Four days after my father and older brothers rode out with their bannermen from Kolmare, an injured dove flies to the castle rookery, seemingly out of the setting sun, bearing a bloodstained note.
I know with utter certainty as I run to receive it with terror, turning my blood to ice, that the only family left to me is dead.
My dreaded conviction isn’t due to a premonition, though I have seen glimpses of what might be from time to time. A final secret boon from my mother, Queen Opaline, before she passed as she brought me into the world—the gift of foresight and the ability to wield a faint, faint spark of the Old Magic that once flowed through the bloodlines of ancient kings and queens from long ages past.
However much superstitious folk might see the arcane to be a curse and call me a witch for being able to access such powers, it truly is a gift. I myself was wary once of the Old Magic flowing through my veins. I’ve since embraced it as one of my greatest strengths, weak as it might be compared to other gifts of the past.
No, my grim certainty is because my father and older brothers and their knights rode out under the white banner of peace to treat with Alfred the Crooked King, a ruthless warlord from the Isles of Trillioth. It’s been said that he earned his title because he took the throne of Trillioth by treachery, stabbing his elder brother in the back before claiming the title for himself. It’s also been said that he earned it from the number of crowns he wore—trophies from the heads of monarchs and matriarchs he killed. Their weight gave the warlord a crooked posture. I wouldn’t doubt either of those rumors to be true.
Long has that monster masked as a man sent his marauders in longboats from the eastern shores of the countries he’s conquered to burn and pillage our villages, towns, and cities along the western coast of the Sapphire Strait. Long have the valiant soldiers of Kolmare fought and died to protect our people from such wanton bloodshed and slavery.
Kolmare is not a large country, but our fields and vineyards are bountiful. We trade with neighboring countries for what provisions and materials we need, and have experienced a decade or so of relative peace, except for raids in the spring and summertime from the marauders of the Crooked King.
When given an unexpected opportunity to meet with Alfred the Crooked King and negotiate for peace, my father didn’t hesitate. Not even for a second. I warned him that presenting a banner of peace might not mean much to such an animal. Alfred was surely plotting treachery. He had done so in the past with different kings and dignitaries from other lands. He would undoubtedly do so again if given the chance.
My father knew that too. But he said it was a king’s duty to strive for peace with his enemies, no matter how slim the possibility of making it a reality. He claimed it was the responsibility that came from wearing the weight of the crown. I couldn’t fault him for his conviction. It was one of the qualities I loved and admired about my father.
However, while my father yearned for peace, he was no fool. He hadn’t survived three bloody civil wars in Kolmare by good fortune alone. That was why he rode out with my older brothers and their bannermen—a strong host of three hundred and one knights, brave and capable men and women all. They were battle-tested and true, some of the finest warriors Kolmare has ever seen. Their like will never be seen again.
I remember watching them from the castle ramparts as they rode down the faded red bricks of the Peasants’ Road, headed toward the coast where the Crooked King had landed on our western shores with his longboats, waiting for them.
The Peasants’ Road is a direct route to the capital, leading right to the throne itself. It’s been said that it was designed as such so that the people of Kolmare would always know the way to come before their king. Not every king in Kolmare’s long and storied history honored that, but my father did. He held court and invited our people to come present their requests and complaints before him. Another quality I loved and admired about him.
And now, three days after watching my father and older brothers and their bannermen ride away, I stand in the tall tower of the castle rookery, holding a bloodstained note with a trembling hand. The flutter of wings and cooing of doves surround me with a cacophony of noise.
I don’t recognize the hand that penned the note. A shaky cursive scrawl that is nearly illegible. Nearly. One of the bannermen, perhaps, or someone who rode out with them. It doesn’t matter who wrote it. The anonymous scribe’s brief message is all that matters. It confirms my worst fears.
The Crooked King and his men have betrayed the banner of peace. King Bertrand, Princes Corin and Eyden, and many of our bannermen are dead. The few survivors are routed. They are coming for Kolmare. I am sorry.
