by Alex Shobe
Mama pulled me close, my face nuzzled against her neck. Her long hair tickled my cheek, and I wanted to smile, but I was determined to be upset.
“I know it seems like a lot now, my sweet girl, but hopefully you won’t have to worry about any of this until you’re much older. And, you know what? You have something that no other King has had, even Papa.” She pulled away so that her pale eyes rested on me again. “Do you know what that is?”
I cocked my head to the side, a corner of my mouth lifting as the curiosity overwhelmed me. I shook my head.
“Well,” Mama said as she took my hands into her own. “What makes you different from all the other rulers is that you’ll be a woman. Do you know what that means?”
I shook my head again.
“Men, like Papa, and women sometimes think in different ways. For any problem that you come across in life, there is always going to be more than one way to handle it. Men tend to choose the more predictable path, less risk. But women,”—she winked—“we like to take the path less traveled. It’s usually the more reasonable alternative. Does any of this make sense?”
I wanted to tell her no, but the pride on her face as she spoke made me keep my confusion to myself. I nodded.
“Very good.” She pressed her lips to my forehead, pausing a moment before returning to her feet. She draped one hand on my shoulder while the other rested on her belly as she told me the rest of the country’s history. She was so much better at this, why couldn’t she just take my turn?
“Your majesty?”
My head snaps behind me at the study’s door. Gracen, her body half in the doorway, stands waiting for my answer.
“Yes, Gracen, come in. And please shut the door.”
Gracen keeps her eyes down as her hands push the maple into place. She approaches slowly, her eyes focused on the floor in front of her. I know this look. She wore the same one when Father scolded her for letting me miss a session with a tutor.
“It’s all right. You haven’t done anything wrong.”
I can understand why she might think so, though. It’s not often I send for her outside of her usual timed routines. I walk back toward the carved desk in the center of the room. The wide desktop is still messy with parchment papers.
“Have you ever seen this?” I hold up one of the letters.
Gracen approaches cautiously, her already narrow eyes slimming even more. She extends her hand as if to take the paper but pauses when she realizes her misstep.
I nod. “Here, you can see it.”
She takes the paper and brings it closer to her face. As her age progresses, so has her difficulty with vision. I watch as her eyes scan one of the letters, top to bottom, until she gives it back to me.
“I remember this. It was written by your father.”
I release the parchment from my fingers, and it drifts fluidly back onto the desk. “It’s a trade proposal. What do you know about it?”
“I don’t know much, only what your mother confided in me.” Her voice drops in tone at the comment of Mother. Gracen served as her handmaiden for many years. It’s no surprise that Mother would have sought friendship in her in a world of prestige and loneliness. Gracen continues. “Your father had been looking into venturing to other countries for trade agreements but was talked out of it by the Council.”
My eyebrow arches. “Do you know why it got shot down?”
Gracen’s eyes look skyward and she fidgets with a loose strand on her apron. She takes a moment as she tries to recall her memories.
“I’m not sure, Your Majesty. But that proposal is dated two days before your parents died in that accident.”
I pick the paper up again and look closely at the top. She’s right. I hadn’t noticed it before, but Father did write this right before he died. I lay a hand on the parchment, drumming my fingers against it. His notes have a broad range of potential. There’s no reason why the Council shouldn’t have explored the avenues even after Father’s death. “Thank you, Gracen. Would you please let the Council know to meet in the dining hall tomorrow morning?”
Gracen drops into a curtsy then hurries to the door. Before exiting, she looks back, opens her mouth, then closes it.
“Yes?”
“Forgive me, Your Majesty. But for what it’s worth, I hope you know that your mother would be very proud of the woman you’ve grown to be.”
My face relaxes into a genuine smile. “It’s worth a lot.”
Leona
At the head of the dining table, I watch as the Council devours the spread of food. Strawberries overflow in a ceramic bowl, the sweet scent mixing with the aroma of a honey butter glaze on fresh loaves of bread. Platter upon platter of smoked meats and poached eggs line the lengthy table, but most of the dishes have already lost half their contents.
