The Queen's Blade Read online



  The Queen’s Blade

  T C Southwell

  Copyright © 2010 T C Southwell

  Disclaimer

  Please note that this is the first book of a series, but the remainder of the series is not available for free.

  This series is dedicated to my sister-in-law, Suzanne.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Prologue

  In the time of Shamsara, Idol of the Beasts, on the world of Chasym, favoured of the great god Tinsharon, Queen Minna-Satu, beloved of the Jashimari, took power upon her mother’s deathbed. Tashi-Mansa, Elder Queen of the Jashimari, died two days later from the poison she had taken, and was duly interred within the royal tomb. On the day of her coronation, Minna-Satu stood upon the Plinth of Power and declared herself sworn to her people and the Endless War. Her declaration, however, proved different from those who had gone before her, for she vowed to bring an end to the eternal conflict.

  Of the vast crowd that cheered and celebrated her ascension, many went away muttering darkly of her vow, unable to envision a world without war, an economy unspurred by the dark trades of death and weaponry. The Jashimari and the desert people of the Cotti had been at war for eight generations at least, some said longer, and none could remember its beginning or the reason for it. All that was known was that each successive queen was sworn to continue it, and every boy who reached manhood must fight in it, save those of high rank.

  The seasoned warriors gathered before the golden palace to witness the new Queen’s pledge raised their white-plumed spears in salute, and the populace beyond their ranks roared in adulation, as if her words had not reached them. In truth, the day’s celebrations, the music, marching, chanting and priestly exhortations to the faithful, brushed this oddity from most people’s minds much as a spider web is swept from its dusty corner by a housewife’s broom. Some, with more ordered minds, noted it, wondered at it, and filed it away, while others wrote it down in texts and records. A few penned it on notes that swift, feathered messengers flew across the land, into the hands of the enemy king.

  Upon receiving the first of these messages, King Shandor of the Cotti laughed uproariously and handed it to his eldest son. Prince Kerrion read it and tossed it aside, his countenance sombre. Shandor shook his head, still chuckling, and gazed at the sea of armoured warriors that surrounded his desert camp, an unstoppable tide of brawn marching inexorably towards the mountains that guarded Jashimari lands. There they would hurl themselves against the defenders’ ramparts in waves of bloody combat in the time-honoured way.

  Thus, with Queen Minna-Satu’s declaration, began a time that would be remembered always. A time of sorrow and pain, of struggle and sacrifice; a time that would be named after the man who brought it about: the time of the Queen’s Blade.

  Chapter One

  Queen Minna-Satu stood and gazed at the gathered advisors for a moment before flicking aside her heavy, gold-patterned silver cloak and sinking onto the curved golden bench that was her throne. The advisors remained standing, each clad in the robes of his or her office, the colour varying according to their beast, some with their familiars. Many wore skins or feathers from their beast kin, but most shunned the out-dated practice and made do with rich cloth. Behind them, gaudily clad lords, ladies and courtiers lined the walls, their aristocratic faces set in expressions of haughty reverence well-practised over the years. Their rich garb, most picked out with silver and gold, glittered as they shifted under the Queen’s gaze.

  The massive golden audience chamber gleamed in the light of many torches and candles. Each gilded surface lighted others with its glow, reflecting the radiance into every corner, so that the very air seemed to shimmer. An occasional pale glitter of silver relieved the endless gold, but this was rare, for silver required polishing and the queens had ever disliked it. The taxes gleaned from her people, paid in gold, had, over the years, clad almost every inch of this vast building, there being no other use for it. The opulence of the surroundings was lost upon those who dwelt within the palace, well used to treading golden floors and eating with jewel-encrusted cutlery. The silence hung leaden upon the air, unbroken save for the flaring torches’ hiss and the occasional scrape of a shifting foot.

  Queen Minna-Satu raised her six-foot sceptre and brought it down with a dull clink. On cue, her mother’s chief advisor, Mendal of the snakes, stepped forward and prostrated himself. She waited a full minute before allowing him to rise, and he did so red-faced.

  “My Queen.”

  “Snake, you may speak.”

  The tiny green adder that coiled about his neck hissed, and he stroked it. “You must retract your earlier promise of ending the war, My Queen. Your people wonder at it, as do we. It cannot be taken seriously, and is unwise to even speak of -”

  “Enough.” Minna rose and released the sceptre, which a hovering attendant caught. Shucking the heavy cloak, she stepped down from the dais. Over her floor-sweeping gown of sheer indigo satin trimmed with gold, she wore a form-hugging sheath of golden mail, so finely woven as to be as malleable as cloth. She strolled closer to the old man.

  Diamonds dripped from her midnight hair like frosted spider webs; pearls nestled in the hollow of her throat and hung in gleaming drops from her delicate earlobes. Mendal’s wrinkled features remained impassive, but his cold eyes watched her as a cobra might eye an approaching rat. She stopped before him, an equal in height, and met his faded green gaze with a stare of profound chill.

  “Do not presume to tell me what to do.” Her soft words whispered around the chamber, and the adder wriggled down Mendal’s back, taking refuge in his oiled snakeskin robe.

