reading

Prologue

She screamed.

A shrill cry that echoed over the smooth, green hills surrounding the tiny farm house. Sparrows gathered in a crack willow, bare of her leaves, were spooked by the sudden outburst and flocked away like a twisting cloud.

“Hold still, bitch,” he growled, pushing the young woman’s face against the outer wall of the hut. He was heavy set and smelled of sweat and grog. She knocked over a pail of water by the door as she tried to free herself from his grasp.

Two men, dressed in dark armour and carrying swords, laughed as they held her husband tightly by the arms. His threadbare clothing was rent and torn from a scuffle only moments ago.

Four others on horseback chuckled as the man, using his body to hold the woman in place, pulled his trousers down to his knees before attempting to hoist her tattered and patched garments out of the way with his free hand.

“No,” she cried, tears welling up.

“Please,” her husband begged. One of the two punched him hard in the gut, knocking the wind from him and dropping him to his knees.

She turned her head towards him. Her captor grabbed a fistful of her dark hair at the back of her head and slammed her forehead against the wall. The wooden panel cracked slightly. Dark spots and bright flashes filled her vision momentarily.

Then she saw them.

Two little girls, at least ten years of age and identical in appearance, stood hand in hand with their brown eyes fixed on her. They were just inside the doorway, wide-eyed and clearly frightened.

Their long dark hair fell untidily over their brows and backs. Their pale skin appeared translucent in the shadow of the hut’s interior. Slowly, together, they moved through the door and outside.

“Look at this,” one of the men on horseback said, pointing with his sword.

“Please,” she whispered. “Not in front of them.”

The man holding her in place hissed loudly, almost coughing as he snickered at her request.

“Not in front of them,” he jested. “Bitch, I plan to have both of them when I’m done with you.”

“No,” the husband cried. A deep pain struck him from inside as the overwhelming feeling of helplessness swept over him.

The man holding the woman turned to meet the husband’s frightened stare and smirked.

“I’ll take them with me,” he teased. “I’ll have my way with them over and over again. And then I’ll let my friends take turns.”

The husband lowered his brows. His eyes were filled with rage.

“I’ll kill you,” he shouted angrily. “I’ll tear your throat out, you bastard.”

“Shut him up,” the man commanded.

One of the two holding the husband pulled a dagger from his belt.

“I’ll kill all of you,” the husband continued to rant. “I’ll break your ne—”

His threats ceased suddenly as the dagger slid neatly over his throat.

“No,” the woman howled.

“Shut it,” said the man as he positioned himself to take her.

“No,” she cried again.

The two men dropped the husband to the ground. Blood spilled over straw and wheat that had been tossed upon the ground during the earlier scuffle.

One of the men, holding the bloody dagger in his hand, approached the two little girls. They turned their faces towards him and seemed to study his movement as he drew nearer. In unison, they peered to the body of their father before returning their gaze to the approaching man.

“Do you miss your papa?” he asked. His wide grin exposed yellowing, crooked teeth with blackened spots along the gums. He lowered his head in mock sympathy. “It’s all right. I will be your papa now.” The other men chuckled as the man with the dagger grabbed his crotch. “Papa has a present for you both.”

“Hold still,” the first man barked to the woman as he fondled with her undergarments.

“Call me Papa,” the other man said, half crouching by the two little girls.

“Leave them alone,” the woman screamed.

The girls stared at the man near to them curiously. Their lips remained closed and their eyes were still wide and full of fear.

“Call me Papa,” the man repeated. His voice was stern and a little angry.

“They cannot speak,” the woman shouted.

“Shuttit,” the man holding her hollered. He pushed her face into the wall again with tremendous force.

A crunch emitted from her head and her body went suddenly limp.

She fell to the ground in a heap.

“You overdid it, Jaku,” one of the horsemen said, laughing.

“Bloody heck,” the man spat. “She wasn’t half bad looking either.”

“We still have these two.” The other man pointed to the girls with his dagger.

Jaku turned, pulling his trousers back up to his waist. The two girls glared at him.

In any other situation, Jaku wouldn’t have cared if two little girls looked at him with such hatred or not. He would have simply grabbed them, torn off their clothes and abused them as he had with many others many times before.