Oh, my father. Wise and gentle King Bertrand. I’d never hear his soft laughter or listen to his contemplative thoughts again. Oh, my brothers. Corin and Eyden… Corin had a beautiful voice; he sang often the ballads of Kolmare, and now he’d never sing again. Eyden was quiet, like me, and knew me best. He liked reading poetry from across the seas. Strange, that these were my thoughts at the moment. My family was dead.
“Princess Jocelin? What does it say?”
Hector, my father’s steward, stands at my side, peering over my shoulder. I barely register that he’s speaking to me. I’m having trouble comprehending the words scrawled on the note.
Hector was a brave and noble knight once, one of my father’s oldest bannermen, but a tragic accident during a tournament several decades ago left him with a permanent limp in his left leg and an inability to ride again. Ever since that day, he’s served my father faithfully as his advisor and steward. I suppose that he’s now my advisor—if either of us survives long enough for him to give me any advice.
Priscilla, my maidservant, stands on the other side of me. She’s been my constant companion and chaperone since my youth and has become as close to a sister as I’ll ever have. And now our relationship will undoubtedly change yet again.
“Princess?”
“Queen,” I find myself saying numbly.
As the youngest daughter of King Bertrand of Kolmare, with two brothers ahead of me, I might have married a Lord of Kolmare or some noble’s son from another land, but the throne of Kolmare was distant. Unattainable, even.
Queen Jocelin. The title sounds utterly foreign to my ears—and I hate it. I’ve never wanted to be a queen. What did I want to be? Growing up, I dreamed of becoming one of my father’s tacticians. An odd dream, perhaps, but it was mine. I studied military tactics, history, philosophy, and theories until I knew the books better than those who wrote them. But what we want isn’t what always comes to be. I knew that all too well. I certainly knew that now.
“What?”
I hand Hector the note without looking at his confused expression. I can’t bear to meet his gaze. After all his years of loyal service, I know he loves my father and older brothers, too. This will break him, as surely as it has broken me.
Beside me, Priscilla puts it together faster than Hector. She gasps sharply and puts her hand on my shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. Such a small gesture, but it means the world to me as my life crumbles around me. It’s all I can do not to fall to my knees as well. The faint pressure of her hand on my shoulder reminds me that even though my family is gone, I am not alone.
A lump forms in my throat. Tears brimming, I whisper, “Queen Jocelin. My father and brothers are dead.”
There’s no time for a coronation—and no sense in having one anyway. Not with the Crooked King and his marauders making their way down the Peasants’ Road to the capital, seeking another title and crown to add to the Crooked King’s collection. Nor is there enough time to properly mourn. The dead don’t care if we shed tears for them. Besides, it seemed like we’d be joining them soon enough anyway. I wear black—for my father and brothers, and perhaps even for myself.
At most, it was looking very likely that I’d be the Queen of Kolmare for less than three days. That’s how long it takes to reach the capital from the coast via the Peasants’ Road. And if the reports that my few scouts have gathered are accurate enough, the Crooked King and his marauders aren’t even slowing to pillage the countryside as they go. They have eyes only for the capital.
Growing up, my tutors told me I had a pessimistic outlook on life. I’ve always considered myself a realist. The thought of dying certainly isn’t desirable by any means, but I have no delusions that the Crooked King will let me live once he steals the crown and throne of Kolmare from my grip. That’s not pessimism, that’s just the cold, hard truth.
Regardless, wearing a thin band of woven gold from our treasury atop my brow, I assembled an impromptu war council of my father’s one-time advisors, tacticians, and retired soldiers to weigh our options early the morning of the second day before the twin suns rose.
For the time being, I’m still the Queen of Kolmare. I will do everything I can to defend my people until my final breath.
And now, it’s the night before the third day.