  “You may have been my mother’s favourite,” Minna-Satu went on, “but you are not mine. You and she were kindred spirits, snakes both, as close as twined vipers. But you shall not find such intimacy with me, or such favour. I am no snake, but of cat kind I claim kin. No friend of snakes. Do not presume that your aged mien and former position holds any merit with me now. You advised my mother ill, and through you, many a young man found his death.”

  She addressed the assembly. “Mendal is no longer chief advisor. Those who would petition for the position may step forward now to be considered.”

  A dozen advisors stepped from the ranks and prostrated themselves with a rustle of robes. A flick of the Queen’s fingers made them rise, and she approached the nearest, casting a considering eye over his handsome, muscled person clad mostly in feathers.

  “Jasham of the eagles; I wish to stop the Endless War, advise me.”

  For a full minute he stared at her, speechless, and, as he opened his mouth, she waved him back.

  “I have no time for those too slow of wit to find an answer before my patience ends.”

  Jasham retreated, and she approached the next. “Moret of the dogs. What is your answer?”

  The stocky, middle-aged man regarded her with kindly eyes. The big dog beside him sat patiently. “It is not possible, My Queen.”

  “I did not ask if it was possible, Moret. Nothing can be said to be impossible unless it has been attempted. Has it?”

  “No, Majesty.”

  “Then it is not impossible.” She waved him back and walked past, stopping before th
e next candidate. “Megan of the ferrets, advise me.”

  The sharp-faced woman’s black eyes darted. “We must gather our armies into a mighty force and defeat the upstart king.”

  Minna sighed. “If this was possible, it would have been done already. Defeating the desert kings, we have learnt, is impossible, although ending the war may not be.” She returned to the centre of the room and addressed them all. “I tire of foolish notions better suited to simpletons. Let the one amongst you who has a worthy idea advise me.”

  After a brief, tense silence, during which the tension in the chamber rose, one of the candidates took a step forward. The Queen’s eyes raked the pretty countenance of a girl in her late teens. Curly chestnut hair framed a gentle face in which soft blue-grey eyes lowered respectfully under the Queen’s gaze. She lacked true beauty in its purest form, her mouth a little too wide, her eyes over large in a face that did not possess patrician lines, but held a hint of strength.

  Minna approached her. “Chiana of the doves, advise me.”

  “You must heed the council of Shamsara, My Queen.”

  Minna frowned. “What is this? You pass your task on?”

  “Only he will know the answer.”

  “It is forbidden for the Queen to consult seers.”

  “It is the Queen who makes the laws.”

  Minna’s frown melted away, and she smiled. “That is correct. But why do you consider Shamsara to have the answer?”

  “He can see the future. We cannot.”

  “True. I will think on this advice, but what is yours, for my question?”

  Chiana bowed her head, stroking the grey dove that nestled in her hands. “If we cannot defeat the desert kings, nor they us, we must call a truce.”

  “A truce.” Minna nodded, turning away to retrace her steps to the throne. Seated upon it once more, she gazed at Chiana. “A truce,” she repeated. “And should I send you, Chiana, to negotiate it?”

  The girl’s shoulders hunched. “If you will, My Queen.”

  “Shandor will laugh in your face and then give you to his soldiers for sport. You would not survive the ordeal.”

  “Doubtless, My Queen.”

  “A waste. I desire your council. You shall be senior advisor henceforth.” The advisors stepped back, all save Chiana, who replaced Mendal before her. “Summon Shamsara to me now,” Minna ordered a hovering attendant, who spun on his heel and trotted away. She faced her audience once more. “Have any of you anything else to say?”

  Mendal said, “Shamsara will not come, My Queen. You cannot summon the Idol of the Beasts. If you wish to consult him, you will have to travel to him.”

  “Indeed?” Minna raised her brows. “We shall see. Shamsara pleases himself in these matters. Do not think me ignorant of the ways of the Idol of the Beasts, Mendal.” She rose to her feet. “This audience is over.”

  Minna walked out, leaving her bevy of lords and advisors in the act of prostrating themselves. Some completed the ritual, others straightened the moment she was out of sight.

  Mendal was one such, and frowned at the man beside him, plucking at his olive green robes with agitated, bony fingers. “She takes too much upon herself. She will fail.”

  Symion of the horses straightened from completing his prostration and shrugged. “Perhaps, but if it is her wish to try, no one will gainsay her.”

  “Indeed not, yet this is not a good course to be set upon.”

  “Ending the war sounds like an excellent notion to me, Mendal.”

  “Only if we do not lose it in the process. The great Queen Janna-Maru had good reason to forbid consulting seers. When the queens attempted it, there were disastrous results. Would Queen Minna-Satu, through Chiana’s foolish council, plunge us back into those dark days? The future is not set; it may be changed, yet, in doing so, often it is changed for the worse. I feel that no good can come of this.”

  Symion gazed at Mendal with soft brown eyes, his placid countenance reflecting the peaceful nature of his animal kin. “Perhaps our queen does not seek to change the future, but merely to be guided by it. Perhaps it is different now. No seer has been consulted since then, and that was a very different time. If our queen wishes to find a way to end this war, we must hope and pray she will.”