But not this time.

His breathing stopped.

His heart seemed to turn ice cold.

His face became expressionless.

Both girls had locked their gaze upon him. Their brows lowered and their mouths opened agape as if emitting a silent scream.

Jaku felt his body tremble as he saw the girls’ eyes glow. White pinpricks of light seemed to pierce his mind and cause an increasingly sharp pain to grow from the centre of his skull. It expanded, expanded, expanded.

His ears rang loudly as the sensation of liquid dripping from his lobes and onto his neck became apparent. The taste of blood and copper filled his mouth as a throbbing ache moved along his spine and down his arms.

He tried to scream, opening his mouth wide to let out sound.

A misty spray of blood burst from his lips as his face began to tear open.

“By the gods!” one of the horsemen bellowed as he watched Jaku being torn to shreds by an invisible power.

The girls turned their attention to the others surrounding them.

One by one, in rapid sequence, man and horse were ripped apart, forming into ribbons of flesh and blood as muscles and organs pulled away from bones.

Within moments, twitching piles of shredded meat and pools of blood lay upon the ground around the front of the little farm cottage. Woven amongst the mess were weapons, armour, saddles, and bridles.

The two little girls closed their mouths. Their eyes rapidly returned to a placid brown.

Together, they moved their gaze to the lifeless body of their father. The gaping wound in his neck continued to dribble thick red liquid onto the grass and straw. They looked to their mother, whose nose was crushed and pushed deep into her face.

One of the girls shed a tear. The other quickly reached over and wiped it from her sister’s cheek.

Together, they looked to the western horizon and saw the sun getting closer to the hills. The sky had started to change from soft blue to a strange opaque orange.

Hand in hand, they turned and walked back into the hut, closing the door behind them.

One

Alice kept her composure as another troop of men marched along the aisle, back to the large timber doors of the assembly hall. Their footfalls thundered in unison, echoing throughout the cavernous chamber. Two young Agrodien warriors, dressed in their battle attire, heaved the doors open for the soldiers. The doors emitted a loud creak as the reptilians pulled on the wooden panels with all their strength.

The girl tapped impatiently at the iron claws dangling from her neck as the soldiers passed through the doorway. She noticed that the angle of the sunlight pouring in through the windows high upon the western wall and into the cold, dark auditorium had tilted, shifting so that the yellowish beams stretched farther across the room. They had been here for so long that the shafts of light had crossed from one side of the chamber and almost touched the base of the opposite wall.

Alice took a deep breath and gestured to the always attentive Nola’ee to approach.

The Agrodien passed behind the four high-backed chairs, throne-like in appearance with cushioned seats and arm rests, lined up upon the platform. Apart from Alice, who sat to the right of centre facing the auditorium, they were occupied by Ursula Wadham on the far left, Queen Amicia Elynbrigge on the far right and Catherine who sat by her sister’s side.

“Kayl’sro?” Nola’ee hissed into Alice’s ear, stooping low in the space between the girl and the Queen of Newholt.

“How much more of this do I have to bear?” Alice asked in the Agrodien tongue. “If another captain of the guard and his team come through those doors to pledge their fealty, I think I’ll slit my throat.”

“There are many more,” the reptilian answered. “They all wish to assure you of their allegiance.”

“They all want my assurance that I won’t make Liana burn them in their houses, more like.” Alice took a deep breath.

Nola’ee hissed a soft chuckle.

“Relax.” Amicia reached over and placed her hand on the girl’s arm, sensing her frustration. “You are now the leader of these people. This is what a leader does. A leader listens to the people, no matter how trivial their words may be. To them, their matters are just as important as anything that may vex you. Give them their moment.”

Alice took another deep breath as Nola’ee straightened herself and started back to her position at the side of the platform.

“How do I know the words they speak are true?” she asked. “They pledge themselves to us. Yet, they fought for the Maji only five days’ past.”

“They were under his influence,” Ursula put in.

“Not all of them,” Alice reminded her. “Perhaps some are loyal to him still.”