The seven of us sit, gathered around an oaken table. Maps are strewn about the table’s surface, tomes cracked open but discarded due to their unhelpfulness. Candles burn low, and the smell of sweet tobacco from Hector’s long-stem pipe fills the air. The atmosphere is understandably subdued. If not downright dismal. We’ve sat for hours, trying to figure out how to counteract the deadly threat looming on the distant horizon.
An outright confrontation is simply out of the question. With the murders of my father, older brothers, and their bannermen, Kolmare is left with a small fighting force of inexperienced youths and retired veterans. Opposing them on the field of war would be a bloodbath.
Perhaps guerrilla tactics would be enough to even the enormous odds against us. The capital of Kolmare has many side streets and alleyways along the Peasants’ Road. We could set up barriers and roadblocks with razor wire and traps. Several groups of archers moving from rooftop to rooftop could theoretically thin out the Crooked King’s marauders and slow their advance upon Castle Kolmare—possibly even dissuade them from attempting to claim the throne for the Crooked King.
But that plan relies heavily on a fighting force of skilled archers that we just don’t have. By all estimates, the Crooked King and his battle-tested marauders outnumber my few men-and-women-at-arms at least thirty to one. They might fall for an ambush once, maybe twice, but after that, they’d grow wise to our tricks and traps. They might start burning down buildings, and innocent people would get caught in the crossfire. And then our futile resistance would be swiftly crushed.
What option was left to us? Bend the knee and beg for some semblance of peace? Bending the knee only made it easier to be beheaded. Besides, unchecked, the Crooked King and his marauders would tear through our communities, burning and pillaging as they went. At best, they’d enslave the good people of Kolmare. At worst… could a harsh and humiliating existence even be called living? Death would be better.
My father’s words echo in my ears as I sit, listening to my gathered advisors clutching at straws, trying to come up with a plan of survival. It’s a king’s duty to strive for peace with his enemies, no matter how slim the possibility of making it a reality, Joceline.
He’d been smiling at me as he spoke those words, but there was sorrow in his eyes. Pain. Loss. The burdens of leadership and the weight of such duty and responsibility were by no means light on my father’s back. Yet he carried them willingly. Gladly, even. Those words, difficult as they were, were his creed, an oath of sorts, like those taken by the knights sworn to his service. They made him the good king and the even better man that he was.
“I am no king,” I whisper to the memory of my father as I feel the weight of the woven band of gold on my brow. Fear works its icy fingers towards my heart, and my breath catches in my throat. I clench my hand into a fist to stop it from shaking. “And even if I were, Papa, peace isn’t an option with the Crooked King.”
“What did you say, my Queen?”
Hector sits at my right hand. His once-black hair, now silver, is unkempt, his normally cleanshaven cheeks bear a day’s worth of stubble, his fine clothes are wrinkled, and the dark bags under his eyes all tell me the man hasn’t slept much since we got the news. I haven’t either.
Over the past day and a half, I’ve stayed awake longer than I should, desperately trying to find the answer—the solution that will take care of our problems and free us from the terrible jaws of death and defeat closing ever quickly around our throats. I haven’t found it. No theory, no history lesson, no philosophy, no military tactic I ever learned in one of my studies has proven helpful. Not one.
So why were my father’s whispered words—his self-imposed creed of honor and responsibility—stuck in my brain? Those words had sealed his doom. He strove for peace with his enemy for the sake of his people, and all it brought him and my brothers and their bannermen was an early grave.
Had the Crooked King known? Had he known that my father’s fatal flaw was his desire for peace and exploited it to my father’s demise? Almost certainly.
A chill runs down my spine, and I freeze in my seat. If the Crooked King had known my father’s fatal flaw, there was a chance, however slim, that he might think me, Bertrand’s only daughter, to be burdened with the same noble desire. If he came to such an erroneous assumption, that would be an opening, a vulnerability that I can exploit. But I’ll need help if my plan is to succeed.
“My Queen?” Hector speaks again, gently.
Startled from my thoughts, I look up at my gathered war council of advisors, tacticians, and retired soldiers past their prime.
