Taelison paced back and forth in the reception room of the Monarch’s chambers, feeling every line of his body tense with both dread and trepidation as he went over the woman’s reactions to their presence and words.
Zorion stood in silent vigil at the door, taking his duty far more intensely than Taelison was able to, at the moment. His twin, Izar, was reading on a plush grey lounge chair, completely ignoring them both. The physician was cradling a soothing tonic in a corner, not having been officially dismissed and worried sick about being beheaded for touching her person.
Taelison had gotten smacked as soon as she’d awoken, and even though it could have been because of her lack of clothes and the man suddenly hovering over her in worry as she woke up, the physician was willing to hold no expectations about her true character.
“Stop pacing,” Zorion finally snapped, his voice rough with his own bottled nerves and worries. “You’ll tire yourself out if we have to fight.”
“You won’t need to fight,” Izar drawled, turning a page in his book.
The three men shot him a look of confusion, begging without a voice for him to explain. The priest let out a long, slow sigh before closing his book again and leaving it settled in his lap.
“I can feel the blessing of the Stone Goddess in her soul... It feels bright and powerful. There will be no question that she is a direct descendent.”
“How closely she is to direct remains to be seen,” the physician muttered, almost woefully. “If she passes only one test..”
“She will pass all three,” the priest cut him off cleanly and opened his book again. “The only thing we must even be mildly wary of is Whitehall and his children. If she is poisoned before the coronation, nothing can be done about father.”
“How are you so certain?” Taelison, close to his breaking point for hope and relief, begged for the answer with a trembling glare. “I understand the spell to bring the nearest blood relation, but-”
“Her eyes,” Izar answered, swift and simple. “I could see it by the shine of her eyes.”
“Not to mention she’s a near carbon copy of Clementine’s portrait,” the physician muttered under his breath.
“Her portrait,” Taelison sounded surprised, while even Zorion and Izar looked curious by the sallow-looking man’s remark. He cringed back out of reflex from the sudden attention, before letting out a weak sigh. “It was many years ago... More than twenty... Lord Whitehall had removed every trace of the royal family’s image aside from the family seal, locking them away in the deepest vault he could find to prevent anyone from stealing the trinkets to perform the location spell... He, of course, framed this as a worry for the safety of the future successor’s heirlooms. I have to wonder, however, how you managed to find anything of Lady Clementine not locked away.”
“Mother... Had a hairbrush,” Zorion whispered, fingers twitching as they lifted to his own hair and pet weakly at the back of his head in phantom pain. “Before she passed, she had been close friends with Queen Clementine... There had been a brush left behind by mistake in our estate only weeks before her disappearance... I had been lucky to find it in our attic while searching for evidence to clear father’s name..”
“A stroke of luck, for certain,” the physician whispered.
Suddenly, the doors were opened by the maids, and the air was sucked out of the room.
Standing in the entry to the suite was a young woman of pale skin and dark brown hair. The locks were bound up elegantly and pinned back atop her head, held in place with a silver comb encrusted with lavender-colored gems that sparkled in the light.
The gown she wore was rich, a dark blue fabric that hung off of her shoulders and puffed out into royal sleeves to her elbow, before gathering tightly and ending at a point along her forearms to her knuckles. It was gathered neatly at her waist before flaring out, the navy skirt with a black, muted floral pattern providing a delicate contrast to the black mesh that covered her from bust to throat, held in place by gleaming silk portions with pale purple gems encrusting the fabric itself like stars. The bodice, pale purple silk overlaying a corset, was paired elegantly with a pure white skirt that ruffled delicately in layers down the front, peeking from the parted navy floral design lined in black lace and adding to the elegance of the ensemble.
On her feet were a pair of navy shoes. On her back was a long, navy cape.
She looked regal.
“I.. am going to make corsets... Illegal,” she breathed, letting out a soft gasp as she walked forward, very clearly unhappy but trepidation lining every movement of her body. “Why.. must women... Wear.. these deathtraps... My organs... Are screaming..”
Taelison was lost for words, but thankfully Zorion was able to hold out his hand to take her awkwardly extended one, bringing it to his lips.
“You look beautiful, Your Highness.”
