Ada waved her hand dismissively. “Yes, yes Princess Clara, they understand that.” Her eyes narrowed upon Clara.
Clara thought that may be the case but felt the words were most important to say. The Queen cared not, but loyalty was an uncertain thing, cultivated through decent treatment, not fear. A lesson her mother did not ascribe to. A lesson taught by her father, King Raymond, long-since passed.
Someone she never forgot.
CHAPTER 4
Clara leaned back in her gilded chair, Ada discounting her words of thanks to the People, as was usual. Ever since Clara's father had passed, Ada had taken to the cup. Clara suspected it had been thus even before his passing but he had shielded Clara from this weakness of the Queen. Clara felt that great yawning sadness blossom within her spirit whenever she thought of her dear father, his stewardship over her a memory which pressed uncomfortably against her mind. It was he who encouraged her to come to know the fields that supported their sphere, showing her each tool, cultivation technique and trade practice that kept the sphere solvent. Not like her sister sphere, the Kingdom of Kentucky.
The sphere of inequity, rather.
Clara glanced at Frederick and he smirked back. Loathsome man...if he could be called such.
Queen Ada stood. “Announce my daughter so the celebration may begin.”
The announcer of the week came forward. Because, Guardian knew, a new one was appointed at every turn because of the foulness of her mother's emotional river, a current which ran swift, changing its path without warning.
He bumbled forward, almost tripping on the deep crimson carpet which had been laid at the foot of the dais for this occasion. Ada scowled deeply, he cast a nervous glance in her direction then seemed to regain his composure. “On this Day of Birth Celebration, Princess Clara Williamson, daughter of Queen Ada, celebrates ten and seven years on this 6th day of June, in the year of the Guardian, two thousand and thirty.”
As with a Day of Birth Celebration, there was also one of death, which made Clara think of the day her father passed.
*
Clara sat by her father, his deep golden hair, once lush, now dying wheat against the pillow, his skin of similar pallor.
“Oh Father,” Clara said, pressing her father's cool hand to her cheek, “I cannot bear the thought of you leaving.”
King Raymond gazed at his daughter, his only child, seeing the woman she would become peeking out at the edges like lace under a skirt, delicate but strong. The challenges she faced would be much, and he hoped that his imparted knowledge would be sufficient to render success in her duties. His heart was heavy with the burden of it. Of the kingdom that would soon be hers. Not in name, but by necessity.
“Dear Clara, it grieves me to leave you, but the Healer cannot fix that which ails me.” Clara held the hand which was too cool, an unhealthy gray, her father's breathing labored.
They looked at each other, an understanding forming. “Your mother is not well,” he said suddenly and Clara's ears sharpened at this. She and the Queen had never been close but the possibility of another parent's demise was untenable.
Kind Raymond saw her expression. “No, my child, fear not, she will not...die, as I am destined to this day. However,” and his gaze held Clara's, “I leave you with her unfortunate proclivity. You must try to appease her. And marry well, Clara-girl.”
Clara felt sick, she did not desire marriage. Seeing her look, her father laughed...which turned into a terrible gasping fit of coughing, making Clara's heart ache. When finally he could speak, “Do not fret Clara, this is years hence. You are but ten and two years and the idea of matrimony is a distant thing. But heed what I say now: you must marry a man of character.”
“What of love?” Clara asked.
Her father's gaze grew thoughtful. “That is not always the way of it,” he said with a faraway look in his eyes.
It was in that moment that Clara knew that King Raymond may have not wished to marry Queen Ada, her mother.
Clara was jolted back from her reverie by the procession of people wishing to embrace the Princess on her birthday. She noticed that Prince Frederick had come to stand next to her. She was angry at his presence. To usurp her as he did! With them not even husband and wife, he galled her. What made it bearable was Charles was the first in the receiving line. But his eyes were all for Frederick, his expression clear, do not lay hands on her again. Frederic's lascivious grin reappeared. He knew that Charles did not have authority over him, and in this way he was very much like Ada.
