Stone Queen

by Michelle M. Pillow

  “Aren’t you going to tell me not to bother, as you always do?” Hugh asked, his tone dropping slightly.

  “Nay.” Merrick shook his head. He lifted his hand to the side, forming a cloth within his grasp. The soft, black material slid between his fingers as he stood. Going to his wife, he knelt before her. Gently, he wiped the green trails from her face left from Hugh’s magic, cleaning each groove of her complexion with care and tenderness. His hands strayed to her stomach. Sometimes, when he concentrated really hard, he swore he could feel his son kick. But he was confident that it was only his imagination that caused the sensation. The stone didn’t move, didn’t answer his nearness or the call of his power. Was this his fate? To come to the Black Garden to watch her for eternity, moving when he couldn’t see?

  This is what his life had become. Hell. Though a few human years were hardly anything compared to the full course of his immortal days, it had been a very long time to wait. Merrick could still hear her laugh, see her smile, taste her kiss.

  “Ah, my Juliana,” he whispered, momentarily forgetting he was being watched. “Why did you not leave me a way to free you?”

  “I know you love her,” Hugh said. Merrick tensed, realizing he’d said the words out loud so the other could hear him. “I didn’t believe it before, but when I became king, when I became a faery, I felt that love. I feel it now.”

  “And I feel how that knowledge pains you even more,” Merrick answered, not looking at the man.

  “Aye, it does, for I can’t sense how my sister truly feels about you.”

  “So you no longer think this is my fault?”

  “Nay, methinks you’re greatly to blame, but I don’t hate you as I once did.” Hugh cleared his throat. “Do not misunderstand. I don’t like you, but I don’t wish you dead with every thought. I know, in your way, you love my sister. However, I still believe my sister to be bewitched by you, Merrick. Methinks that is the reason she turned her back on her blessing and her family to stay with you.”

  “Cease,” Merrick ordered, pushing to his feet. “Speak no more of things you do not understand. At least do not speak of them to me for you will not find a willing ear.”

  “But—”

  “If you wish me to bring you to the garden again, you will stop speaking.” Merrick concentrated on controlling the shiver that racked over him. Hugh’s little speech was not meant to comfort, but Merrick didn’t think the faery king understood just how deep the blade of his words stabbed. Had Merrick not berated himself several times for taking Juliana from Bellemare, only to give her a fate sealed in stone? The Unblessed King dropped the cleaning rag and it disappeared before hitting the stone ground. He couldn’t banter with Hugh today, not now. Without making sure Hugh followed, he walked straight toward his castle, parting the stone as if running away from Juliana could stop the pain in his heart.

  Fire Palace of the Damned, Kingdom of Hades

  “Delicious pain, such anguish and torment. Can you not feel it? Running through my blood. Wonderful agony.” Anja danced around the barren cell hidden in the bowels of the Fire Palace, twirling and twisting her graceful arms until each perfect movement looked like curling smoke. She was a tiny thing, with deceivingly soulful blue eyes and blonde ringlet hair. A cherub, an angel, the perfect figure of innocence, all hiding the utter darkness and hate boiling beneath her pale, rose-tinted flesh.

  Her voice rang like a child at play, for that is exactly what she was—an evil, malicious child in her dungeon filled with horrific toys. To entertain her bloodlust, prisoners were kept under her complete control, strapped and bound, their bodies ready for a hot poker or dull sword blade—and that was on her merciful days. Perhaps seeing innocence but feeling agony at its hands was her most effective torture device, for it served as a reminder that here in hell not even the angels would save you.

  Mia awoke to Anja’s dance and the almost lullaby tone of her voice as she spoke. Metal strips held Mia by her ankles and wrists, locking her limbs to the unevenly grooved grate beneath her. Chains held it on the ceiling, allowing the device to be swung around. Little specks of ash floated in the air, the dead gray reflecting the blood red firelight. Mia watched them, seeing patterns form impossible faces. The childlike voice of her captor sang to the music of screams and howls. Pleas for mercy went unheeded, often drawing more venom than it relieved. This was a place of forgetting. Not even death would come for them here. Not in Anja’s care.