  Mendal shot Symion a hard look and raised an arm to summon the new chief advisor. “Chiana, I would speak to you.”

  When she approached, Mendal addressed her in a condescending manner. “Your new duties include finding consorts for the Queen, and you should set out immediately for the armies. She may take many moons to choose one from amongst them, you know.”

  Chiana smiled. “I know. In fact, the duty is not mine alone, and in this I nominate you and Symion to journey to the armies. The Queen needs me beside her right now, but I doubt she needs you.”

  Mendal bristled at the slight and accorded her a mocking bow. “Of course, Chief Advisor; I shall do my best.”

  “Good. Try to choose plenty of cats, or at least warm-blooded men. You know how she hates snakes.”

  He narrowed his eyes, raking her slender form with a disparaging look. “Well, we all know how much cats like birds; especially doves.”

  Chiana scowled and swung away. Mendal smiled coldly at her back as she strode after the Queen.

  Symion said, “It is ill advised to insult her now. She has the Queen’s ear.”

  “I said nothing that was not true.”

  “Even so, you should watch your step. We have a new queen, who already dislikes you. And, with her, doubtless, a new set of intrigues and subterfuges. There will be much jockeying amongst the advisors, and many moons before we know where any of them stand. Perhaps leaving the palace now would be beneficial, for we will not be amongst those who fall foul of a knife in the back.”

  Mendal grunted, glancing around at the muttering throng, most of which shuffled from the vast room. “I know where some of them stand, and now I will not be here to ensure their continued loyalty to me, which is perhaps worse than the risk of a knife. While we are away, Chiana will have much time to influence them.”

  “Or find a knife in her back.”

  Queen Minna-Satu reached the sanctuary of her rooms and sank onto a pile of gilt-edged satin cushions. Since her coronation two days ago, her new duties had drained her, coming as they did so soon after her mother’s interment and the cessation of the tolling of the great golden bell that had mourned the Elder Queen’s demise for the three days it had taken her to die. The sadness of her mother’s death was tinged with a hint of guilty relief, for they had never agreed upon matters of importance.

  A handmaiden approached to enquire after the Queen’s wishes, and Minna ordered a bath. When the girl left, Minna’s eyes drifted to a corner of the room, where a pair of the palest green met them. The huge sand cat lolled on a cushion, her chin resting on her paws. Her pale golden hide, dappled with an intricate pattern of white, dark gold and black, shimmered in the sunlight that streamed through the window. Minna longed to run her hands over that silken fur and caress the sleek muscles that rippled just beneath it.

  Shista rose and limped to her, rubbing her cheek against Minna’s thigh. The Queen hugged the cat’s neck, and then ran her hands over Shista’s soft coat. The cat, easily ten feet long and weighing more than four times as much as her friend, flopped down like a kitten and batted at her with great paws. One bore the scar that made her limp, a narrow band of bare skin just behind her toes. Minna took the paw and rubbed that scar, remembering its infliction, and how she had found her cat.

  Five years before, Minna had travelled to the desert, where her troops had gained an area beyond the mountains and held it against Shandor’s attacks. For a tenday, she had observed the constant battles, which gained a few arid miles one day, then lost them the next. Her presence had spurred the troops to great feats of courage, but the desert King had held his ground in the end and forced her warriors back.

  During the retreat, she and a group of her personal guard had ente
red a narrow canyon with crumbling walls. Leading them, Minna had almost been unseated when her horse shied violently.

  Minna controlled the beast and dismounted to approach the reason for its fear. A young sand cat, maybe a year old, maybe less, lay dying on the rocks. She still had a cub’s brown stripes, and her dull hide was stretched over prominent bones. Although she regarded the Princess with blazing eyes and snarled her defiance, she could not flee. The reason for her plight was a front paw trapped amongst the stones, crushed by a recent rock fall. Days of lying in the sun without food or water had reduced her to skin and bones, and suffering filled her eyes with madness.

  “Be careful, Princess,” a soldier warned, but she approached the cat, which spat and bared her fangs, growling deep in her chest. Minna reached out to stroke her coat, and the cat whipped around and bit Minna’s hand with bruising force. A soldier notched an arrow and drew it.

  Minna murmured, “You fire that arrow, and I shall personally cut out your heart.”

  An officer knocked the weapon from the soldier’s hands, and all waited as Minna crouched beside the cat. Their eyes met and held, blue and pale green, locked in a battle of wills for a length of time that gave the soldiers ample opportunity to start sweating. At last, the cat released the Princess’ hand and licked it, then flopped onto her side as if ready to die. Minna examined the red marks on her hand and smiled. Within minutes, the soldiers moved the rock, and Minna gave the cat water and dried meat before they were forced to leave her as Shandor’s men drew closer.

  Two days later, Shista had wandered into Minna’s tent and taken up residence, becoming a permanent fixture from then on. The crushed paw had healed, and she had followed the Princess back to the palace. The strong bond that had formed between them could never be broken now, a sharing of minds and traits that had increased Minna’s feline qualities and imbued her familiar with an almost human intelligence.