None of us is the best person for the positions we’ve found ourselves in. But we’re the only people left to take a stand against the Crooked King and his marauders. And we’re exactly the right people needed if I plan to succeed.
“What would you have us do, Your Majesty?” Hector sets down his pipe and straightens in his chair next to me.
All of their eyes are now on me. I see it in their expressions, some filled with wearied resignation, others with pity, and still others with fear-filled despair. They think we are out of options. They think we are all going to die.
Perhaps they’re even wondering whether I will command them to die needlessly for me while I make a cowardly escape to a neighboring country. It’s been done before by those who claim to be nobility.
“My father always said that it’s a king’s duty to strive for peace with his enemies, no matter how slim the possibility of making it a reality. He and my brothers lived by those words. They died by them too.”
I pause and look down as grief, unwanted and unbidden, threatens to overwhelm me. Then, I clear my throat and lift my chin, remembering that I am now the sovereign head of Kolmare. These are my people, my subjects. While I may be my father’s daughter, I am not my father. I am me. And I will have to be enough to see us through the horrors drawing near with tomorrow’s dawn. I have to be. It’s my responsibility, my burden to bear. When I speak again, my voice is still soft, but strong. Matriarchal, even.
“I am no king. And even if I were, peace isn’t an option with the ilk of the Crooked King.”
“That much is clear. So what would you have us do, Your Majesty? Fight in the streets? I can’t promise you victory, but I can promise that we’ll make the Crooked King pay in blood for every step he takes in Kolmare.”
Sabine, an elderly veteran who served alongside Hector, speaks up. She was an archer in my father’s army once. I hoped she still had the skill to fire her crossbow. Her gray hair is cut short, and a dreadful scar beneath her left eye runs a jagged course down to her jawline. Other women might have tried to disguise such an injury, but not Sabine. She bears it proudly. She received it in service to her king and country. And with wearied resignation, she makes it clear that she’s willing to sacrifice even more.
I’m already shaking my head. “No. Open resistance is futile. We don’t have the numbers, and I won’t throw your lives away.”
“If not open resistance, then what?” Hector asks.
I hesitate. Then, taking a deep breath, I tell my gathered advisors, tacticians, and veteran soldiers the first part of the plan I have concocted. “Deception. We let the Crooked King approach, unhindered and unchecked. Once he and his marauders are in the city proper, we present him with a flag of peace and ask him to meet with me, alone in the castle, to discuss the terms of surrender. He won’t come alone, of course, but the request will intrigue him; throw him off guard. He’ll come to gloat and quite possibly kill me where I stand. But we’ll be waiting for him. And when he least expects it, that’s when we kill the Crooked King.”
Even without their shocked expressions, I know that they need more—more proof and assurance that their young, grieving Queen has not lost her mind or her backbone. Because I know. My plan is a desperate gamble. Its success depends entirely on the Crooked King underestimating his enemy. What if I am underestimating mine? But what other choice do we have?
I drum my fingers against the hardwood table we’ve gathered our war council around. As I do, I concentrate and beads of sweat form on my brow. Then I summon the faint spark of the Old Magic flowing through my veins, that final secret gift from a mother I never knew. And the candle on the table in front of me flickers for a moment, then vanishes from sight. It reappears a moment later with a snap of my fingers, making it clear that the illusory trick was done by my hand.
Hector draws in a sharp breath, surprised, and then looks thoughtful. Sabine smiles knowingly and inclines her head respectfully, but other members of the war council look slightly rattled, even those veteran soldiers among them who’ve seen the horrors of war.
As I said, the Old Magic has long been forgotten by our world. Only distant, weakened remnants of it remain. Rumors greatly exaggerate the abilities and reputations of those who work with such arcane powers. Rare are those blessed with such gifts. Rarer still do those folks reveal their gifts as I have. All my life, I’ve kept it hidden, even from Priscilla, who knows me better than anyone else. Only my father and brothers knew what I could do. Until now.