  Kept in a deep pit, there was no escape for the forgotten who lived within the cold walls, encased in the terrifying stench of demon blood and burnt flesh. Somewhere, hidden down a corridor where Mia couldn’t see, magical creatures of all races dwelled within their hellish fate. She came to know them by their cries, naming them in her head so she didn’t feel so alone. Almost worse than being awake was being asleep. Dreams, if they were good, became a mocking torment. And, if they were bad, it only continued the torture of the wakeful mind.

  Mia couldn’t remember how long she’d been chained in the dungeon, tormented by the child’s voice, held helpless with thoughts of what Anja said she wanted to do to her. But, for some reason, the child never touched her, never set the hot poker completely to the flesh though the heat from it often threatened. At first, she thought Anja’s game a new kind of hell, the torment of the unknown. When would the torture start? How bad would the pain be? How could she possibly endure it?

  But days became sennights, which in turn bled into fortnights, until time no longer had meaning and she remained untouched.

  “Delicious pain,” Anja whispered, her breath causing Mia to gasp as it fanned over her cheek. The soothsayer was close now. The child giggled and the sound of her feet skipped around the metal rack. “Can you feel it yet, Mia? Can you taste the fear? Do you crave it yet?”

  “Cease, soothsayer,” she whispered. “I want to hear no more of your ramblings. Kill me or leave me be.”

  Mia hoped the child killed her.

  “Oh!” Anja pouted. The rack moved as the soothsayer climbed onto the bottom, sitting between Mia’s pinned legs. “Do not speak your mean words to me, tied one. You know not what things I see in my powerful prison. As your fear comes, so do the visions. I see you, helpless babe. You pretend not to, but you know why you’re here, dark lady.”

  Mia gave a weak laugh. “Because Lucien is punishing me. It’s not a great secret.”

  Anja crawled forward, her small hands pressing into her prisoner’s stomach. Her blonde hair fell forward, framing her rounded features. Whispering, she pronounced each word carefully, “Not here in the dungeons, here in the palace. I know your true secret, my sweet. But don’t worry, dark lady, I won’t tell the Demon King.”

  The red fire surged and Anja turned her head quickly toward the corridor. The rack swung lightly, almost sickeningly as the child pushed up. Mia groaned, feeling her world spin.

  “A new doll for me to play with!” Anja gasped in pleasure, clapping her hands. “It has been so long since the king brought me a new doll. I shall torture him at once.”

  The pattering of feet led the child away, leaving Mia to rest unharmed. Weakly, she pulled at her wrists, but they were bound by more than metal. Magic held her more effectively than bars ever could. She concentrated on the jagged ceiling, as she willed the rack to stop rocking.

  “Mia?”

  The sound was familiar, a scraping from her past that pulled at the memories in her head. She didn’t move, having heard the echoes of her memory before.

  “I’ve found you!” came a hurried whisper. The rack moved again, swinging harder as footfall rushed over the stone. It was heavier than Anja’s, making deep thuds.

  “William?” Mia found the strength to lift her head as she saw a figure moving in the corner of her eye. “William the Wizard? Do I see glamours?”

  “We must hurry. The soothsayer and the king won’t be distracted long with their new prisoner,” he insisted. “And this cloak of magic I have will not keep long.”

  “
What are you doing here?” Mia craned her neck to watch him.

  “Don’t you know?” William’s face appeared over her, his brown hair longer than she remembered. It hung around his features. He wore the brown, plain robes of a wizard. Though such a thing by apprenticeship, he was still a mortal from the human line of Bellemare. The youngest sibling, he came from a family graced with beauty and charm. Truly blessed in many ways, they held an inner light that shone in their gaze. Mia was too tired to see that light now, as she looked into the familiar face. She supposed it was hard for anyone to hold much light in a place of such evil darkness. Or perhaps it was whatever spell the wizard used, the only way he could come undetected into the bowels of the Fire Palace. “You saved me once from this very prison. I am returning the favor. I care for you. I owe you.”

