The Conquering, page 63:

  The day of the Feast of Skies arrived. They celebrated in the great hall with drink and music and careless laughter. The gold girls danced and sang.

  We slaughtered them. There was only room enough for one to change at a time. One was no match for the sword. One could not cook us in our armor before its blood spread molten across the floor.

  “Stop, Vincent, please!” She screamed, running across the room to us.

  He hesitated, and I wondered if my plan was lost.

  “They have been good to me. Their secret is one they hide from the people, not us. We are happy. I have…” She looked down and laid her palm against the small swell of her belly. She lifted her head. “Wed another. I’m sorry Vincent, I should have told you.”

  “They have enchanted you. Poisoned you.” His face contorted in anguish. “I do all of this for you.”

  Not my Kheovaria. Yet I could not stop him—could not stop that black blade of night.

  He thrust his sword into her swollen belly, even as tears streamed down his face. “You are free now, my love.”

  She would never know it was me who devised the plan, who solved the riddle, who found the way. She would never know that it was me who loved her most of all.

  It takes all my concentration to keep my hands from shaking as I sip my tea. Clara and the Foundress decided, since the palace is the safest place a Gold can be, it’s worth the risk of leaving my arms bare. As much as it scares me that my golden skin is exposed to the sky and for all to see, it’s the Queen sitting at the head of this luncheon table that frightens me far more than the threat of wyverns.

  We sit outside on one of the many tiers of the castle’s private side-gardens. Behind me lies the white-walled palace and to my left the inky black mountain spire juts in near-vertical cliffs, like a bundle of blackened swords threatening the sky. A pergola, overgrowing with flowering pale purple clematis, shades us from the midday sun and fills the air with a faint vanilla sweetness.

  Only Nicoletta Graff sits between me and the Queen, and I’m not sure if that separation is a relief or a hindrance. Nicoletta clearly has no such insecurity, as she basks in her esteemed position with her straight spine, perfect pouty red lips, and superior tilt of her chin. The rest of us look like timid mice compared to her.

  Janine Hoad sits on my other side, and twelve other women round out the rest of the table. Fifteen in all. Janine’s friend, Francesca, isn’t here, neither is the woman the Queen dismissed ahead of me in line when we presented ourselves at the ball.

  These women are obviously the Prince’s interests and my competition. Odd the Queen wastes her time on so many. Surely the Prince could’ve narrowed it down more before asking his mother to weigh in.

  The Queen stares down her perfectly straight nose at each of us, as if we are mere insects she’d very much like to squash under her shoe. It’s more than a bit intimidating and I’m pleased my tea cup does not clatter when I return it to its saucer. Then again, Clara prepared me for this when she’d made me set, pour, and sip tea while she screamed, stomped, and waved things around my head.

  I also spent all of yesterday being prepped on all the scenarios I might encounter today. The kinds of questions I might be asked, the kinds of activities I might be expected to engage in, and, of course, the possibility of seeing the Prince. Even the Foundress—who’d participated when the King sought his wife over two decades ago—helped, and her ostentatious humor made the whole experience considerably more enjoyable.

  A young woman at the far end of the table whispers to her neighbor and, though I can’t quite catch the words, the sound sends a pang of dread through my gut.

  The Queen’s piercing blue eyes narrow at the woman. Slowly, the Queen lowers her teacup to its saucer, as if she’s been waiting for this very moment. Her fingers curl around the cup, nails painted in delicate interwove flames of gold leaf. According to Clara, a woman once attended High Court with gold leaf on her nails and the Queen had those nails torn off the woman’s fingers in the night. No one has dared since.

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” the Queen says and the slight twitch of her nose implies she thinks us not even meeting that standard. “I have gathered you here today because my son has found some semblance of desirability in you. I don’t see any point in allowing his affections to grow for any…”—she pauses as if searching for the least offensive word as her eyes settle on the woman who’d whispered—“unsuitable candidates. You may go.”

  The young woman blinks under the Queen’s gaze, confusion marring her expression, followed closely by mortification. “But he danced with me. He thought my hair was pretty. He liked me!” She gapes around her, as if any of us will speak for her.

  Everyone averts their eyes.

  My heart wrenches as I, too, drop my gaze to my tea. It’s hard to believe our futures waver on something so small as a whisper.

  Guards step forward. One takes the young woman by the elbow. She bursts into tears as they lead her away from the table. Neither guard is missing a finger.

  I curl one hand in my lap. It seems exceptionally cruel to even invite someone the Queen finds so quickly unsuitable. Or maybe that’s all part of the show. A threat to the rest of us. It is the throne, after all.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Maybe I’m next to go.

  Queen Ophelia closes her gold-painted eyelids as if she’s trying to erase the disruption from her mind. Once silence returns to the garden, her eyes flash open and her gaze darts to each of us, quick as a falcon’s. “I shall speak with each of you privately, and those that remain shall join my son for a stroll in the gardens.”

  The Queen sweeps from her seat and away from the table.

  I stifle an exhale of relief. At least she didn’t send me away. I still have a chance.

  A servant woman touches Lady Nicoletta’s arm and leads her to the Queen’s small private table, at the far edge of the next tier down, only partially visible from our position and far out of earshot. The rest remain seated, waiting their turn. Apparently, any chance at the Prince’s heart—or the throne—is through the Queen.

  I watch in silence, heart pounding, as each of the women leave to speak to the Queen in no particular order. Most of them do not come back. Those women who do return, do so pale and with sweat dotting their brows.

  Only Nicoletta returns with a cocky twist of her perfect red lips.

  None of us speak.

  I am the very last, again.

  Coincidence? Or maybe a show of my insignificance. Regardless, I refuse to let the sick churning of my gut show on my face. I’ve trained for this.