It isn’t powerful magic by any means, and that’s not my humility speaking. It’s not like the cataclysmic, world-ending magic wielded by archmages in the storybooks. That kind of powerful magic has been lost to the ages. The magic I wield is the sort that can disguise the presence of objects, such as that of a candle on a table in a darkened room. An illusory trick no better or stronger than a mummer’s farce. But it’s my magic, and it gives us an edge, perhaps the only chance at survival that the Crooked King will hopefully never see coming. Quite literally.
I turn to Hector. My father’s advisor and one-time knight still wears that thoughtful expression. Calculating. Contemplative. Weighing the odds. He smokes his pipe and then runs his fingers through his graying hair. Finally, he asks, “How much larger an area can you affect with the Old Magic than what you used to hide the candle?”
I smile at him because he has already guessed at my intent. Sabine, too, smiles. The wearied resignation is gone from the former archer’s expression, replaced by a faint glimmer of hope.
“Large enough of one,” I say.
Hector nods slowly and then smiles. “Well, Your Majesty, perhaps we’d better hear the rest of your plan. What happens after we kill the Crooked King?”
The throne room of Castle Kolmare is breathtaking. Stained-glass windows flank the marble hall, depicting scenes from the storied past of Kolmare. Scenes of valiant knights in battle, vanquishing their foes. Scenes of brave and clever heroes that we still sing about in taverns late into the night. If I survive to see another day, I will commission another window to be made—one of my father, older brothers, and their bannermen, brave and valiant men and women all.
At the end of the hall, on a simple dais, raised three steps above the main floor, is the throne of Kolmare. It was never meant to be elevated greatly, because no ruler should ever be so far above their people. Kings and queens throughout the ages of Kolmare have sat upon that emerald-veined throne of stone and ruled. Behind and above the throne is another stained-glass window. The afternoon light streams in through it with iridescent beams falling across the marble floor of the throne room.
I’m not sitting on the throne as I wait for the Crooked King to make his entrance. No, I sit at the foot of the steps, looking out toward the open throne room doors. I have a different part to play than that of a matriarch.
Everything and everyone is ready.
The Crooked King expects to find a broken and defeated young woman, not a brave and confident queen. So that’s what he’ll find: a young woman wearing mourning clothes and no crown atop her head. So often we see what we want to see, after all.
To be fair, my fear as I sit there waiting is very real. I don’t have to act in that regard. My hands tremble and my heartbeat pounds in my chest. The ice-cold prickly sensation of adrenaline courses through my veins, and I taste copper in my mouth. Sweat beads on my forehead, but that has nothing to do with my fear.
If all is going according to our plan, Hector will have already met with the Crooked King under the white banner of peace at the city gate, parlaying for the surrender of Kolmare to the warlord from the Isles of Trillioth. If fate smiles upon us, Hector will have already convinced the Crooked King to meet with me alone and discuss the terms. If not… Well, I have already resigned myself to a short-lived reign as queen.
From where I sit, I look around the throne room one last time. Everything looks to be in order. Everything looks to be in its proper place. I wipe my palms on the sides of my black dress and breathe out slowly as I hear voices echo outside the throne room. This is it. And then I see them swaggering down the main hall—Alfred the Crooked King and six of his marauders, my family’s murderers.
I planned on the Crooked King coming with at least some sort of retinue, and he doesn’t disappoint. Only a fool would rush into an enemy’s castle alone, and while Alfred the Crooked King was certainly brash, he was no fool. With my peripheral gaze, I observe them and do not underestimate them.
His marauders are brutish, wild-looking men with rough beards and darkly tattooed forearms. They wear scraps of armor cobbled together like grim trophies displayed from the various nations they’ve conquered, and their weapons are sharp and drawn. By reputation, they are fiercely intelligent and highly skilled as their warlord’s vanguard, and they will die before he can spill a drop of blood. At least, that is their intent. But it is not mine.