  “Still fearless, aren’t you, wizard? You should cast a spell to reverse that which makes you so. For we both know it’s by no natural means you find the strength to come in here.” She laughed softly, the sound humorless. “Your face is unchanged from that man I met at Bellemare before Lucien kidnapped you. It feels as if it should have. It feels as if I have been down here much longer, too long for you to be alive. And yet here you are, your unmarked face telling me that time has indeed been slow. Your gaze is as dark as sin, just like your brother Hugh. But you don’t sin, do you, William? You, who are good and pure. You didn’t deserve to be in this place any more than Hugh did.”

  A strange expression fell over the wizard’s features. “Close your eyes. You mustn’t look. The light might become too bright after so long in darkness.”

  What else did she have to do but obey? Closing her eyes, she waited for a jolt of power, a clank as he tried to pry the metal apart. “I should warn you. The metal is protected by magic. Only Anja and the king can open it.”

  “Already done,” William said. “Now, come, we must hurry.”

  She opened her eyes to discover her limbs were free. How had he done it? Before, when she’d removed his shackles—part of the reason she found herself where she was—she’d had to use King Lucien’s flesh and blood, scraped from his back during sex. “William, how did you get…?”

  “There isn’t time to explain,” he insisted, pulling her arm. “Well, there is time. Of course there is time, but no time to continue talking. Speech is—”

  “William,” she interrupted.

  “We will speak on it later, but first a daring escape!”

  “Shh,” she hushed, wishing he hadn’t triple cast the spell for bravery over himself. It didn’t make him invincible, only without a normal sense of fear. She was weak from her stay in the prison, but the very idea of getting out gave her strength to follow where he led. To her surprise, he passed the corridor’s entryway and turned to the red fire.

  “Give me your hand,” he ordered. “When the king leaves and the flames surge, we jump. It’s the only way out.”

  “Why do you risk this?” She didn’t reach for his hand, instead staring at his clean fingers.

  He gave her a weak smile and she caught a brief glimpse of love in that expression. Mia wanted to weep. She didn’t deserve love.

  Reaching into the front of his robe, he pulled out his wand. His hand shook, Mia’s legs tensed and then the fire burned bright, surging violently. Time slowed as William tugged her hand, leaping into the flames. She expected to feel the bite of heat but instead found bitter cold. The instant white-hot pain felt as bad as fire, but was over quickly.

  On the other side, they fell forward, only to hit hard upon uneven rocks. The first thing she noticed was the cool breeze, fresh and crisp over her skin. Warmth invaded her, not the choking heat of a fireplace, but the sweet caress of sunlight. Her eyes came to focus on the tall fiery pillar of Lucien’s palace. They were outside the Damned King’s gate. Flames engulfed the stone, a daunting sight to any who would try to enter. But Mia knew the way in, understood that she was a part of the fire because Lucien had half of her soul. She’d always be allowed in. It was walking out that was the problem. But now she was out.

  “Free.” Her voice cracked.

  “Aye, free,” William said. “Can you run? I have horses. Feia is close. I can take you to my brother Hugh and there we can—”

  “I’m not going with you, William.” Mia trembled as she pushed to her feet. Part of her was drawn to the palace.

  “But—”

  “You should not have risked yourself to free me. Consider whatever debt you feel you have, because I saved your life, to be paid in full. Now go. You should not have come here. Good and pure souls don’t belong here.”

  “Mia, is this because you fear Lucien? I’m not scared of him. Let him give chase. I have a plan. I know what I’m—”

  She backed away from him, shaking her head. “Sinners belong here, William. I belong here. I long to leave, but Lucien has my soul. With it he can find me anywhere. I am his until he lets me go.”

  “Nay!” He lunged for her, but Mia stumbled back, falling into the flamed wall.

  Unlike escaping from the prison, the flames didn’t hurt as they consumed, roaring in her ears. The hard stone floor cushioned her fall, stinging her flesh as she was once more inside the walls of the great palace. She lay in her dark corner, breathing hard as the walls seemed to loom in. “Fare thee well, freedom. I am home.”