I have a modest amount of food on my plate, yet it all remains untouched. Instead, I silently sip the wine from my chalice. When they’ve finish with their second helpings of food and begin on their third, I clear my throat. Forks hover in front of their mouths as they snap their head toward me.
“Gentlemen, I’ve been conducting some research and it appears our neighbors in the south and west have been doing especially well in their economic standings.”
The men’s eyes shoot daggers down the table, but I continue.
“Lord Mikael, are you aware of these facts as well?”
He draws his napkin from his lap and wipes away the honey in his graying beard. He balls the napkin up and tosses it onto the table. “Yes, Your Majesty. They—”
“Are you also aware that they’ve revolved the same, if not more, gold as Erenen has with its gladiator fights?” I take another sip, my cup nearly empty.
“Yes...Your Majesty,” he grumbles.
“Good. I’m glad you know these things.” I smirk, the contents of the wine warming my cheeks. “Erenen has plenty of stock to offer to the other countries. They, in turn, have plenty to offer us. Asharia has a surplus of ivory I’m sure they’d be willing to give to us in exchange for our iron ores. The trade could be both lucrative and a smart approach for our welfare.” Their eyes glaze over me as though I’m am speaking Asharian. I swirl the last bit of wine around in my cup and then finish it, setting the empty chalice back down with a muted thud. “Killing for sport will no longer be our source of income. Lord Pahlo, establish contact with our neighbors about including us in their trade agr—”
Lord Davrit pushes himself from the table, his chair legs screeching against the marble flooring. As he stands, his round belly bumps into the table, a button on his coat catching on the tablecloth.
“Your Majesty,” he says with a sharp tone, “It would be rather risky to do business with other territories when the gladiator fights are a guaranteed win in appeasing the nobles and revolving the kingdom’s finances.”
I rise to my feet as well. “Oh? I didn’t realize a War Master’s duties now included that of a Pay Master’s.”
Lord Davrit rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest as he returns to his seat. Aerok looks so much like him, the same angular jaw, same cocoa eyes. The warmth in Lord Davrit’s irises don’t match the coldness in his demeanor, and it’s no wonder why Aerok acts very similar to his father.
I turn my gaze to Lord Mikael. “What are your thoughts on this matter?”
Lord Mikael glances at Lord Davrit, who is both a physical and psychological obstacle between me and the Pay Master. Though I can’t see Lord Davrit’s face, I can tell by Lord Mikael’s that whatever silent facial expression Davrit is doing, it must be somewhat threatening.
After another moment, Lord Mikael looks at me. “I agree with Lord Davrit.” Sweat beads along his temples. “And besides, your father understood the dangers of conducting such business.”
Heat rises in my chest, but my face remains calm. “My father was against seeking trade agreements?”
The men pause before solemnly nodding.
“I see.”
I turn around
to Gracen as she holds a copy of the letter nearby. I’d hoped I wouldn’t need it, but it turns out, the Councilmen are as dirty as their soles. I nod once and she brings me the parchment.
The six men display the same disgruntled face—furrowed eyebrows, clenched jaw—an apparent look as though they’d gotten a whiff of something foul.
I smile, then turn my eyes to the page.
“To the queen of Gasmana, Her Majesty Gloriette Marsel, I write to inform you of my hope that you’d consider extending a trade port with Erenen.” The men stare at me with contempt as I read the letter aloud. “I understand that I declined your invitation years ago. It was a very generous offer from you, and unfortunately, at that time, I did not appreciate it as well as I should have.” I lower the letter and set my eyes on the men. “Shall I continue?”
Lord Rodrick grunts then pulls his thin-rimmed glasses from his nose and wipes the lens with a cloth from his jacket pocket. Lord Hensley lifts his fork to his mouth as though I hadn’t spoken. It is Lord Leoline who breaks the silence.
