Broken Princess

by Renard, Loki

  The young woman—girl, really—had perfect clear skin with a creamy complexion. It was pale from fear, but soon it would sear beneath the brand’s iron heat, be destroyed and then scarred.

  The nobles watching the ceremony leaned in closer, a great circle of masked faces surrounding the unfortunate girls who cowered together, clutching at one another, begging for mercy that nobody in the chamber of judgement ever received.

  Chapter Three

  Princess Aya sat alone in the tower, eating her luncheon. She kept her hand guarding her mouth, even though she was entirely alone. It was disgustingly unseemly for anyone to see anything entering any of her orifices. Eating was an unfortunate necessity, much like the other functions her body required to sustain itself.

  It was a day of justice. On such days, the king was satisfied with torturing peasants and did not feel the need to needle Aya as he so often would, and for that she was glad.

  She was princess, heiress to the throne, but everybody knew she would never sit upon the hallowed seat. It was her duty to look privately pretty, to be the feminine face of the royal seal, and to carry out the duties associated with the royal line.

  She undertook the first of the tasks with little trouble. Princess Aya was an incredible beauty. She had the softest caramel skin, the widest almond brown eyes, and long hair that cascaded with all the colors of a forest wood. Her features were expressive and elegant, the fullness of her lips leant themselves easily to smiles, which were unfortunately rare, and her eyes could hold either joy or sorrow, though they more often held sorrow.

  Even the princess of the realm was not immune to the terrors of the throne. Vengar was as cruel to her as he was to anyone else, but her station ensured that she had some respite from the more brutal aspects. Living under his cruel regime did not mean she didn’t take advantage where she could. Her chambers were full of the finest treasures, and she herself wore a gown of spun gold silk thread. She was, at that moment, eating the roe-eggs of the vanishing royal sturgeon that once used to throng the moats and rivers of the castle, but no longer.

  The rolling music player, a rare contraption, warbled a tune from the finest singers in the land, and she hummed along with it.

  I wish I were a princess...

  A princess doesn’t have to work...

  Oh, I wish I were a princess...

  “It is good to be a princess,” Aya confirmed to nobody in particular as she reached for a strawberry to dip into the ever-flowing chocolate fountain that had been installed in her eating chamber. Every day, the servants would clear away the old fruit and replace it with fresh, along with new sweet treats, sherbets and candies and whatever else she might desire.

  I wish I were a princess, she hummed, twirling her skirts this way and that. She liked to listen to her music more loudly on judgement days. Sometimes the screams from the chamber of justice were too much to bear, so she liked to shield herself from them.

  A princess doesn’t have to work...

  Aya bent forward and let the tip of her tongue touch the stream of chocolate, drank from the fountain, and threw her head back with a delighted laugh of glee.

  * * *

  In the hall of justice another girl Aya’s age cried out, her voice a clear, thin expression of pain. There was something pure in it, something that resonated with the cries emanating from so far away only Kazriel himself could hear them. None of those present in the chamber could sense the resonance, but they soon felt the effects as the earth beneath their feet began to shake.

  The brand had not touched her skin—and it would not, for the first time in Vengar’s rule, somebody in the chamber of justice was about to receive true mercy.

  It was a slow rumble at first, but the intensity quickly increased and soon the great stone columns supporting the ceiling were vibrating with unseen fury.

  “Earthshake!”

  The phenomenon was rare, but notably devastating. The city of Lokheim had been rebuilt in its entirety after the last earthshake over a hundred years ago. The tales of that day, the crushing rock, the buildings turning to rubble, the royal family buried in the tomb of rock that now made the foundations of the current castle, were passed on across all social strata.

  The nobles pushed back their masks and took deep panicked breaths, rushing for the doors to attempt to escape what seemed like great impending disaster, the prospect of being crushed beneath the walls and roof like so many mindless bugs. But the doors were sealed and would not open. It took twenty slaves to open each of the doors, and the slaves must have fled once the earth began to shake, and so there was no way to escape.

  Their screams took on a new pitch of panic as they battered their fists against the heavy doors, which were designed to be strong enough to resist the ramming power of an entire army. Suddenly, it was they who knew helplessness. Their shrieks were much more desperate and even more fearful than those of the girls who had been at their mercy.

  The chaos grew until the doors flew open, seemingly of their own accord, great stone and wood construction flapping like laundry in the breeze. It was as if they had lost their weight and strength in an instant, diminished by a far greater force.

  Before the nobles could rush to safety, the ground settled and became firm once more. No more rolling tremors made the pillars dance, and the roof sat above their heads showing little inclination to dash itself down upon them.

  In the midst of their relief a figure stepped through the breach of the open doors. The doors were twelve feet high and so they made for an aperture that typically made even the largest warriors seem diminutive, but this figure was not dwarfed by the doors. Instead it was he who made all around him seem small.

