June 4th, 466
Do you ever get the sensation that you are going to die soon? It’s a shiver crawling up your spine—a cold shiver, like the wind on a cold winter’s morning. I felt it on the day Donovan died in battle even though he promised he wouldn’t die. Just as the day he died, it feels as if something or someone will betray me.
Lucille put her pen down, closed her journal, locked it and put it away in the trunk. She turned back to the desk and sighed. Her writing desk smelled like oak and candle wax and was covered with papers she’d been trying to read. There was little light coming from the flickering candles. Her eyes trailed over them, watching the flames flicker and dance on their wicks. She smiled, but did not share in their imaginary mirth, her eyes remaining like orbs of polished sapphire glass. Leaning against the desk, she closed her eyes and imagined her king. But all she could conjure was the aftermath.
Donovan’s body hanging listlessly, impaled upon the lance. Clothes blowing in the soft breeze that reeked with the smell of blood and death. Hair dark against ghastly bluish-gray skin. Beautiful eyes open and screaming of pain, of sacrifice. Mouth forever contorted in an expression of horror. The curve of lips, the roughness of calloused hands—so cold in death…
Staring into the glass of wine she held in her shaking hands, a tear slipped down her cheek and fell into the glass, ripples disturbing the still, red surface. Lucille jumped. It had been a long time since she had cried, a long time since she showed any true emotion, hiding behind a courtier’s mask. Taking a large swallow and putting the glass down, she fixed her eyes on the paper in front of her, the words blurring in and out of focus. She looked up and sighed, putting down the paper. Lifting the glass again, she sipped and put it back down. A knock at the door caused her to look up from the smooth surface of the desk. “Yes?” she called.
“Your Majesty, I have the items you requested.” It was her maid. The queen sighed in relief and let her come in. Items were placed on the bed. “Will there be anything—”
“No,” Lucille replied quickly, “you may go.” With a curtsy, her maid scurried out, closing the door behind her.
Lucille stood and walked to the bed. On it a sheathed blade, and a mail shirt. Donovan’s. Picking up the blade and shirt, she placed them in their proper places: the sword above the mantle, and the mail shirt on a wire frame. They shone with a new brilliance in the candlelight and Lucille turned away, collapsing on the bed, breathing in the scent on the bed sheets. She hated how Donovan’s scent had disappeared from the furniture, his clothes and finally from the sheets and pillows. Never had she felt so alone…so empty. She slipped into bed, hot tears making tracks down her cheeks.
The queen awoke to the sound of footsteps. Surrounded by goose-down pillows and cotton sheets, she blinked in the darkness and instinctively reached for Donovan’s hand. But Donovan was gone forever. She tried to keep the tears back but they flowed silently down her face. A crackling made her turn to the huge fire burning in the hearth, a familiar figure bent over it, moving the wood. “Akoto?” Her voice seemed too loud for her own ears and she groggily sat up, brushed away the stray tears, as Akoto turned and came to sit beside her. She rested her forehead on his shoulder and sighed, feeling him shiver as her breath met the warm skin there. He smelled clean like soap. His plain silk shirt looked freshly laundered, and there was a trace of his apple-scented aftershave. “How are you?” his voice—deep and silky, was genuinely concerned.
She nearly laughed. “Not well, if that’s what you’re asking.”
He shifted away before she got too comfortable and reached over to the empty wine glass. “Just as I suspected.” He peered at the glass and nodded, stood, and walked over to the desk, picking up the black wine bottle, twinkling in the candlelight. Akoto’s dark breeches and brown calf-high boots complemented his tanned complexion, the candlelight almost giving him an unearthly golden glow as he studied the bottle. He turned the bottle in his hands to look at the label: Brocelment. A vintage. “Half gone.” He shook his head in disapproval, turning back. “Lucille, you—”
She startled him, stopping his sentence. “What are you doing here?”
Akoto’s dark eyebrows came together, “You have been up here for two days. If anyone is worried, it’s going to be me—”
“And Silver.” Lucille put in, naming Akoto’s wife.
“Yes, and Silver but—”
She cut him off again. “I haven’t been feeling well that’s all.” Lucille slid off the bed and snatched both the wineglass and bottle. “You, my dear sir,” she teased, pouring another glass, “worry too much.” She offered the glass, “Wine?”
Akoto sighed heavily, running a hand through his short, black hair. It curled slightly at the nape of his neck, the skin now turning a golden-brown from the candlelight. “Will you let me finish? You know perfectly well how I hate interruptions.”
“Carry on then.”
