Read Online In the Skin of a Nunqua by R. J. Pouritt - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: R. J. Pouritt
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about that?”
“For you?” He raised one eyebrow, the pipe clenched between his teeth.
The embers in the fireplace burned red, popping and splitting, then cooling into piles of ash. She had heard rumors about the opulence of the Willovian castle: sumptuous feasts, fine wine, the best music, art in every room, beautiful gardens, and well-kept stables. It would be a relaxing break and much better than the meager accommodations she was used to. Besides, she was a commander now. How hard could it be?
6
The Daughters of Fortunate Birth
S hanti spent all winter working at the castle, guarding the princess and answering questions posed to her by the elites. The honored guests of King Magen were curious and cordial enough, and she had made friends with many of the royal guards. The castle and its grounds were painstakingly picturesque, but a heaviness pervaded everything inside the walls of the compound. She felt that she could never be comfortable, never be herself, in the restrictive environment. Day after day, this feeling darkened her mood.
For the second time since she arrived in autumn, Shanti climbed the spiraling stairs of the tallest tower for a private meeting with King Magen. Her first encounter with the king had set the rules concerning her interactions with Rega Bayla and served to establish his displeasure at Shanti’s status as a Guardian of Willovia. Indeed, King Magen tolerated her presence only because he had endured the test of confronting a traitor himself, when he was a prince. He understood the Guardians’ importance and, Shanti surmised, despised their purpose now that his only child, his petite and precious daughter, was due to undergo the rigors of a soldier’s life.
Guards admitted her into the king’s presence. She entered and stood motionless in front of a marble desk with an empty chair. On top of the marble slab rested parchment, a peacock quill, an inkwell, and three bars of sealing wax the thickness of a man’s finger. The legs of the desk were sculpted in the shapes of lions. Floor-to-ceiling flags adorned the walls between the windows, the most prominent depicting an eagle on a field of blue.
King Magen gazed out of a window, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Your Majesty,” she said.
He moved away from the window and stepped around her while inspecting her brown uniform, hair pulled back in a warrior’s knot, sword strapped to her back, and darts strapped to the wristlet on her arm.
“You’re wearing the wrong uniform, Commander. Why aren’t you dressed as a royal guard?”
“Royal guard uniforms are made for men, sire. One is being made for me by the tailor.” It was a small lie. A lie to the king. The tailor had finished the outfit some time ago.
The men’s uniforms looked good on them, handsome and respectable. Hers was a blue and white mess. Clusters of scratchy lace embellished the collar, baggy pockets adorned the shapeless jacket, and the voluminous skirt trailed along the ground. She suspected that Commander Kyros had something to do with the design of the dress—a joke to him, an insult to her. She would do anything to avoid wearing her royal guard uniform, even if it meant lying to the king.
“You’ve been at the castle far too long not to be dressed in the proper attire,” he said. “I have called you here to inform you of the plans concerning my daughter. You will train Rega Bayla to be a soldier. She will pass every test given to her. Do we have an understanding, Commander?”
Her training had taught her to be tactful when dealing with her superiors, even when given a corrupt command. “I’ll do what’s best for Willovia, Your Majesty.”
Magen stroked his gray beard. “Are you aware of the seriousness of this matter? Bayla is my only child. If she fails, the Guardians of Willovia will try to prevent her from taking her rightful place as queen. Many of my loyal subjects will fight to see that Bayla wears the crown. Is that what you want,
“For you?” He raised one eyebrow, the pipe clenched between his teeth.
The embers in the fireplace burned red, popping and splitting, then cooling into piles of ash. She had heard rumors about the opulence of the Willovian castle: sumptuous feasts, fine wine, the best music, art in every room, beautiful gardens, and well-kept stables. It would be a relaxing break and much better than the meager accommodations she was used to. Besides, she was a commander now. How hard could it be?
6
The Daughters of Fortunate Birth
S hanti spent all winter working at the castle, guarding the princess and answering questions posed to her by the elites. The honored guests of King Magen were curious and cordial enough, and she had made friends with many of the royal guards. The castle and its grounds were painstakingly picturesque, but a heaviness pervaded everything inside the walls of the compound. She felt that she could never be comfortable, never be herself, in the restrictive environment. Day after day, this feeling darkened her mood.
For the second time since she arrived in autumn, Shanti climbed the spiraling stairs of the tallest tower for a private meeting with King Magen. Her first encounter with the king had set the rules concerning her interactions with Rega Bayla and served to establish his displeasure at Shanti’s status as a Guardian of Willovia. Indeed, King Magen tolerated her presence only because he had endured the test of confronting a traitor himself, when he was a prince. He understood the Guardians’ importance and, Shanti surmised, despised their purpose now that his only child, his petite and precious daughter, was due to undergo the rigors of a soldier’s life.
Guards admitted her into the king’s presence. She entered and stood motionless in front of a marble desk with an empty chair. On top of the marble slab rested parchment, a peacock quill, an inkwell, and three bars of sealing wax the thickness of a man’s finger. The legs of the desk were sculpted in the shapes of lions. Floor-to-ceiling flags adorned the walls between the windows, the most prominent depicting an eagle on a field of blue.
King Magen gazed out of a window, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Your Majesty,” she said.
He moved away from the window and stepped around her while inspecting her brown uniform, hair pulled back in a warrior’s knot, sword strapped to her back, and darts strapped to the wristlet on her arm.
“You’re wearing the wrong uniform, Commander. Why aren’t you dressed as a royal guard?”
“Royal guard uniforms are made for men, sire. One is being made for me by the tailor.” It was a small lie. A lie to the king. The tailor had finished the outfit some time ago.
The men’s uniforms looked good on them, handsome and respectable. Hers was a blue and white mess. Clusters of scratchy lace embellished the collar, baggy pockets adorned the shapeless jacket, and the voluminous skirt trailed along the ground. She suspected that Commander Kyros had something to do with the design of the dress—a joke to him, an insult to her. She would do anything to avoid wearing her royal guard uniform, even if it meant lying to the king.
“You’ve been at the castle far too long not to be dressed in the proper attire,” he said. “I have called you here to inform you of the plans concerning my daughter. You will train Rega Bayla to be a soldier. She will pass every test given to her. Do we have an understanding, Commander?”
Her training had taught her to be tactful when dealing with her superiors, even when given a corrupt command. “I’ll do what’s best for Willovia, Your Majesty.”
Magen stroked his gray beard. “Are you aware of the seriousness of this matter? Bayla is my only child. If she fails, the Guardians of Willovia will try to prevent her from taking her rightful place as queen. Many of my loyal subjects will fight to see that Bayla wears the crown. Is that what you want,
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