute that,” I said. And calmly threw down the gauntlet. “I issue you a challenge in turn for them.”
She smiled coldly at me. “You do not know our laws well, do you? I am not obliged to accept your challenge. Only a fool would do so, and I am not a fool, despite what you may believe. Nolan was my best warrior. I have none who could defeat him.” She snapped her fingers at Dante and Quentin. “Come, as I command of you.”
They started forward again. And again I stopped them with one word. “Wait.”
There had to be something else, some other way. Power was only what you allowed someone to wield over you. I would not allow her to hold it over me or any of my people.
“We are at an impasse, Mona Sephina. I claim them, and so do you. I issue you challenge, and you cravenly decline it.” She stiffened at my words. “I would say that leaves both of us with an equal balance of nothing. Dante and Quentin have come here to seek service with another Queen at the fair. If we both yield our claim to them, I will uphold that original intent. At the service fair, I will bow out gracefully, and leave you with a clear shot at obtaining them then. Only then.”
“You try to grant me a right I have no need of,” Mona Sephina said coolly, “when they are mine already.”
“We are at a stalemate then.”
“No, we are not.” Mona Sephina turned to Dante. “I withdrew the challenge as you asked me to. Honor your word to me now, boy.”
Face stiff, he began moving toward her once more.
I stood, scraping back my chair. “Take one more step, Dante, and I will engage Mona Sephina in a fight over you right now, challenge or no challenge.”
Dante drew to a halt, his jaw set in a hard, grim line as he turned back to stare at me with a look in his eyes that clearly said: If I could get my hands on you right now, you would not forget it anytime soon. I thought you wanted me gone. Are you crazy?
Maybe I was. If so, it was entirely his fault for getting me pregnant. All those hormones.
My gaze swung back to Mona Sephina and I watched as her eyes narrowed into slits. She looked like a big cat that was considering pouncing and seizing her two young prizes, only a short reach away. Her men were tense and ready beside her. I felt my own men gathering themselves for the fight about to erupt.
“What if I serve as Mona Lisa’s champion?” Dante said into the sudden tense stalemate.
I saw Mona Sephina pause and consider it. He was young, only twenty years old, and the feel of his power was much less than that of her guards, all seasoned warriors. “I will accept those terms,” Mona Sephina said, nodding abruptly. “If she does.”
“Who will you choose as your champion?” I asked, not knowing why I did so. It would be the strongest of her men, of course, the one standing on her right. He was almost the same height as his Queen, but built like a massive bull. Power oozed from him like invisible heat.
“My champion will be Oswald.”
Sure enough, the warrior I had eyeballed stepped forward. I glanced from Dante to Oswald, and back again. Distinguished bloodline or not, reincarnated warrior who had lived countless lifetimes before notwithstanding, Dante still looked like a young pup next to the big warrior he would face.
“Mona Lisa,” Dante said softly, reading the resistance in my face. “It is my choice.”
His choice. His right to fight for his freedom and that of his brother’s. Although freedom was a poor word choice. More like the free will to choose which Queen they would bind themselves to in servitude. Yeah, that truth sounded so much better.
Was it worth it, this fight over something that may or may not matter much in the end?
I looked at Mona Sephina’s thin lips, her cruel eyes, and thought: Hell, yeah. It was worth it.
TWENTY-ONE
WE ENDED UP bickering some more before finally coming to terms we both agreed upon. Dante had proposed archery, shooting at targets. His opponent, Oswald, had snorted, and proceeded to tell us what he thought of such a bloodless sport.
He got to choose the terms of the fight, Oswald insisted, since I had issued the challenge.
We all had to take a moment to rehash the events—Mona Sephina’s issuing challenge, Dante’s counteroffer, her withdrawal of the challenge, then my issuing it. Yup. I guess that’s how things had pretty much ended—with my challenging her, Dante proposing himself as my champion, and my accepting him as such.
How his eyes had blazed when I had said those words—I accept Dante as my champion. How odd the twists and turns tricksty fate continued to bring into our lives.