“Well, your mother did something like this, years ago…” Akoto said, crossing his strong arms over his chest, “She did it out of anger. Are you to repeat her actions?”
The queen sighed, taking a sip of the wine that was trembling in her glass. “I’ve heard it all before. What can I say? Like mother, like daughter.”
Akoto’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Why don’t you ever listen to me anymore?” There was anger evident in his voice.
“I do listen.”
Akoto groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “You’ve got to get a grip on yourself! It’s been a year already and you won’t let this grief go…someday this grief is going to kill you.”
She smiled. “No, it’s not, Akoto…I’m fine. Really, I am.”
“Lucille…next time you feel like drinking too much—first tell me.” He took the wine and wineglass—still full with the Brocelment and put them back on the desk.
“I’m a grown woman now, Akoto. I don’t need your guidance anymore.” She felt his hand rest on her shoulder, felt the bones in his fingers from the tenseness of his grip. There it stayed, warm and heavy. When he didn’t seem to move, she took a step forward, felt him take a step with her. Akoto sighed and murmured in her ear, “I know, but this—this is madness.”
“Leave me alone.” She shoved him away. A slight probing in her mind, soft and fierce made her own magic react, mental barriers blocking the entrance to her consciousness. She felt Akoto’s magic retreat and relaxed.
“I can’t leave you as easily as you think. You and I were bound in blood when you were born. The Bonding Ceremony, you know is a sacred Changeling rite that binds one Changeling to a monarch, to act as their protector.” “Me, Silver, and the Changelings. We dedicated our lives for your reign, for Donovan’s reign.”
Lucille sighed, turning back to face him, the barriers in her mind pushing harder against his continuing advances. “You don’t understand.” Her voice was quavering and she fought down the tears that were sure to return, “I’ve lost everything…”
“Everything?” He raised a questioning brow, “Oh, I won’t be so sure about everything…”
“I’ve lost a nation’s trust, my husband and…my baby.” She wrapped her arms around her abdomen, rocking on her heels. Her skin was cold like ice and Akoto knew it wasn’t from the breeze coming through the open window.
A baby? An heir? Lost? Dead? Akoto looked at her, surprised, and drew his hand from her shoulder. “When was it…” he swallowed, “lost?” his voice was emotionless. But for all his voice was, his heart was seized up in pain. It could’ve been his baby she had lost. He just wanted to know. Lucille glanced at Akoto, her eyes shining. He led her to the bed, coaxed her into sitting down. He sat beside her, fingers briefly grazing her cheek, almost lovingly. Akoto dropped his hand to his side. She took his hand and squeezed it comfortingly. “I…I don’t understand—” she began, but then a finger pressed against her lips, shutting her up. She leaned against him and he wrapped his arms around her, trying to warm her chilled skin.
“Hush.” He couldn’t hear it, not now, not yet. Lucille just listened to the soft huskiness of his tone, a soft drawl that seemed to come from deep within his throat, and her heart thudded in her chest. She bent her head, watching her tears fall into his lap. Oh how desperately she wanted to tell him! Before she could say anything, she felt his hands pulling her away, fingers tucked under her chin forcing her eyes to meet his. A bright, molten gold. A deep, beautiful colour, Lucille thought. Akoto pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away the tears lingering on her cheeks.
“You should rest. It’s late.” She felt his weight lift from the bed and his footsteps faded to the hearth to stifle the fire, to the window to close it, to the desk to blow out the candles, and, finally, to the door. How she longed for him to say he loved her. To know someone cared. But she was being selfish. She’d been hoping too much. Akoto wasn’t the type to reveal his feelings too often. Then she heard him speak again over the crackle of the flames. “Goodnight.”
One, straightforward word so commonly used. But that was enough: He cared. His voice still carried that lovely drawling tone that told her all she needed, all she wanted, to hear.
She smiled faintly in the dark. “Goodnight, Akoto.”
“And don’t you think of touching that!” He added, his voice serious, gesturing to the wine bottle. Lucille laughed lightly and nodded. She heard him shut the door as he left. She sat up, climbing out of the bed. Sighing and snatching her leather jerkin, she fumbled with the many buttons, stuffed her feet into boots and quietly made her way to the stables.
She didn’t bother to saddle or tack Velvet. Riding bareback, she let the mare ride over the hills, numb to the kicked-up pebbles and mud that splashed against her back and face as she leaned down and rested her cheek against Velvet’s warm neck, feeling the blood pound in her ears. She let her body be lulled by that constant beat, almost like music.