  He was far larger than any man, any warrior, indeed, any king. He must have stood at least ten feet high, his long dark hair lit with tinges of pure fire, his face a more handsome version of the masks that now seemed shallow, sick parodies of the great creature who stalked among them. His musculature was broad and strong, his body entirely naked. Unlike mortals, the guardian felt no shame. His cock swung heavy between muscled thighs, his skin perhaps tinged with a hint of gray, but otherwise very much like any other man, but for the sheer size and power of him.

  “Kazriel!”

  The whisper escaped one noble throat and was taken up by the rest. It could be none other than Kazriel himself, the guardian of the realm, a piece of mythology come to burning life. What they were seeing was utterly impossible, and yet there could be no denying that the ancient guardian himself stood before them. There could be no doubt of that, for each of them still wore a cheap facsimile of his face around their necks. Was it blasphemy to be caught with such trinkets? Or would removing them constitute a greater insult? The nobility were paralyzed with indecision, but it did not matter, for the creature’s gaze did not fall on them.

  Kazriel did not have eyes for the nobles. He did not even have eyes for the king. The guardian of Norvangir reached the cowering women and went down on one knee beside them. When he spoke, his voice was infinitely gentle and entirely kind.

  “Go, little sisters,” he intoned, his voice rich and resonant. “Go be free, and spread the word. Kazriel has returned.”

  They rose from their fearful place, shaking in fright, their expressions warped with relief. The nobles parted to allow them to leave, the very same wolves who had been poised to drink their blood now quiet as lambs as the girls passed by.

  Kazriel rose to his feet. His expression had changed. The carved face of the statue of Kazriel had always been known for compassion and wisdom, but in that moment there was something else written on those erstwhile stone features: rage and revenge.

  His eyes were dark and large, specked with green. In the beginning, the statue of Kazriel had worn eyes of jade, but those eyes had been taken by none other than King Vengar. Now they made up part of the ornate black crown that adorned his head.

  The nobles looked to the king for his response, but the veil had been dropped back around the throne, and
the king was obscured from their gazes. Usually the shrouded throne seemed ominous and frightening. One never knew what the king was thinking. Now, he seemed like a frightened boy hiding behind the covers of his bed.

  “Face me! Man who calls himself king!” The guardian’s voice boomed throughout the hall, natural dominance and growled rage.

  Vengar the Innocent did not emerge. In this unexpected moment of final judgement he hid like a coward, but no amount of heavy black fabric could save him now. Kazriel made a gesture with one hand and it was ripped away in a powerful gust of wind, leaving the king cringing and exposed on his throne.

  “So you are the terror who has infected my land for these past hundred years,” the guardian said. “You are smaller than I expected.”

  “Great Kazriel! You honor us with your presence!” the king stammered and shouted at the same time. “We were carrying out your will as the scribes...”

  “You have never carried out my will,” Kazriel declared. “You are not capable of understanding it. You are a cruel little beast, and you are not fit for that seat!”

  With that declaration, the throne shattered underneath the king, the great obsidian crumbling into black dust. The king slid down, his frame ridiculous as he flailed in the sand of what had been his symbol of ultimate power.

  Vengar the Innocent had been the most feared man on the planet for what felt like centuries. In seconds, he was revealed as weak flesh, pathetic humanity. When the veil slipped away, his face was revealed to be withered and cracked, marked with cruelty. He was... old.

  A gasp of horror went up around the room. Kings were not supposed to grow old. It was not considered possible, and yet there could be no denying the gray hair, the withered skin, the stooped stance.

  “Son killer, mother murderer, oppressor of the free,” the guardian intoned. “The punishment for these sins is...”

  “Death?” someone piped up in the back hopefully.

  Kazriel looked over his shoulder, and for a second, a smirk passed over his lips. “Not death,” he rumbled. “Death is easy, inevitable, and to be met with grace. No. The sentence is life among those you terrorized.”

  “They will kill me! I was doing your will, please... show mercy!” The king groveled on bony knees, a man instantly broken by the mere appearance of Kazriel.

  The guardian lifted his head, ignoring the wretch who now crawled desperately among the nobles, begging them for help, shunned at every request. There was no chance of any of them giving him the slightest bit of help. In the end the king shuffled out of the doors of his own chamber of judgement, still untouched. If anyone questioned the wisdom of Kazriel in letting him go, they did not voice it.

  The guardian stepped onto the dais where the throne had once been. “Royal blood is not a gift. It is a burden. Those who bear it are intended to be used for one purpose, to safeguard those they rule over. With so much corruption on the throne, I should have been woken long ago by one of the royal line. Where are the others?”

  One brave noble gathered the ability to speak. “Guardian, there is but one left. Princess Aya.”

  Kazriel nodded, his expression still wrought with that pure righteous rage. “Bring her to me.”

  Chapter Four

  “Yum yum yummy!” Aya sang to herself, popping a strawberry into her mouth. “Oh, so good, mmhmm yummm.” She reached for another fruit treat, but before she could touch it, a heavy banging at the door startled her away from the bowl.

  “Princess! Present yourself at once!”