Charles' gaze slid away from Frederic to lock eyes with her. His brown eyes met her turquoise ones and he pressed her hands to his. He leaned toward her, giving the most intimate hug acceptable within societal protocol.
Frederic's eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Not too close, Mr. Pierce. She is, after all... spoken for.”
Charles pulled back, looking at him, face inscrutable. “Princess Clara is not yet wedded to you and I do not need the reminder, Prince Frederic.”
Clara's heart surged with triumph. Charles' logic was irrefutable, but not so impolite that Frederic could take offense. Unfortunately, he would always have his eye on Charles, their friendship, everything. She clamped down on her expression so Frederic would not see her mirth. Charles did see it, allowing a small smile to appear.
“Happy birthday, dear Clara,” Charles said.
“Princess Clara,” Prince Frederic corrected.
“Indeed,” Charles said, inclining his head toward me.
“I thank you, Charles, for your kindness.”
He understood what baiting Frederic meant to her, as she was unable.
Charles wandered off to stand beside the banquet table. The large, multi-tiered cake stood at rigid attention in the center, flora and pearls scattered at every level, shimmering and dancing colorfully.
Clara was distracted by the obligatory percentage of the People she greeted, with a smile that reached her eyes, saying the correct words, all the while her mind stayed consumed with the savage, his intense eyes a window to his soul. What did he want with approaching the sphere? He had not seemed afraid but from the time of her youth, she had been taught that the savages Outside were a danger. She had not seen evidence of such with this man. He seemed curious, not dangerous. However, without the safety of the sphere between them, would she have felt so bold in her opinion? She could not help but smile, the truth of it was she was brave because of the barrier the sphere afforded.
Finally, the procession finished, Clara walked to the banquet table, Prince Frederic easily keeping pace. The feast was spread before her in lavish display, pressed glassware in a rainbow of colors presenting the mainstay of her people. Oysters of every variety, with the complements of red potatoes, fruit salads and every manner of drink. Clara found her appetite lacking as Queen Ada stepped up beside her. As Queen, she was always first, Clara's celebration or no.
Clara was not prone to violence but her mother coaxed it out of her with regularity, as now. Ada swayed, putting a hand on Clara to remain steady, her full glass of wine gripped in her other hand.
Her drunken gaze found Clara, and she hissed quietly, “Do your duty brat-of-my-loins.”
Clara stared at her with thinly veiled disgust. Ada embarrassed her terribly but it would make things worse if she reacted, experience whispered in the crevices of her mind. Charles had been close enough to hear the interchange and glared at Queen Ada, who calmly stared back; she cared not what Charles thought, his loyalty was to Clara.
Clara turned and elaborately gestured toward the drunken Queen. “Please, see that you take first plate at my Day of Birth Celebration, my Queen.” Clara curtsied, the corset not allowing full movement, but she was an expert at fooling the eye as if it did.
“You may rise, Princess Clara,” Ada said, staring at Clara as if she were a bug.
Elvira hovered near the Queen's elbow (a constant thing), and piled her plate with every variety of oyster, lathering the whole thing with white sauce, spec
ially prepared for her. Clara knew the wine was the only thing that held interest, the food wasted, but the Queen was entirely about the show. Did she even eat food? Clara doubted it, Ada was little more than a skeleton with skin. Clara gazed at the Queen, her hawk-like features framing eyes that were a deep brown, almost black, her hair being her best feature, Clara admitted reluctantly. A true black, it shone in the low light of the steam-chandeliers, a burnished inky thing that moved like black smoke while she struggled to control her staggering (Elvira gripping the plate she would not eat from). Ada towered over Clara, often telling Clara she was a runt and unattractive. Clara had never been one to admire her form in the looking glass like so many of the giggling girls her age. She did not take the time, the fields needed her attention, and Ada was enough of a mirror-lover for them both.
