For What is Bought in Blood

Court Preening

A Royal Guard that leans against the doorframe has fallen asleep, and I envy him. His neighboring guard keeps kicking him awake, but the man falls back to sleep, head rested on the polished wood. I find myself trying not to laugh as the awake guard only grows more frustrated.

There is no better example of how untrained these guards are. No man is turned away from the Guard, only given a sword and a place to stand. Less and less men are joining with the uprising picking many of them off in their city patrols. Those chosen to patrol the city were the finest the Guard could spare, often posing a considerable threat to the movements of rebels. By slowly weeding out these men, only the unexperienced were left, leaving the city an open playground. Younger guards could be bought, turning them into messengers and goods distributers, and elder guards chose to leave the Guard and open their homes to rebels. Constant turnover of manpower is weakening the Guard to catastrophic levels.

A flutter of movement to my left has me raising my teacup to my lips in pure reflex. I had not realized how lost in thought I had been until a horrendous shade of yellow entered my vision, caused by Lady Wilment reaching across me for a biscuit. I could blame the slip on my lack of sleep, but my mind is scrambling to think of anything other than the certain death that walks these halls somewhere.

"Well, Lord Belmount need act proper in the garden tomorrow." Mother speaks up, no doubt interrupting some conversation I missed. Wilment clicks her tongue next to me, and some of the other ladies shake their heads.

"What of his mistress? Is she attending?" Lady Illene probes, her eyes glued upon my mother. The other ladies lean in, desperate to hear that she will be attending. What a scandal it would be to witness something firsthand!

Mother flashes a devilish grin that sends the Ladies shrieking and giggling. I hide my cringe behind another sip of tea and flick my gaze towards the door. Still asleep.

"This will be the first party of spring, and the first gathering that includes all influential residents of The Capital." Mother confirms verbally, idly stirring the tea within her cup. The rhythmic nature of the spoon against the porcelain reminds me of my days with the governess who attempted to teach me manners. Everything I did was always wrong to her- I ate too much, not eating at all is rude, I talked too much, stop daydreaming, don't be a gossip. The rules of having tea took months for me to master.

"Will the late King be mentioned? It is the first large party since his passing." Lady Emilia asks quietly, cautious to not disturb The Queen. To her credit, it is a question I had pondered, but would have never voiced personally. To avoid having an adverse reaction to father being mentioned, I fake another sip of tea.

The Queen's incessant stirring stills but her hand remains on the spoon. The entire room seems to still as she peers into her cup. Mother only stares, her own paralysis infecting the entire room. Why does it take her so long to answer a simple question? I know she warms the bed of my father's old advisor. She cannot produce false care now in front of me as if it mutes her screaming betrayal.

As if the ice thawed, she smiles and casts her gaze upon Emilia. "I believe it is best we move forward without peering over our shoulder." There is warmth in her tone, but it does not touch her eyes. The glacial blue is bathed in its usual cunning as they cut to me, and I realize I still hold the teacup to my lips. Quickly discarding it back to the table, I smile at my own mother.

"Your father would want us to move forward, would he not, darling?" She baits me, knowing that placing him in the past will always sit wrongly with me.

Her direct attention causes my mind to blank, filled with only a faint throbbing at my temples. Our gazes are a battle of colliding sky and ice as I search her face in hopes of finding even a scrap of pity. The suffocating feeling of being thrust into the center of conversation with the wild beasts almost consumes me, and I force a strangled breath.

"Of course," I finally force out, internal dialogue fighting against the easy submission. She is right, though. Father would want everyone to focus on progress and achievement, not waste time in endless sorrow. He also believed it would be me under the crown, not forced into silent submission by my own mother.

I would have welcomed change as a young Queen. There would be much for me to learn, aided by my father's old friends and commanders who fought beside him. I would have listened to any stories they had of him- how his mischief got him in trouble around the castle as a child just as mine did, the tales of victory across the continent, the ways he spoke about me as I grew up. Every tiny scrap of who he was would have shaped the leader I became, helped me to become half the ruler he had been.

Instead I stare at The Queen across a table of gilded pastries in a colossal waste of quality fabric, her closest Ladies sneering at my every breath and misstep. The people he fought to free of poverty thrust back into it, the states he conquered falling into ruin, instead providing housing for native flora and fauna. Beasts pushed into the mountains slaying huntsmen in woods and plains long clear of their kind.

As this corset digs into my ribs with every breath, the kingdom my father's line built is falling beneath my feet.