A draught swept through the chamber causing the torches positioned around the walls to flicker. Alice pulled her bearskin cloak tightly across her chest before lifting her long braid from behind her to drape it over her shoulder.

“Are you cold?” Catherine asked. Her concern was sincere as she peered to her sister with a small hint of anxiety.

“I’m all right,” Alice reassured her.

“You’re with child, now,” the older sibling reminded her. “Perhaps we should retire for the day and return home.”

Alice shook her head. She instinctively placed her hand upon her abdomen. There was no visual sign of a belly forming, but the four of them could sense the child inside.

“I don’t want to be doing this again tomorrow,” she said. “I’d rather be at home with Arthur instead. Let’s get it over with now.”

“Are you certain?” Ursula asked.

Alice inclined her head and signalled to the Agrodien warriors by the door to let the next captain of the guard and his troops in.

The sisters strolled arm in arm with Amicia and Ursula on either side. The soft footfalls of the soldiers, both Agrodien and men, followed closely. The queen pulled her cloak about her as she peered up to the moon drifting just above the mountains far to the east.

“I miss my home,” she whispered. There was sadness in her voice and the others sensed it.

“We’ll reclaim it,” Alice assured her. “You will sit upon the throne again.”

“No,” Amicia replied. Her eyes glistened in the flickering orange light emitting from the lamp posts lining the street. “My place is not in Newholt. Not anymore.”

Alice felt as if she should ask where it was that Amicia believed she belonged, but she already knew the answer to that question.

It was the same place that they all belonged.

Together.

“Nevertheless,” Ursula said, in a comforting tone, “we will reclaim it for the sake of everyone dwelling there.”

“Have we word from Newholt?” Alice asked.

“Only that a small resistance has formed,” replied Ursula. She looked to Alice quizzically. “Word came by a rider this morning.”

Alice wore a perplexed expression. She stopped moving and turned to face her personal guard, Nola’ee.

“Were you aware of this?” the girl asked in the Agrodien tongue.

“No, Kayl’sro,” the reptilian answered, her face appearing as confused as her leader’s.

“How certain are you that this information is accurate?” Alice queried, turning back to face Ursula.

“Very,” she replied. “I received a letter addressed to me from Audrey, one of my girls.”

The other three understood that Ursula referred to one of the three whores from White Keep.

“Anything specific?” Amicia asked as they began walking again. “What of the city? The people?”

“She didn’t go into too great of detail,” the other replied. “I assume she was limited for time. Her writing appeared rushed, but I know it to be hers.

“She wrote that a great deal of the city had been destroyed in an attack from the sea and land. There are black banners everywhere and many have perished. She wrote that my mm–”

Ursula stopped in her tracks suddenly and started to weep. The three others looked on with concern.

“She wrote that Maud had been killed,” Ursula blubbered. She turned to face the other three. “She was like a mother to me.”

“I’m so sorry,” Amicia said, moving to the young woman and wrapping her arms around her shoulders.

“Why didn’t you say something before?” Alice asked, moving to the other’s side and placing her hand on Ursula’s arm.

“I didn’t want to bother you with such a small thing, considering what we needed to do today,” the woman replied.

“It is no small thing,” said Catherine, pressing her forehead to Ursula’s. “We are sisters. We share one another’s joy and sorrow. We stand as one. From now on, and forever.”

It was late when the sisters walked in through the door of their house. All others dwelling inside had retired for the night except for Emily, who waited for her daughters to return home. She sat by the fireplace nursing a cup of tea as she kept warm.

“There’s stew on the stove if you’re hungry,” she said to them as they hung their cloaks by the door.

“Famished,” Catherine said, moving quickly through the living room and into the kitchen.

“I think I’ll go to bed,” Alice replied.

“He’s all right,” Emily assured her. “I checked on him not too long ago.”

“His wounds?” The girl stepped into the room, peering to her mother.

“I changed his dressing at dusk,” she answered, “just as the apothecary instructed. His arm…” Emily paused as she turned her head to look as Alice. “Well, you know what I mean. It seems to be healing rapidly. There is still some seeping, however. He is recovering quicker than he should be, according to the apothecary.”

“I should wake him to change his bandages again,” Alice said.