I keep my gaze downcast when all I want to do is look directly at the Crooked King, the monster that murdered my family under a white banner of peace. I bide my time, knowing that when I finally meet his gaze, I will exact my vengeance for my fallen family and countrymen. I wait for my enemy to speak. When he does, it takes everything within me to maintain my concentration and hold my anger in check.
“I came expecting a fight—some weak and pathetic resistance, at least. But sending that old cripple to treat with me, begging for peace and mercy?” The Crooked King turns and spits upon the marble floor of the throne room with a scowl. “I guess the only true warriors Kolmare had to offer fell to our blades three days ago.”
I finally look up, and my blood runs cold. He’s wearing my father’s crown. I’d recognize it anywhere. I last saw my father wearing it as he rode down the Peasants’ Road to make peace with the monster now standing before me.
The Crooked King wears several crowns—at least that part of the rumor is true—but he stands tall and proud. His garb is armor similar in design to his vanguard, but his longsword is still sheathed at his side. He has long, dark hair tied back and kept free of his clean-shaven face. His features are cruel, and his eyes glint with disdain as he sneers at me.
“You must be Bertrand’s daughter… What was your name again? Joceline, was it?” The Crooked King stops twenty paces away from me and folds his arms across his chest. He surveys me, contempt in his expression. “Not much to look at, are you? I can see why your father hasn’t married you off yet. Shame—you might have survived this if he had.”
Heat rises, and my cheeks flush, but I keep my voice level and even-tempered as I speak. “The man who met you in the city streets under a white banner of peace—does he still live?”
The Crooked King raises an eyebrow. “The cripple? He still lives. There’s no sport in killing a man who can’t walk, much less run away.”
I can’t tell if he’s trying to rattle me with his harsh words, or if that’s truly what he thinks. Regardless, I straighten. Relief warms my heart at the news that Hector still lives. Beads of sweat drip from my forehead, falling to the marble floor of the throne room, as I stand with my hands at my sides. Not yet. I can hold on just a while longer. “Good. If you had killed him, I wouldn’t be giving you an opportunity now to leave my queendom while you still draw breath.”
“Are you mad, girl?” The Crooked King sneers at me. “I killed your father and brothers myself—cut them down where they stood. They put up a fight at least. Whereas you… You’re just a pathetic little girl who only sits on a throne because of me.”
“True,” I say with a calm that I don’t feel. “I would not be in this position right now if not for you.” I raise my hands at my sides. “But this pathetic little girl will see you dead at my feet before you can even speak another word.”
A long pause. And then, the Crooked King and his marauders start laughing. Their mirth is mocking as they look about the throne room. I’m clearly unarmed, and there’s no one else but them in sight.
They’re still laughing as I lower my hands and, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, a crossbow bolt hurtles down from the dais above me and buries itself in the Crooked King’s chest with a sickening crunch. The warlord from the Isles of Trillioth stumbles backwards, and the laughter dies on his lips.
I snap my fingers, and the illusion I wove behind me with the light streaming in from the stained-glass window above the throne vanishes. I want the Crooked King to know his executioner. Immediately, Sabine comes into view from where she crouches, mostly hidden by the emerald throne. She holds a second crossbow, already loaded with another deadly bolt. Behind the six marauders, Hector leads a group of veteran soldiers into the throne room, armed and armored. We have them cut off and outnumbered, three to one.
The Crooked King falls to his knees, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. His eyes are wide with pained shock. I hold his gaze as the light fades from his eyes, and a cold and quiet fury dampens in my chest. Alfred, the Crooked King of Trillioth, conqueror of a handful of countries, and murderer of my family, lies dead on the throne room floor. His blood slowly stains the white marble red.
I turn to face his vanguard, still stunned at the abrupt ambush and assassination of their liege lord. Some look shocked, others gnash their teeth, faces twisted in grim snarls of rage. “Witch!” one of them howls, but two of the older marauders look warily about the room, recognizing the precarious position they suddenly find themselves in.