  A shriek escaped Aya as the door opened without giving her even a moment to swallow, let alone properly cover herself, and a guard committed the near heresy of entering without waiting to see if she was personally composed.

  To be caught chewing was akin to being caught defecating as far as Aya had been taught. Only her personal servants were able to see her without her veil and full body coverings. She was not at all ready for this big, burly, bearded man wearing the seal of Vengar, a rampant unicorn with a lion’s head impaled upon its horn, to come bursting into her chambers. She’d always hated that seal, and never more than she did now, being invaded in her private chambers by a fool.

  “How dare you! Get out! I will have your head for this! Get out at once!”

  The guard did not get out. He did not apologize for the high crime of penetrating her personal space. He did not so much as flinch when she reached out and slapped him with all her limited strength.

  The sound of her palm meeting his brushy beard was muted, much like her struggles of horror as one guard was joined by another and they proceeded to inflict another indignity upon her: they touched her.

  Their fingers made contact with her uncovered skin and then closed around her arms.

  “How dare you! Let me go! You will be flayed for this! King Vengar will take you apart piece by piece!”

  Nobody was permitted to touch the princess. It was forbidden. Even brushing her gown was a sin punishable by death. And now these two men had put hands on her, their brutal, rough skin blemishing hers.

  “King ain’t the king no more.”

  “You mean the king isn’t the king anymore,” she said, reflexively correcting their grammar, before the true intent of the message sank into her shocked mind. “Wait, the king is not the king? Then who is the king? How is that possible?”

  The guards did not offer any further explanation as they dragged her from her quarters, still without the proper coverings. Her face was bare. Her hair flowed shamefully behind her. The fabric of her gown was not so sheer as to be see-through, but it was thin enough to mark her curves and cling to them, enabling anyone to make out the shape of her body.

  She cried out at the top of her lungs, uttering threats and shrieking begged promises all the way from her tower to the hall.

  “I will have your heads! I will see you branded and sent to the pits to break rocks for the rest of your days! I will... I will... oh.”

  The princess’ threats came to an abrupt halt as she was pulled through the doors of the hall of justice and the reason for the guard’s intrusion became suddenly abundantly clear.

  A great creature of a man stood upon the dais where the throne had once been. She recognized him, of course. His face decorated many of the walls, and it looked out at her from a tapestry that hung in her bedchamber. She had been about to drink out of a goblet with his face carved into it when the guards had so rudely interrupted her.

  Incarnate in flesh, Kazriel was much more handsome than the masks and tapestries suggested. They were molded by the hands of men but this was nothing less than a deity.

  His jaw and chin were strong and prominent, ideally masculine. His cheekbones were high and elegant, and yet still held the same strength as his chin. He had the appearance of being carved rather than made in the usual human way, as if some expert hand and perfect eye had made his features as aesthetically pleasing as possible. The dark shroud of his hair framed his face, made him look severe and serious. She did not know why, but she had the feeling she was in trouble.

  “Hello, Princess Aya.”

  The rough, gravelly voice emerging from the thing was quite compelling. It sounded like the voice of a god who had recently wrenched himself from a mountain abode to stride all the way to the palace.

  “I’m dreaming,” Aya declared. “That must be it. This is a dream and I need to wake up.”

  “This is a dream from which you will certainly not awake,” the creature said. He could not be Kazriel, for Kazriel was not real. Her instructors had made it clear that he was not even a god. He was an idea to be worshipped, a star in the night sky, a light that could never be reached. Whatever stood before her was therefore a trick of her sleeping mind, a forceful one, perhaps, but Aya was given to nightmares, some of them desperately vivid.

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Usually if she did that when she opened them again, she would find herself in her bed. This time when she opened them, all was as it had been. The creature was still
standing before her, and the throne... the great throne was nothing but dust on the floor.

  “You are not dreaming, Princess,” the creature rumbled.

  She looked around her and saw that none of the nobles were wearing their masks. They were exposing their faces like commoners, staring at her with markedly gormless expressions, as though they expected her to have some kind of reaction that she was failing to have.

  “I must be dreaming,” she asserted. “Where is the king?”

  “He is king no more.”

  “You killed him?”

  “I revealed him to be what he is.”

  “Oh. That must have been unpleasant.”

  The guardian lowered his head and glowered at her with his jade green gaze. “You are not taking this seriously, Aya of Kazriel.”

  “Because I’m asleep. Obviously.”

  The guardian let out a sigh. Evidently, among all the challenges that might have been anticipated in the return of an ancient power to new life, the notion that the princess might entirely reject her rightful guardian was not one of them.

  Aya was not the sort of young lady to take the world at face value. She had taken the leaf of the noctus plant far too often and seen too many strange things to immediately believe that an ancient guardian had come to life and deposed the man who had been king for a hundred years. It was far more likely that she was out of her mind on one of her special powders than that any of this had really come to pass.

  He crooked a finger toward her. “Come here, and you will see how awake you are.”