A sudden loud snort erupted from behind the bedroom door closest to the living room.

“I love you too, David,” Emily called back with a giggle.

The sound of loud and steady snoring ensued.

“How do you sleep with that noise?” Catherine asked as she ladled steaming stew from a pot and into a wooden bowl.

“You get used to it,” her mother replied as Alice moved through the corridor towards the bedroom she shared with her husband. “Your father was much worse. I rarely got an ounce of sleep with him. And not always because of his snoring.”

“Mama!” Catherine gasped.

Alice grinned at the exchange between her sister and mother. She was glad to have Catherine back. They had bonded more closely in the past few days than they ever had in their whole lives.

She opened the bedroom door slowly, delicately, so as not to wake Arthur suddenly. The creak of the hinges seemed louder than usual.

The boy stirred slightly, emitting a soft groan as a sliver of light penetrated through the door and into the room, growing wider as Alice moved inside. Soft candlelight flickered from the dresser as she closed the door behind her.

“Alice?” he whispered.

“Yes,” she replied in kind.

“Are you just getting home?”

“Yes,” she answered, moving to the side of the bed.

He reached up and wiped his eyes with his hand.

“You’ve been gone since before dawn,” he said as he tried to push himself into a half-seated position. “Have you eaten? There’s stew on the stove. I made it myself.”

“You made it?” she said, sitting beside him. She ran her fingers through his hair.

“Well,” he amended. “Your mother helped. It’s hard to use a knife and hold things steady with only one arm.”

“You were told to rest,” she said sternly, keeping her voice low. “You promised me that you wouldn’t do anything strenuous.”

“I made stew.” Arthur looked at her apologetically. “That’s all. But…” He wore a pleading expression, like a dog begging for scraps. “I’d like to take a walk in the woods. I need to get out of this house. Having your mother dote on me all day is one thing. My father’s affection is another. He smothers me and never leaves me to my own thoughts. I just want to read and be left alone for ten minutes. Five minutes, even.”

Alice couldn’t help smiling. She bent down and kissed him hard on the lips. He winced slightly but tried to hide the pain.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly.

“It’s all right,” he told her. “It’s not as bad as it was before.”

Even in the low light emitting from the candle, she could see the bruises on his face. It was true that he was indeed healing faster than he should be. Alice knew that was due to her intervention and not so much from the remedial approach from the apothecary. Still, she would change Arthur’s bandages, as instructed, and apply the sweet-smelling salve that had been given by the practitioner.

She would also say her words and place her hands on his wounds as she had been since being reunited with her husband after liberating Woodmyst.

She reached into a drawer by the side of the bed and retrieved fresh dressing and a small clay jar that held the salve. Arthur had already started to unravel the bandages that crossed over his chest and back, covering his shoulder and the socket where his left arm had once been.

Alice felt a tear roll from her eye and along her cheek as she remembered him, not all that long ago, with both arms holding her. She quickly wiped it away before he could see.

“It still throbs every now and then,” he told her. “It’s as if my heart jumps from my chest and moves into my shoulder.”

“It’s just your body trying to heal itself faster,” she told him. “Your blood is racing to the wound to repair the damage.”

He looked to her quizzically.

“What?” asked the girl.

“Have you been reading my books?” he enquired as he pulled the wrappings away from his body.

“Ones about anatomy, yes,” she admitted.

“And you understood them?”

“Some things. There are some words I don’t know. And the pictures are strange. Not really like the insides of those I’ve seen with my own eyes.”

“They’re close depictions of what it is meant to look like if they were still inside a living person,” he explained. “Not spilled out onto the ground after a battle.”

She sniggered a little at his words as he lifted the last of the old dressings away. There was a dark stain on the bandages that had been wrapped close to the wound. He dropped them onto the floor by the bed as Alice dipped her finger into the salve.

Carefully, delicately, she applied the ointment to his wound. Arthur held his breath as her finger touched his skin.

“Does it hurt?” she asked.

“Cold,” he replied. “A little tender.”

She could feel the moist surface beneath her fingers as she smoothed the ointment over the wound. It had all but closed over, new skin forming over the socket, appearing like raw meat. There was still a small section from where a fine trickle of blood oozed.