“I, whole-heartedly, cannot support your decision,” Lord Leoline says, rubbing the back of his neck. “As Magistrate, I’m sure you can agree that I’d know better about what’s best for Erenen. I served under your father for many years before his untimely death.”
I lay the letter on the table and circle the table to where Lord Leoline sits. The stout, pale man struggles to turn around as I stand behind him.
“That letter was dated two days before his untimely death. And as resolved as you all are to dismiss this opportunity, the same opportunity my father was interested in pursuing, leads me to think that maybe his accident wasn’t an accident at all.”
Lord Hensley drops his fork with a clang against the plate. “Careful,” he says, acid in his voice, “for what you speak of is treason.” From the other side of the table, his cold eyes hold mine. He leans back in his chair and rests interlocked fingers over his stomach. “We all cared deeply for your father and was disheartened at his passing.” His lip twitches slightly at the corners.
Of all the emotions worn on their faces that day, grief was not one of them. They attended the funeral, as was expected of them, but it seemed as though they were eager for my parents’ bodies to be consumed by flames on the royal pyre. I brace myself on the back of an empty chair and release a slow breath.
“Be that as it may, I intend to follow through with my father’s wishes. My decision still stands.” My gaze slides to each man. “Unless you’re choosing to defy me, which I’m to understand that you are not traitorous men, correct?”
The morning sun continues to pour in through the high windows and prevents shadows from forming. Still, the Council’s eyes are dark, made darker by my reluctance to bend to their will. In these past months, I have allowed them to mold me into a figurehead. I was never supposed to have a voice of my own—only the voice that was beneficial to their cause and their desires. I step back around the table and slip back into my seat, picking up the letter and handing it back to Gracen.
“Lord Pahlo, as I said before, you will need to draft a new proposal for a trade agreement to Gasmana and Obron to start with. Let them know that we have salmon, silks, and iron ores available for trade.”
His lips move as though he wants to protest, but he thinks better of it.
“And I’d like to approve of the correspondence before it’s sent, of course.” I keep my chest high and back straight, refusing to show any wavering.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Lord Pahlo says, a small growl trailing after his words.
“Good. Now, there’s just one more matter that needs attention. Effective immediately, the gladiator fights will end, and the fighters are to be released.”
Lord Davrit, who’d been biting his tongue for the better part of the past few minutes, can’t contain his vexation.
“Have you lost your mind!” He shuffles in his chair, unsure if he wants to stand or remain seated. “Have you any idea what this will do to our kingdom? Our nobles?”
I expected such a reaction from my announcement. I cross my arms over the table.
“Certainly. And as I stated before, we will seek other alternatives for accruing income for my kingdom. As for the nobles, they will need to find something else to do for entertainment.”
Lord Mikael shakes his head. “These fights have been a long-standing tradition, more so, retribution than anything else. Lawbreakers needs to be held accountable for their actions. Do you really think it wise to disband it?”
“We will place our faith into developing the justice system.” I shoot a stern glance at Lord Leoline. “And as Magistrate, I’m sure you could figure out alternatives within your scope of intelligence.” I keep my voice steady as I mimic the words he’d used with me.
“We’ve never had a monarch who so carelessly threatens the kingdom’s welfare,” one of them says.
I shift my eyes from Lord Leoline to find that it is Lord Rodrick who spoke. He’s breathing hard, the underlying ire in his veins turning his face maroon.
The six men continue to bicker, each trying to out-yell the next in hopes of proclaiming their opinions on the matters. I let the boisterous bunch go on for another few minutes before standing from the table. Still, the arguing continues. I lift my empty wine cup and slam it against the tabletop, a metallic echo filling the dining hall. In the corner of my eye, Gracen flinches.
Now, they shut up.