  Not bothering to stand, she crawled toward a long row of twisted stairs, leading up a tower that would take her to Lucien’s bedchamber. There was nowhere else for her to be. Lucien would find her and perhaps send her back down to the dungeons once he did. Until then, she’d rest on his bed and hope that he showed her mercy.

  Chapter Three

  Out of all the things in the immortal realm that could kill a once mortal queen, Juliana never dreamt it would be boredom that did her in. She’d been through all the emotions in her two years waiting to be rescued—surprise, fear, dread, sadness, anger, even slight madness and now boredom. Never ending, soul sucking boredom. And, though she loved her son, being kicked from the inside for so long a time was beginning to wear on her. No woman should have to be pregnant for over two years.

  “Even so,” Juliana said aloud to hear herself speak, “I would not change it.” She patted her stomach.

  The ashen stone world was dead, leaving her as one of the only things living in the realm of rock. Not even the air seemed to stir unless she disturbed it. Everything here was oddly familiar, yet different than as it should be. When the old witch from the bowels of the Black Palace agreed to help her, she neglected to tell Juliana that instead of sleeping in stone, she’d be banished to a world where everyone else was rock and she was living flesh, cursed to live alone with only the subtly changing images of the man she loved to keep her company.

  The Black Palace stood, its color a pale gray and charcoal, as did the rest of the land—the forest, the mountains, even the goblins that filled her husband’s hall. She had little power here and could not move about at will. Instead, she wandered the castle day after day, looking to find where Merrick’s form hid. His statue haunted her, sometimes in the main hall lounging across his chair as she’d seen him do often. She would sit in her throne next to him, or sometimes on his lap, cuddling into his chest, tortured to touch his figure but not really feel him. Her heart ached and she missed him terribly. Stone was no replacement for flesh.

  Other times, he’d be in bed—thankfully always alone. Juliana tried to make him feel her. She touched him, laid next to him on the hard, cold slab of his bed, but she never knew if it worked. Arousal plagued her, unfilled passions that made her body ache to be touched, made worse when Merrick slept without clothes or coverlet.

  That is how she passed the first of her long days. However, as months passed and Merrick did not do what the witch was instructed to tell him to do, she stopped trying so hard. Was his war really that much more important than his wife? Had she underestimated his love for her? Had she overestimated the Blessed King wanting peace? Or was it that as an immortal, two human
years felt like nothing to him and he did not think of her one way or another?

  Soldiers came to the hall, sometimes filling it with their large, barbaric forms. The goblins were there—Tuki, Bevil, Iago and the rest—moving when she couldn’t see. They made a field of mischievous statues, picking their noses, scratching their backsides, lighting each other on fire. Juliana had tried reaching them all, but never did they show signs of getting her message. She was truly trapped.

  Then, the day came when her throne no longer stood next to Merrick’s. Her husband had willed it away and it was all she could do not to throw rocks at his head in hope of breaking it off. But something else happened that day. The dark, crawling shadows, the other things that lived in the stone world, came. They were sprits, ghosts, floating and skimming along the edge of her sight. Occasionally they’d whisper, cruel taunting sounds to make her go mad.

  “He forgets you, my lady.”

  “No longer a queen.”

  “He forgets your child.”

  “He doesn’t love you. He never loved you.”

  “Death is the only way out of here.”

  “Death.”

  There were dark times when she almost slipped. Finding death wouldn’t be hard, not with all the sharp edges of stone just waiting to be broken off and plunged into her aching heart. But to kill herself would be to kill her son. Such an act would not free her from the stone prison. Only one thing could break her spell.

  Then her son would move inside her, kicking her, reminding her that she did this out of the fear of him being born into an unblessed world of war and death, one where the chance that his father might be killed at any time was much higher, leaving them helpless. She didn’t want his first feelings to be the ones of people dying. Her son’s power would come from the same place her husband’s did. No child should be born into complete misery. Wintry death would not be her son’s only bedtime story. Mischief and madness would not be his nursery song.