Alice gently placed her hand over this area and closed her eyes.

“Restore,” she breathed.

Arthur felt a wave of warmth flow over his body, just as he had each time Alice had done this to him.

She reached for the fresh dressing and started to apply it to her husband. He watched her affectionately as her stare grew vaguely distant.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“We need to talk about something,” she replied as she moved the bandage over his chest, under his right arm and across his back.

“All right.”

“It’s been on my mind since returning here,” she told him.

“You want to move back to the caverns,” he speculated. “You’ve never liked the city. I understand. When do we leave?”

“Leave?” She pursed her lips. “Yes. Back to the caverns, no.”

He looked at her for a long time as she continued to wrap his wound. Her lips were shut tightly, and a deep heaviness had fallen upon her face.

“I knew this day would come,” he confessed. “When? After it is done or before?”

“We need to finish this,” she replied. “I’m not about to run.”

He placed his hand upon her abdomen.

“You have reason to, if you wish,” he argued. “We could just go.”

She shook her head, placing her hand over his.

“I can’t leave yet,” she said. She looked to the door, envisioning her mother and sister in the living room just beyond. “I will need to explain it to them. But I’m not ready yet.”

Arthur moved his hand to her waist as she continued to wrap the dressing.

“I don’t think any of them will understand,” he speculated. “We’ll need to prepare. I’ll do what I can from here. I won’t be able to join you when you go to face him anyway.”

“I know,” she said. Her eyes were welling with tears. She tucked the end of the bandage underneath a layer of wrapping and leant in to kiss his forehead. “Let’s both go for a walk in the woods tomorrow.”

He furrowed his brow. “You don’t have any special duties to perform?”

“I have plenty,” she answered. “But I don’t want to do them.”

He clutched a handful of her tunic covering her chest and dragged her close to him, planting a kiss on her lips. She kissed him back, deeply.

He winced a little from the pain.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“It’s all right.” He grinned.

Two

This isn’t you.

She pushed the thought away, pressing her thighs against his flesh tighter, trying to think of nothing else except the desire to feel ecstasy and carnal bliss. The bedhead hammered the wall as she let out a deep guttural groan.

Her fingernails scraped down his back. He let out a soft hiss as his skin was opened. A small scratch. Nothing serious.

But his response made her hungry for more of him.

Forcing him onto his back, she moved over his loins. Her palms were laid flat against his chest as she continued to rock and thrust, back and forward.

This isn’t you.

Her head shook, trying to force the tiny voice away.

He reached his hands out to touch her breasts. There was a sudden, pleasurable shiver tingling along her spine and spreading over her entire body.

She almost laughed.

More groaning.

The bedhead continued to thud rapidly against the wall.

Louder and faster.

She could feel the movement in her loins.

Louder and faster.

Her smile broadened as the movement transformed into elation. Her groans became shouts of euphoria.

Louder and faster.

Louder and…

This isn’t you.

She let out a cry of frustration before lifting herself off him and sitting on the side of the bed.

“My lady?” The young man looked to her, confused. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” she said, reaching for her black robe which was resting on the ground by her feet.

“I could try harder,” he said.

“It isn’t you,” she said, standing up and slipping the robe over her body, feeling uncomfortable after speaking those three words. They were almost identical to those spoken by the voice in her head.

She looked to him and noticed with fresh eyes, that he was very young indeed. Not very far into his years of manhood. “Perhaps you should dress and return to your regiment.”

“My lady.” He swung his feet over the edge of the bed and reached for his trousers.

As he dressed, she stepped through lace curtains that wafted gently in the breeze, and onto the balcony. She looked out over the ruins of the city and to the Eastern Sea.

The ships from Dweagan had left the coast, moving on to escort the galley transporting the Scarlet Queen northward. Tricia hadn’t stopped to visit. The Scarlet Queen had continued on, passing by during the early morning hours.

This did not upset her. After all, it was what she was instructed to do.

That was two days ago.

She wondered if they had reached Blackrock Haven yet.