“We need to evolve with the times, gentlemen. And, yes, you’re right. There’s never been a monarch like me. Never has there been a monarch who is thinking about our long-term prosperity in the face of the rest of the world. One who’s willing to look past your blatant disrespect for my rule. And one who’s—as I’m sure you’re all aware—a woman. With that being said, I expect my wishes to be met.”
I stride toward the door with my head held high, their eyes following behind me in disbelief.
Colton
Water trickles down a crevice of the stone wall, leaving an amber stain in its wake. Sometimes, I daydream about a violent downpour flooding this underground dungeon, drowning us all and putting us out of our misery. But then, I suppose drowning wouldn’t be a quick and painful death. We’d probably fare better by finding ourselves at the sharp end of a broadsword.
Negative thoughts prance around my mind as I gaze mindlessly up at the ceiling. With my hand cradling the back of my head, I focus of the steady stream leaking from a crack in the corner of the cell. The rough stones under my back provide little in the way of comfort, but after a while, I’ve gotten used to their uneasiness.
The scent of rain travels in wafts, the petrichor—a word Aiden called it—riding the breeze like a boat skims the ocean. It’s the subtle things in nature that calm me. I used to spend hours outside, long after the sunlight had faded, with my back pressed against the rough bark of a tree. The flame from the lantern at my side danced to the tune of the crickets. Unlikely people, I never had to worry that nature would intentionally do something to harm me. Nature is unbiased—a trait I wish people took the time to learn.
My ears catch the shuffling of feet down the hall. I lift my torso, propping myself up on my elbows. Guards. A lot of them—more than usual. Why are they here? It’s hours too early for our daily meal, a corn-based gruel served at the midpoint of the day.
I pull myself completely upright, my back finding the dampness of the wall. My face is stiff as I watch the guards enter further into the dungeon. A couple of guards pause at each of the ten cell gates. A guard pulls out his set of keys and thumbs through it to find the correct one. My heart lurches. We don’t come out of the cells except to fight...and our next fight isn’t due for another six days.
I gulp, each clink of the keys grating away the solace the rain gave me. The guard opens each gate, then finally mine and pulls it wide open. He stands aside, looking at each of us with utter contempt.
I eye him, waiting for the order that should surely follow. He says nothing.
I clear my throat, pushing the uncertainty out of my voice. “What’s happening?”
The guard snorts and rolls his eyes as though I’d just asked him something foolish. After what seems like a long minute, he finally graces me with an answer. “You’re free to go.”
Did I just hear him right? I replay the four little words in my head, wondering if I somehow imagined it. Maybe he said time to go fight and I only thought that he said another thing.
“Wait, what?”
The guard shifts his weight between his feet and rolls his eyes again. “Did I stutter? I said, you can go. Queen’s orders.”
The dungeon buzzes with murmurs as the other inmates hear the guard’s repeated words.
I’m the first to stand, my movements slow and cautious, and the others join me. As I walk toward the gate, the guard’s eyes burn holes in mine, but I maintain his glare, regardless. If this is a trick, there’s no way I won’t keep my eyes on my enemy. My body tenses when I pass him, even though our heights are equally matched. Once I’m outside of the cell, I look toward the others, back at the guard, then take a step toward the dungeon’s exit. Before my foot completes the first step, the remaining inmates charge out of the cells, desperate to claim the freedom that had been stripped from them for so long.
The guards stand, two by two, posted along the corridor. None of them react as the men sprint past them. Maybe this isn’t a trick.
I pass the last cell on the left before the exit. In the shadows, my eye catches the glint of a metal boot buckle. There’s someone lying on the ground. I glance back at the guards, but they’ve gathered in a huddle and speak in hushed voices.
I look back toward the man. He’s lying on his side, facing the far wall with his back toward me. I wouldn’t be able to identify him if it weren’t for the patchwork of cloths that make up his shirt. His wife made it for him the winter after a poor harvest, and he’d worn it every day since, regardless of the next year’s profits.