Everyone poured out into the courtyard to witness the spectacle about to unfold.
Oswald had gotten his wish for a bloodier fight. His terms. Unarmed combat, four-legged form allowed.
I’d seen the look in Dante’s eyes as Oswald had announced the rules. Just a faint flicker in his eyes, no other betraying movement. But somehow I knew that the last part of it had bothered him. I didn’t know what Dante’s animal form was or if he even had one. Could he even shift? If he could, it still had to be a new ability only recently attained with puberty, which usually took place around seventeen years of age in Monère males.
I spent another five minutes haggling, to no avail. Oswald’s chosen terms stood. Shifting was allowed. The only concession I managed to wring from Mona Sephina was that the winner was the man who first pinned his opponent to the ground for ten seconds. I don’t know if that helped Dante or made it harder for him. He gave me no hint, no clue as to what would help him. In truth, he didn’t seem to really care what the terms were.
Both Mona Sephina and I agreed that the challenge was to be nonfatal. Death was not allowed. Would be punished, in fact, by awarding victory to the other side. No guarantee, but at least it would motivate Dante and Oswald not to kill each other. No male liked to lose.
Again, I didn’t know if that hindered Dante or helped him. Maybe it would have been easier for Dante to kill Oswald rather than pin him; he was a big guy. But in this matter I was operating solely on my own preference. And I found that I’d rather Dante lose and live. In my heart of hearts, I did not want him to die.
Oswald stripped down to just his pants. Unclothed, he was an even more imposing figure with a thick chest, massive shoulders, and heavy, dense muscles that knotted his hairy body with solid strength.
Dante, on the other hand, was more elegantly built, with sleeker muscles. Like a ballet dancer rather than a burly wrestler. Even the way he removed his clothes was in marked contrast to the way Oswald had done so. Instead of rough, forceful gestures, it was a graceful, deliberate disrobing, with calmness, precision. He passed his sword and dagger into his brother’s keeping. The wrist bracelets
and necklace were removed next and also handed to Quentin. Standing beside each other, you could see the features that made them brothers. The similarities—the high-bridged noses, the long, lean cut of their faces. And their differences—the warm tawny brown of Dante’s hair, his lightened blond streaks coming from the sun’s natural touch, not a bottle; and Quentin’s darker hair. One face smooth, almost girlishly pretty with big eyes and long lashes; the other face less refined, yet roughly beautiful somehow in its harsh imperfection.
It was in the eyes, though, where the true difference lay. Quentin’s eyes were still soft, still young. Dante’s eyes were those of an old soul, one that had lived long and hard. One to whom death, pain, and suffering were familiar knowledge.
When all items of clothing were removed by Dante, all but for his pants, he stepped forward into the cleared center, ringed by the curious throng that was composed of Queens, guards, maids, foot-men, and various other housestaff. All who had come out to watch the fight.
The two opponents approached each other, and it was like watching a young David step forward to meet a hulking Goliath. I knew Dante’s history, had seen him fight. With a sword he was almost unparalleled. But I did not know what he was capable of in unarmed combat, and the disparity between their sizes…it was frankly daunting. Dante’s muscles seemed as naught next to the bulk of Oswald’s more mature, brutish mass. They were of the same height, both just over six feet, but Oswald was almost twice Dante’s weight. Twice his width.
With a grin, Oswald charged, going after Dante like a two-ton tank. They collided with resonating impact. Surprisingly, it was Oswald who went tumbling in the air for a dozen feet before crashing to the ground. The big warrior lay there for a moment, stunned by the unexpected outcome. Then he picked himself up, and with a roar, launched himself at Dante again. With coiled, springing grace, Dante met him in the air. Oswald swung. With a lithe twist, Dante ducked his blow, and landed one of his own. The force was enough to alter Oswald’s course. One moment he was springing forward, the next second Dante snapped Oswald’s head back with a solid hit that not only halted his forward momentum, but sent him flying backward in reverse.