  When the servant touches my arm, I rise gracefully, as I’ve practiced so many times while soaking wet, starving, or being screamed at. I set my shoulders back, my spine straight, my chin just slightly downwards with respect, but not so low as to be cowardly.

  I follow the servant down a small stone staircase onto the next lowered terrace built against the black mountain spire. I smooth my dress; a snug, sophisticated, sleeveless yellow linen sheath with a high collar—as always to hide my scars—and only a modest boat-neck to expose the gold across my collarbones.

  The Queen sits in a wrought-iron chair adorned with velvet cushions, her back to the jagged spire’s crag. A small table between the two chairs holds only the Queen’s tea. Her gaze angles away from my approach as she gazes out over the gardens below.

  The servant leaves me several paces away and there I remain, silent. Still. Heart pounding. I can do this. I will do this.

  Composure. Commitment. Conviction.

  The Queen is the only woman in the entire kingdom who has genuine power. True and ruthless power that, rumor has it, has ended the lives of more than a few who’ve dared to cross her. She doesn’t have to tolerate ridicule and humiliation. She never goes to bed hungry because she’s displeased her guardian. She bows down to no one.

  Except her husband.

  Queen Ophelia’s gaze slowly swings upon me, and an almost curious smile pulls at her lips. “Ah, Lady Aubrey, of the late High Guard Willian Gallant and the stunning Lady Seraphina.”

  I am nearly knocked off balance as I dip into a deep curtsy. I’ve not heard my mother’s name spoken in years and I know it’s intentional.

  “Sit.” The Queen gestures to the chair across from her own.

  I sit. Eye contact is a sign of confrontation, so I keep my gaze slightly lowered to show my submission and obedience. My gloved hands ache to fidget, but I make myself lay them over one another in my lap.

  The Queen shows no such restraint. She scrutinizes every inch of me with a silence that leaves my limbs crawling to move. It’s a test to see if I can remain silent and still as I ought, and I can. I will. Two birds call to one another and somewhere below us water trickles, likely from a fountain.

  I don’t move a muscle. I am perfect.

  “I have heard a great deal about you, Lady Aubrey. Raised here at the palace until your father remarried. Then whisked away into relative obscurity and all kinds of speculative gossip. Though at least one of those rumors appears to be true.” She raises her brows and casts a meaningful look at my bare arms and the gold marking splattered across my skin like someone splashed me with liquid gilt.

  Skies, has the High Guard reported my gold blood to her already? Could she already suspect? I’ve been out in society for two weeks and already the lies and secrets are almost too heavy for me to bear. I dip my chin in a small nod to acknowledge her, but keep my lips pressed together. Silent. Still. Perfect.

  She raises her gaze and her words lash with sharp annunciation, “Why do you wish to wed my son?”

  I narrowly avoid flinching against the sharp cut of the Queen’s voice and instead draw in a careful breath. Clara drilled me on dozens of potential questions—this one included. “I wish only to honor the desires of His Highness, the Crown Prince. Should he find me his desire, it would honor my family, and my father’s memory, to serve however His Highness and Your Majesties ask of me.”

  Queen Ophelia settles back on her chair and fingers her teacup, her casual posture a glaring contrast to the rapid slice of her words. “Your father was awarded his title for contributions in the Great War, but he was peasantborn, making you of only half-noble blood. Given the recent disturbances, what message do you think it sends to these so-called ‘rebels’ if the Prince weds a vassal’s daughter?”

  My spine stiffens, and I flush with heat.

  A small smile curls the Queen’s lips.

  Skies, she knows she’s unsettled me. I ease my shoulders and focus. Rebels. Yes, I’m suddenly familiar with those. Does the Queen know about our recent assault? She probably does. They say she has eyes and ears everywhere in the kingdom. Hopefully none of the rooftops.

  “I should expect,” I begin slowly, trying to find words that make sense. Sweat trickles between my breasts. “Well—” I snap my mouth shut. ‘Well’ and ‘um’ are Clara’s forbidden words.

  Gold-painted nails tap the Queen’s cup. Not good.

  “I should expect… the peasants would see that, with great dedication to the Royal Family, marvelous things can happen. Wars end, peace spreads, and perhaps even love blossoms. My father fought for this kingdom, its people, and for the King. I should desire nothing greater in my lifetime than to do the same, as is the duty of all citizens, including its peasant class.” I suck in a desperate breath. Where did any of that come from? I try to replay it in my head and I’m not sure it makes any sense.

  Abel would probably laugh, bitter and mocking. Marvelous things don’t happen to people like him, like Farnell. But perhaps they can if I become Queen.

  “Look at me, child.”

  I slowly raise my gaze to the Queen’s bright and frightening blue eyes. They’re so much like the Prince’s, but electric, alive, and commanding. The urge to run crawls up my spine and it takes everything in me to hold the Queen’s gaze; instructions trump submission. I can barely breathe.

  “You look so like your mother.”

  It hits me like a blow to the gut and punches both air and unbidden words from my lungs, “You knew her?” I clench my jaw shut. Stupid, stupid, stupid to speak out of turn. I cannot allow mention of my mother to unhinge me so profoundly, especially when that’s clearly what she wants.

  She taps her fingers on the cup again, a sound that’s becoming grating, and her eyes take on a glint of emptiness, as if she’s looking inwards, remembering. “Yes, I knew her. We were friends, actually.”

  I still, and my chest grows rapidly tighter and tighter. Friends?

  She inspects the surface of her tea and her face twitches, almost in a grimace, but it disappears so quickly I can’t be sure I saw anything at all. She clears her throat and waves a dismissive, gold-taloned hand. “She, too, had lovely gold markings. It’s a pity she died birthing you. Now, I should think we’re finished here. You may return to the luncheon table with the others.”