The chamber door opened and closed signalling the young soldier’s departure. She suddenly felt alone and wished she hadn’t sent him away. Her need to feel the presence of another near to her was strong. She wanted someone to talk to; be next to; to touch.

To love.

Love.

She frowned as she considered what she had just done. She had ordered a young man to lie with her. To love her.

But she wasn’t satisfied.

He doesn’t love you.

You don’t love him.

She wondered if she needed to find another. Someone who would love her. Someone who would satisfy her.

She thought of her appointed commander, Andris Hill. She would have tried to manipulate him, to beguile him, to lure him into her bed, but he was unbreakable. He was stubborn.

If Andris wouldn’t bend to her will, then she would need to search for one that would.

This isn’t you.

“Then, who am I?” she asked out loud, a lone tear rolling down her cheek. “Who am I?”

She waited for an answer.

The sea breeze blew through her auburn hair as she remembered a little village high in the mountains. She recalled another auburn girl, older than she. Her sister. They were seated together on the floor of their tiny cabin by the fireplace as a man spoke to them both. She couldn’t hear his words through the haze of memory, but she knew he spoke of love and charity and things that were good and pure.

A woman sat beside him. She was much younger than the man, but aged with soft, deepening lines and creases in the corners of her mouth. Her eyes were filled with wisdom, and her hair like that of her and her sister. She looked affectionately upon the two girls.

There was love here.

So much love.

But the memory was distant, like an echo on a faraway hill, and she couldn’t remember the finer details. She had no recollection of her father’s voice or where exactly this memory had taken place. Only that, even with snow collecting on the window, it had felt warm and comfortable.

Antony.

It was his name. Her father’s name.

Her face softened as she pictured him doting over her and her sister.

Antony Grenefeld.

Antony…

Antony Warde.

The image of a small boy filled her mind. His dark hair and big, brown, innocent eyes staring at her. An innocent face mouthed the word, Mama.

Mama.

The smile turned to a cry as the look of pain spread over the boy’s face.

Mama.

The boy’s lips silently formed the word over and over as a look of sheer terror swept over his face.

A sharp pain stabbed through her heart.

She shook her head, forcing the image away.

The cabin in the mountains was gone.

The loving family by the fire was replaced by the view of the broken city before her.

The crying boy was swept away by the ocean breeze flowing through her hair.

She was the Black Queen of Newholt again. The ambassador of the Maji.

But she wondered if she should be.

She wondered if she was meant to be something else, someone else.

The pain in her heart deepened as her thoughts continued to spin.

Flashing images of a robust man, smiling as he held her in his arms, laughing as he played with small children, racing away on horseback into battle.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as confusion spread through her thoughts.

She knew this man.

She had loved this man once.

Perhaps she still did.

But she could not remember him. Not entirely.

Peering down from the balcony, wiping her face to see the black banners posted by the palace gates waving gently in the breeze, she heard the tiny voice speaking to her again.

This isn’t you.

She frowned as she rested her hands against the guard rail.

“Who am I, then?” she asked in a whisper.

The tiny voice, caught on the ocean breeze answered softly.

This isn’t you.

Three

Piers Mayne stared at the steaming plate of food that had been placed before him. Bright, yellow corn kernels, green beans, spinach, a whole potato cut open slightly to allow a dollop of butter to melt slowly into its white flesh. All of these appealing vegetables were piled neatly beside the hind quarter of baked fowl. Chicken, the skipper assumed. Smothered in thick gravy.

Very appetising, indeed.

But his stomach, twisting and turning, wasn’t about to let him have one bite.

Instead, his thoughts were on the boy and the woman seated near the head of the table.

The distinct clatter of silverware clanking and clinking against the fine, white ceramic kept bringing him back to reality. Other men surrounded him. Some wore neat military dress uniforms. Others, like him, were dressed in the finest garb they could muster.

His gaze moved around the room, pausing on the many portraits and few landscapes hanging on the wall, bordered by timber frames adorned with intricate leaves and flora carved by hand. Ladies, for the most part, dressed in fabrics of varying colours. One in scarlet, like the lady of the house, only older in appearance. Another in purple and another in yellow.