Olive stood at the ready as it was unseemly for royalty to dish themselves, but Clara would dish herself on her Day of Birth. She chose the almost foot-long oyster. These were her favorite, mild in flavor, with a pink undertone, the looks of it on the plate filled her with pride. They were most difficult to cultivate to that size, their girth covering the pressed glass plate in a satisfying way. Clara dipped a small amount of red sauce and covered the open meat with a fine dribble. Olive gathered a small salad plate and filled it with greens, adding a dressing that smelled like cheese, imported from the Kingdom of Indiana.
Clara sat at the Royal table, placed on a small dais, with King Otto, Prince Frederic and Queen Ada seated at a large, rectangular table with the Queen at the head. All other tables in the Gathering Room were round; not the Queen's, she demanded the head.
A carafe of wine sat at her elbow, King Otto simpering beside her, laughing at the foolish comments she made. Clara knew that he should have a care, as Ada was alarmingly lucid, especially when she was deep in her cup. This should not be, but it was so. She had seen other royals misunderstand and underestimate her, at their peril. This sphere, with its pearls, commonly used as a money; trading was heavy with the pearls. For all Queen Ada's drunkenness, there was motivation to stay within her good graces.
Clara played with the succulent meat of her oyster, finally cutting her first bite, placing it in her mouth, savoring the flavor while she held it on her tongue. Prince Frederic stared at her, his own oysters gone. They were an expensive thing and he had not taken the time to do them justice, a vision of gluttony, scooping and slurping them down in haste.
“Why do you eat them slowly?” Frederic asked.
“They are meant to be savored,” Clara stated, shrugging a bare shoulder.
His eyes traveled from her face then to her bosom, which made a delicate flush rise, like all true redheads, not an easy thing to mask. She hated how he looked at her. Somehow, this made her think of the savage, although she knew not why. His gaze had been penetrating but not intrusive.
When Prince Frederic looked at her she felt violated.
She glanced to the round table a few feet behind her and saw Charles watching Frederic and knew that he had seen the look, his expression dark. She dreaded what he might do; compromise himself to save her honor. She had Charles to thank for assuaging her royal loneliness. The son of King Raymond's dear friend, they had been friends since toddler-hood and she cherished his wisdom and friendship.
Prince Frederic laughed, “So easily flustered, Princess. You will be very... entertaining when we are joined.”
Clara looked down to hide her expression. She would have rather vomited on his shoes and feared that her face would show it. He was considered handsome, with his height and Nordic good looks. Broad through the shoulder, and trim at the waist, he was the epitome of what the Queen would name good breeding. But handsome is as handsome does and his heart was stained, stained with blackness. She lifted her chin and met Charles' stare.
Frederic gave them a considering look, putting each finger in his mouth to suck the oyster juices off.
CHAPTER 5
Bracus jogged through the familiar path, vines twisting up trees grown tall over time, the canopy offering filtered shade. Its lazy light speckling the bare flesh of Bracus' legs as they flowed, smooth and steady over gnarled tree roots.
He navigated the path without looking.
His lungs burning, Bracus felt his throat slits open fully to bring rich oxygen to his lungs. He climbed higher, heading for the caves where he would report to their president, Arthur Bowen. As Bracus neared the cave's entrance he whistled, high and piercing. To the uninitiated, it would sound like a bird's call of distress. To Bracus' comrades, it would alert them it was he, and not an enemy.
They moved as one in front of the cave's entrance, bows strung tight, arrows poised; the whistle had not softened their response; Bracus was pleased, putting on a burst of speed.
Their arrows were trained on Bracus until he revealed himself with his salute.
“Sir, what did you see?” Kingsley asked, lowering his bow.
The other sentry, part of the Band, was Matthew Charier. He would not relax his stance, his arrow pointed above and behind Bracus' shoulder from his higher vantage point. He literally had Bracus' back. He was a good man, too serious by far, but a warrior unlike any Bracus had ever seen. Not a tremor, Charier's shaft as steady as the trees which towered above them.