Riding down around the narrow road that led to the forest, she smiled as she heard the howling of the wolf-humans. There was a certain musical quality about Changeling wolf choruses that the queen found soothing. Sabetha, their new Alphess, emerged from the bushes, followed by her mate and their three pups. Seeing the pups crowd around Sabetha made her ache for Donovan, for children of her own. Stop it, she told herself, let it go.
As she watched them disappear, she led Velvet back to the path, the breeze carrying the heavy scent of wolf and fire. Suddenly she tensed. No, it wasn’t fire, it was magic. The metallic smell of Dark magic was coming closer. It stung her eyes and left the taste of copper in her mouth. Copper like the taste of blood. The mare reared, neighing in panic, the whites of her eyes showing. As Lucille tried to get the horse under control, she felt herself falling off, flying, as Velvet bucked and snarled. Lucille hit the ground with a cry and rolled down the slight hill, hearing Velvet’s hoof beats disappear.
Gasping, trying to gather her bearings, she sat up and studied her surroundings. Birch trees and pine trees surrounded her, as did the silence. Darkness enveloped her in its long clinging fingers, scratching away her courage. She moved and huddled against a tall birch tree, clutching its paper-thin, white skin. The smell came again, thick and strong. Drops of melted copper seemed to fall upon her lips, her skin, seemed to burn her. This was eerie, too unnatural. There were no birds flitting in the trees, no squirrels; not even any insects despite the weather being quite humid. Only the black silhouette of the trees, the whispering of wind and the scant moonlight. And that piquant scent of Dark magic. It chilled her skin, made her press closer to the tree. She closed her eyes, her cheek scraping against the bark. She longed for Donovan, longed for his soft fingers to brush her cheek, for his strength to chase away her fear, but she knew that longing would not be satisfied. She prayed desperately to any god that was listening that the Dark magic was distant, that it was just the darkness and the wine playing with her imagination. She pulled her legs up against her chest, shivering in the cold. Please, she prayed, don’t let it find me here.
A thick mist rose to wrap around the trees, and buried the path and her body in coils of white, kissing her suddenly sweating skin with cool, translucent lips. The moonlight stabbed though the black outline of the trees, stretching out the shadow and the light, distorting trees and familiar sights to abnormal sizes and shapes. All of a sudden, Akoto materialized by her side. He took her hand and shoved his own gold magic in front of hers, creating a wall. She couldn’t access her magic; the wall between their consciousnesses too strong to penetrate. “Rest.” he whispered, “Rest…” There was a strange forcefulness in his voice, a hidden authority. His voice sounded almost scratchy. None of the soft, deep tone he’d used moments before. She shook her head. It was nonsense. This was Akoto…nothing could be wrong now. He’d take her home. Wait. Lucille realized with growing horror. Materialized? He’s a Changeling—he has magic, he has power, but he can’t materialize anywhere!
All thoughts of safety and home disappeared in an instant with this realization. She gasped as the form of Akoto shimmered, his hand still on hers. She tried to cry out his image fading as the face of a man with violet eyes and a bare, bloodied scalp slowly took his place. Akoto’s image had vanished. Lucille couldn’t scream, this man had taken her by the throat, pinning her against a tree with his twisted, broken fingers. As she writhed in panic, clawing at his hand, desperate for air, the man leaned over to whisper in her ear, his breath hot on her neck, “Remember my face, Majesty…for I will forget yours.”
Lucille glared at him; her eyes dark with anger, “Never will I submit to the Shadow!” she gasped in air. A glint of silver caught her eye. A stabbing pain raced through her body, followed by a sense of raw relief. The man laughed at her and watched as her face slowly relaxed. Lucille stared at the man in front of her, her eyes filling with tears. His violet eyes changed to an almost-beautiful wintry blue, glinting with malice. He smiled and twisted the sword. “You shall submit.” He growled, “And you will not be the only one to grovel, Majesty…” He cackled and left her there, the sword pinning her against the tree.
Thump. Thump. As his form disappeared into the dark, the queen gazed down at the long, silver blade glinting in the moonlight. Thump. Thump. She could hear her own heartbeat. It was a dull slow sound in her ears.
Lucille closed her eyes, trying to slow her labored breathing. “Rest. Help is coming…just for a moment…just a moment…” She gasped and groaned softly in pain. She heard movement in the undergrowth. Then there was a shout. Her name. It was Akoto. The real Akoto. She called out, “Leave Akoto! …Please. Just leave. Go, before the Shadow—” the queen opened her mouth to call out again, her voice a faint whisper, a stretch of breath between vocal cords… “finds…”
Thump. Thump.
She heard the whistle of an arrow. Thump. Thump.
Thump—