At the focal point, above the head of the table, two portraits hung side-by-side. One was a woman in green. Her face was obscured by the shadow of a hood that she wore upon her head. Only her lips were visible. Mayne could swear he saw them turn up at the corners ever so slightly as she peered down at those gathered about the table. He took a swig of his wine, something he was doing quite a fair bit as the night drew on, and possibly the reason behind why lady in green grinned.

Beside her, was a beautiful blonde woman in white. She was striking in appearance with blue eyes, soft skin and ruby lips. The skipper felt a compulsion to touch her, as if lured to her loveliness by a spell.

But it was just a portrait.

Someone’s interpretation of a person.

Who could say what this woman was like?

Who could vouch for her character?

Surely not the Scarlet Queen seated by the boy.

“You’ve not touched your meal, Skipper,” one of the uniformed men announced.

Mayne snapped back to reality again. He looked to the owner of the voice, seated across the table from him.

Tricia had noticed his gaze. She looked to the portraits above the table of the woman in green and the other in white.

“I’m not very hungry,” Mayne replied with a polite tone. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Tricia said. “Perhaps some more wine? You seem to be able to stomach that without trouble.”

The skipper shook his head. “Any more of this fine drop, and I don’t think I’ll be able to walk back to my quarters.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said, and waved to a servant, gesturing for Mayne’s cup to be filled. “You’ll sleep here tonight. It would be irresponsible for me to allow you to return to your vessel in such a condition. Please, drink and be merry.”

The servant, a young woman, moved into a space between Mayne’s seat and the occupant to his right. She reached to the centre of the table and took a silver jug standing on a silver tray. Carefully, she poured the thick, red liquid from the jug into the skipper’s glass.

He knew he had drunk too much already, but he had never been in a situation where he was fully aware of how drunk he was and how it was affecting his senses.

His mind turned to the servant girl, reaching across him to pour the wine. Her breast rested against his shoulder. Her dark braid brushed against the skin of his cheek lightly. Her soft breath was warm against his cheek as she placed the jug back upon the silver tray. He breathed the scent of her perfume as she moved out of sight. He felt as allured by her as he had by the portrait of the woman in white only moments before.

“Her name is Agatha,” the Scarlet Queen told him, sensing his thoughts.

He shot her a look. How does she know?

“My lady?” he managed.

“I could arrange for her to stay in your bed,” Tricia said playfully. “Just to keep you warm as you sleep. It gets cold up here, so far to the north. You would like that, wouldn’t you Agatha?”

“Yes, my lady,” the girl replied. Her grin was more of a reaction to being embarrassed before an audience of men than of playfulness.

Mayne watched as the Scarlet Queen placed a morsel of meat on a fork only to feed it to Sam. The young boy, ten years old and quite capable, opened his mouth and took it like a babe.

What in damnation is going on?

“Thank you, Mama,” the boy replied with a mouthful of fowl.

The skipper glanced around the table to see if others seated nearby were just as puzzled as he. The officers and other well-dressed men continued to clink and clank their silverware against the white ceramic plates, seemingly oblivious to the surreal existence surrounding them.

He took a gulp from his cup, swallowing hard, forcing it down.

“The one in green is Yasmeen Svoboda,” Tricia explained. “Or, at least the best impression we have of her. She used her men to steal me away from my parents when I was very young, just as she had done with all of my sisters. Just as she had done with all of these you see around us.” The Scarlet Queen gestured to the other portraits with her eyes. “My sisters and I killed her. Right here.”

The men seated about the table stopped eating and placed their attention on the Scarlet Queen. Mayne was already there. His gaze was locked onto her. He lifted the glass to his lips again as he listened. She continued to feed Sam like a doting mother.

Perhaps that was what she believed she was, Mayne thought. But he perceived her to be something else. Something undesirable. Something from the darkness.

“The woman in white is Sumaiyya Tarkin,” Tricia continued, gazing up to the portrait. “She is the mother of the Maji. I remember her well. She was much more stunning in person. This painting does not do her any justice.

“She hangs beside the Green Mistress because Takmel believes them to both deserve places of prevalence. This was where it all began.”

“Where what began, Mama?” Sam asked quietly.