I raise my hand, ready to signal to Sabine that she should let another bolt fly. After that, Hector and his soldiers will charge in to finish off the remaining marauders. That was our plan. But I hesitate as a brief premonition flashes before my eyes, the other secret boon from my mother.
Kolmare burns. Its towns and cities lie in ruin. Marauders from Trillioth run rampant through the countryside—vengeance and retribution for their fallen king. My advisors and friends lie dead before the throne. Sabine. Hector. Priscilla. Their expressions are accusatory in death as I behold them.
I blink and shake my head slightly, trying to clear the vision from my head. Could such a grim fate be avoided? The future is not set in stone after all. Would killing these marauders, along with the Crooked King, set these events in motion or deter them?
As I hesitate, my father’s gentle words echo once more in my mind. It’s a king’s duty to strive for peace with his enemies, no matter how slim the possibility of making it a reality.
Could peace truly be an option now that the Crooked King was dead? If I am wrong about this… I will have doomed my people to death and my nation to destruction. But to honor my father’s memory and legacy, I need to try.
I straighten my posture, and all traces of fear vanish from my voice, though it still very much remains in my heart.
“Sheath your weapons if you do not wish to join your master where he lies. I’d rather not shed your blood as well, but if that is your wish, we’ll happily oblige. You’ll find that you didn’t murder all of the warriors in Kolmare three days ago.”
After another long pause, the marauders sheath their weapons, one after another, and an uneasy tension fills the room. I feel Sabine’s eyes on my back, and Hector looks confused. This is not our plan. However, my people thankfully follow their queen’s direction and do not attack the Crooked King’s vanguard.
“Where do we go from here, then?” One of the marauders, an older man with one eye, asks, his guttural voice echoing in the now-quiet throne room.
My mind is racing as I try to think of what will come next. Now that I’ve started down this course, I have no choice but to continue following it.
“You six may take the Crooked King’s body when you leave my throne room. My crown stays, though. Then you’ll take the rest of your marauding band back to your longboats, row across the Sapphire Strait to the lands you’ve already conquered, and you’ll never come back to the shores of my country again.”
“And what’s stopping us from walking out of here and just coming back with the rest of our forces?” the same man speaks again.
A fair question. Bold of him to voice such thoughts, but perhaps he didn’t understand why I would be foolish enough to spare their lives. I pause, thinking quickly. Then an idea takes shape in my mind. A desperate gamble, but what did we have to lose?
“Nothing at all. But tell me… How long do you think it will take for word to reach the countries you’ve conquered that the Crooked King is dead?”
“What?”
I look at the marauders coldly. “How long do you think it will take? Two days at most as the crow flies to the farthest nation? I have five dozen doves in the castle rookery—twelve for each of the counties your king conquered. Messages announcing the Crooked King’s death are already written and waiting to be sent out. Only a word from me will stop them now. You might kill us all and burn Kolmare to the ground, but if you cross the Sapphire Strait, you’ll land on shores not nearly as hospitable to you anymore. You’ll have no country to which you can safely return—none except your own, and I doubt the Isles of Trillioth will remain safe for long.”
Here, I hesitate again. “Unless…”
I see realization slowly dawning in their expressions. I don’t dare look at Hector or anyone else. I might give my blatant deception away.
“Unless what?” The marauder’s spokesman folds his arms across his chest.
“Unless I don’t send out the doves,” I say. “If you leave now, I’ll give you the time you need to cross through your conquered countries and return to Trillioth or wherever else you and your marauders wish to go. Word will undoubtedly get out that the Crooked King is dead, but not nearly as quickly—and it won’t be coming from Kolmare. The deal is off, however, if I get word that you’ve raided or ransacked any of my people’s villages or settlements along the way to the coast.”
“Why should we trust you to hold up your end of the deal?” Another member of the vanguard speaks. His voice is softer than his companion’s guttural tone.
“My father often said that it is a king’s duty to strive for peace with his enemies, no matter how slim the possibility of making it a reality. Making peace with the Crooked King was impossible. Don’t tell me that’s true for you, too. If you leave now, I promise there will be peace between Trillioth and Kolmare. You will have at least one nation not seeking your ruin once word gets out that the Crooked King has fallen. You have my word as Queen of Kolmare.”