“Much. I saw much.”
Charier's eyes flicked to Bracus then back to their former position. He spoke tersely, but with feeling, “Did you reconnoiter our position from yesterday?”
“Let me debrief with President Bowen. Then when you set your bow upon the earth, we will meet at the fire and discuss the future here...our mutual future.”
Stephen Kingsley made a disgusted sound and stomped back over to position.
“No effort at stealth, Kingsley?” Charier asked without turning.
“You know that I tire of the endless reconnaissance, I wish to develop a way for our people,” Kingsley said, kicking a small rock into the woods below them.
Charier lowered his bow. “Do not let your temper overwhelm your intellect, stay vigilant.”
It was Bracus that turned to stare behind him, while his two finest guards argued amongst themselves, leaving the cave's most vulnerable point unattended. Bracus knew why he was in command, he would not be distracted. He was not easily distracted.
Or he had not been before the female.
Her face filled his vision, the soft creamy triangle, with eyes which glowed like the shimmering marbles he played with as a boy. They took up her face, a window to her soul. He wished to know that soul... linger in it like a scented bath on his skin.
Bracus shook himself, his iron-clad control reasserting itself.
“Quiet,” he hissed at the two warriors, almost nose to nose.
They looked at their leader, shame riding their faces.
“Charier, get that bow where it belongs.” Charier lifted his bow and nocked the arrow.
“That's better,” Bracus said, clapping him on the shoulder. He turned to Kingsley. “You are not one ruled by your temper, what say you?”
Charier gave a rare smile. “I too, tire of the incessant scouting ventures. We need to move now, before it is too late to save ourselves. You know that our females are fragile, and too few.”
Yes... Bracus knew. He never forgot it.
“Carry on men, we will discuss this more upon my return.” Both men saluted him and he inclined his head in a half bow, his body already turning to enter the cave. To debrief the president.
Bracus stepped forward, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the cave. This small, little known crevice in the woods had been a clandestine meeting area for every president with the Band since the time of the Evil Ones and the days when the earth breathed ash.
“Bracus,” President Bowen said, his face in shadows.
“It is I... with news.” Bracus came forward, dwarfing the president with his height. All the Band members were huge men, it was a large part of the defense. With their superior strength, physical acuity and th
roat slits, they were the perfect protectors. But without more people, there would be nothing to protect.
President Bowen, a man of few words arched heavy brows above deep eyes, waiting for his report.
“I have located the lead female. The one you say is a Princess.”
The sphere-dwellers had a strange hierarchy of leadership. Instead of presidents and advisers, they had kings, queens, princes and... princesses.
“You have been scouting this location for months, we must take her soon. Contact is critical.”
“She does not frighten easily,” Bracus said, thinking of her standing her ground as he rushed the sphere.
“Good, this is exactly what we need. A high-ranking female, one who can be reasoned with. She must hear what we say, deliver this message to her people, then there may be negotiation. Surely they wish to meld our two cultures, experience the Outside once more.”
Bracus would be driven mad to exist in a place that was nothing more than a gilded cage. But the female had always been there.
“I do not know that it is so. I have watched now these past four months. They labor in those fields for the shellfish.”
“Oysters?”
“Yes. These... oysters. They harvest them for food and the small gems which are found inside,” Bracus said, thinking of how different the female looked while surrounded entirely by men, her dress and composure utterly different. Bracus had watched her tending these strange watery fields from a boat of pink and green, its weather-beaten surface pushed forward by two men with long poles. Interesting work. The female was always intense, inspecting the strange shell creatures, returning some, collecting many. Her hair up off her neck, a slim column of white with the deepest color of burnished copper on top of her head like a dying flame, a lone flower.
She held his thoughts prisoner.
“Bracus?”
“Yes, President Bowen?”
Destiny's Dark Fantasy Boxed Set (Eight Book Bundle) Page 68