Mayne’s stomach turned again. He drained the last of his glass. Agatha started forward to fill his glass again. He waved her off and reached for the jug himself.

“The Mirikin, my boy,” she explained. “Long before the Sovereign took her place as prime; long before her palace had been built; the Mirikin was established by ten witches near to the seaside not far from here.

“The story, according to some, is that a long, long time ago, in the height of winter, a ship from Dendadia was heading for Newholt and got lost in a treacherous storm. It was carrying people who were looking to begin a new life in a new land, but it crashed against the black rocks by the sea. Some say fifty were on board. Others say over one hundred. It doesn’t really matter how many. The story always ends the same.

“The people survived as best as they could, building small huts from the broken timber of the hull, and ate what supplies they had on board. All was well until the food ran out.

“The men did their best,” Tricia continued, moving Sam to her lap and stroking his sandy blond hair with her fingertips. “They tried hunting and fishing but came up with very little.

“It was then, out of desperation, that the ten found each other. They were drawn to one another as most beings of a distinct nature are. Just as the wolves come together, or the ravens flock to a fallen creature, the witches gathered in secret and made their plans.”

“What did they do?” the boy, wide-eyed and full of wonder, asked her in a half yawn.

“Well…” She smiled down upon him. “One day, when the men were fishing and hunting, the ten witches did the only thing they thought was reasonable. Remember, it was the height of winter. The snow was piling up higher each day and night. The storms were growing harsher and harsher. They had run out of food and they needed to melt the snow in pots for water, or at least that’s what some say when they tell this tale.”

Some, thought the skipper. This was the first he had heard this tale and he surmised by the looks of deep attentiveness on the other men’s faces, that this was the first they had heard of it also.

“So, when the men were gone, the ten witches slit the throats of every other woman and child.” Tricia moved her gaze slowly around the table, locking onto the faces of each of the men gathered around. Mayne thought that she stayed fixed upon him for a very long time, as if boring into his brain with her stare, scratching and digging into his thoughts in search for any doubt, disloyalty or defiance. He felt all of it. She continued to tell the tale, peering down to the boy slumped against her chest. “And while their blood was still warm, and while it steamed into the cold air, they drank the corpses dry.

“When the bodies had been drained of blood, the ten witches butchered the women and children and hung strips of meat to dry in the cold air. Afterwards, they sat in a circle by a fire and sang.”

“Sang?” Mayne asked. His jaw hung open, gawking at her stupidly, unbelievingly.

Tricia nodded. “Yes,” she replied. “They sang. They sang songs to the gods to give thanks for supplying them with a bountiful store.”

“They killed innocent people,” the skipper put in.

“Innocence is only depicted by the one who believes that they are innocent,” she argued.

“What is that supposed to mean?” He got to his feet and pointed to the boy. “This isn’t a story for a lad of his age.”

“Shhh,” she hissed, gently stroking Sam’s hair. The boy’s eyes were closed, and his breathing was relaxed and steady. “I haven’t got to the good part yet.”

He sat down, feeling as if it was an involuntary reaction to her words. Either that, or an act of the wine.

“The men returned,” she continued. “Again, with nothing. But when they could not find their wives and children, they were filled with rage. They came for the ten witches who stayed by the fire and sang.

“As the men approached, the witches sang louder and louder. Their voices rang out and filled the men with a burning sensation that grew and grew until flames burst from their chests and consumed them.”

The Scarlet Queen peered around the table. She smiled contently to each of the men as she continued to stroke Sam’s hair. He had started to drift off to sleep in her arms.

“The ten witches portioned out the remains of the ship wreck’s survivors for the duration of the winter and survived. That was the beginning of the Mirikin and it happened right here before the establishment of Blackrock Haven.

“These women,” she said as she looked to the portraits hung about the room, “were part of their legacy. It was almost lost to us.

“But the Maji has renewed it. The Mirikin has risen again.”

Silence filled the dining room. The men were barely able to breathe.

“Each of you has a role to play in this new empire, gentlemen,” she explained. “Play your part well, and you will be rewarded. Cross me, and you may suddenly feel a burning sensation growing inside of you.”