My rational argument gets through to them. I see several nodding, and the marauders huddle up to speak in low, hushed tones amongst themselves for several moments. Then, the one-eyed veteran speaks again.
“We accept your most gracious offer, Queen Joceline.”
Relief floods through me, but I keep my expression neutral as I nod. Turning to address Hector and the other soldiers, I say, “Let them pass unhindered.” And to the marauders, “You have three days to return peaceably to your longboats. Know that we’ll be watching the whole way. Now get out of my throne room.”
The one-eyed marauder removes my father’s crown from the Crooked King’s head, placing it on the marble floor at my feet. He looks up at me with a respectful expression and speaks with tact. “The Crooked King underestimated you. The next ruler of Trillioth will not—nor will they forget your mercy.”
Then he joins the rest of his kin, and they carry their master’s body between them, bearing it on their shoulders as they leave. Hector and my soldiers let the marauders from Trillioth pass unhindered. Sabine keeps her crossbow trained on them, but does not fire. Hector nods to one of his men, and the veteran soldier slips away quietly, following our enemies from a distance.
The echoes of the marauders’ booted feet finally fade away, and the throne room is still filled with a tense and uncomfortable silence while we wait. Finally, Hector speaks, his voice tight with fading adrenaline. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, what happened to following the plan?”
I don’t speak of my premonition. “I feared that if we killed the Crooked King’s vanguard, as we originally planned, we would risk unavoidable retaliation from the rest of his marauders. I apologize for the improvisation, but I figured this might be the best chance we had at surviving.”
Hector runs his fingers through his hair. “Well… We’ll see soon enough if you were right.”
After that, no one says anything. Sabine finally lowers her crossbow. Hector packs his pipe and starts smoking. I sink to sit on the steps of the dais leading up to the emerald throne and stare at the blood that pooled where the Crooked King fell.
We’re all thinking the same thing. Will the marauders return with the rest of their forces, despite their promise? Are bloodshed and death mere moments away? Or will my premonition not come to pass?
Half an hour passes, and still, the marauders do not return.
Hector’s man finally sends word that the forces from Trillioth have left the capital. He’ll follow them all the way to the coast to ensure that they keep their word and leave in their longboats, but it seems that, against all odds, we’ve somehow escaped from the jaws of death and defeat.
I exhale shakily and put my head in my hands, finally letting myself feel the mix of emotions I’ve held in check for so long. When I look up, my people are kneeling in front of me with respect and homage in their expressions. Hector and the other soldiers have their fists pressed against their breastplates in salute.
“Rise,” I say, lifting my hands, and they all clamber to their feet.
Hector takes my father’s crown—my crown—from the marble floor and presents it to me. I hesitate, knowing what comes next. There’ll be no going back. Then I kneel in front of my steward and feel the weight of the golden band as he places it on my head. I raise my head and face my people.
“All hail, Queen Joceline,” Hector barks, returning to his military days.
“Hail, Queen Joceline!” The cheer echoes throughout the throne room, followed by resounding applause and whistles.
“Long live the queen!”
“Long live the queen!”
Queen Joceline…
I still don’t like the sound of it. As I stand in front of my people, I don’t receive another premonition, but I know that a long and dangerous road lies ahead of my queendom. Even as we grieve for our fallen countrymen and women, the people of Kolmare must move forward. And quickly. We’ve cut the head off the snake of Trillioth by killing the Crooked King—but the fallout from that retributive act will have drastic effects upon the rest of the world. It will undoubtedly affect us as well.
I’m the Queen of Kolmare. I will honor my family’s memory and legacy with my reign. And I will do everything I can to defend my queendom until my final breath. Not by myself, but with the people around me.
The weight of the crown on my head is unfamiliar and heavy, but to my surprise, I find that I can bear it.