“Can we please... Just do whatever needs to be done,” Pipperly was doing her best to regulate her breathing, while the maids and Odilia hovered behind her with looks of surprise on their faces. They didn’t think she would joke about the corset banning, and silently, they wondered how quickly they’d be able to be rid of their own.
Taking a steadying breath, Izar adjusted the glasses on his face and began to offer a more reasonable explanation.
“Due to the actions of Sir Rowley and Sir Lockridge, you have been summoned from whatever plane of existence, realm, or time-encased pocket of reality you had been hidden in.”
There was absolute silence for several seconds, and the woman did not look the least bit convinced, sitting quietly and with a bit of difficulty with her voluminous skirts on a large black settee. She was the only one to sit.
“What was the name of your mother?”
“Clementine,” Pipperly offered after a stilted pause. “Clementine Lenoir. She married my father, Séverin Lenoir.”
‘I probably shouldn’t have used my mother's name as the name of the last Queen,’ Pipperly thought in stiff, stiff-spined silence. ‘Even if I only disclosed the information of her “forbidden” name in a cloak-and-mask magazine interview... People this crazy will likely have scoured the books down to the bare bones... This is terrifying.’
‘She’s seemingly legitimate,’ Izar thought with no small amount of internal relief. ‘And the tests can prove the rest..’
“Clementine, as you may already know, was the last reigning Monarch of the Stone Kingdom, and disappeared at twenty-one, twenty-eight years ago... Might I ask your age, Miss?”
“Twenty-six,” she murmured. Pipperly didn’t show even the smallest bit of surprise, and the rest of the room’s occupants shared a mild, silent relief at not having to explain everything.
Izar let out a soft breath, not really pleased with the number, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. ‘At the very least, she could pick a successor if she wasn’t able to conceive... And there were also surrogate spells..’ “Because of your mother’s position, that makes you her heir. That means that the Onyx Castle, and everything under its rule, belong to you by rite... Are you willing to take the tests to claim your inheritance?”
Pipperly paused, wondering for a moment if she would be given an actual choice, before figuring that it would be more dangerous to go against the psychotic kidnapper’s scripts.
“I’ll take the tests,” she nodded, folding her hands in her lap and ignoring the quiet sighs of relief most of the room shared.
“There are three tests a possible successor to the throne must complete in order to become the one and reigning Monarch,” Izar was the first to speak up when things began going in a productive direction, holding his book in the crook of his elbow and adjusting his glasses with the slightest touch of his fingertips in his free hand. “First, the Orb of Kutora. Second, the Dragon’s Circlet. And finally, the Staff of the Seven Spires. Each of these three tests will determine if you are qualified to become Queen of the Onyx Kingdom.
“To pass the test of the Orb of Kutora, you must grasp it with two hands and lift. Should you lift it from its pillar, and should the orb become as shining as polished metal, you will pass. Hold it in one hand, and no one will interrupt you.
“To pass the second test, you must have faith in yourself and your blood. The Dragon of Vitality is a sentient gem and is able to tell from only a brush of magic if your heritage is worthy of the crown. Should the crown change its shape to match your head and spirit, you will have passed the test.
“And finally, the Staff of the Seven Spires..” Izar trailed off for a moment, and finally let out a long sigh. “You need only grasp it. Should it look upon you with favor, it will grant you the talents of past rulers, magic threads to bind you to the crown and the Kingdom. Should it reject you... Well,” he smiled brightly, “Let’s not think about that.”
“It’ll shock me to death, right?” Pipperly drawled.
Izar seemed mildly surprised.
“Yes, how did you know?”
“..My mother told me,” Pipperly offered after a prolonged pause. “Let’s just get this over with.”
Pipperly was sitting on the throne to make a statement.
But also because she was having a mental breakdown, and having a nice, comfortable place to sit partially lessened her panic.
And prevented her feet from hurting.
She had thought that she had been kidnapped by fanatics of her books, only to realize very quickly that she was in an actual castle, and she was surrounded by actual characters of her books...
She had hit Taelison...
She wanted to cut her own hand off.
So here Pipperly sat, surrounded in the courtroom by gossiping, lavishly dressed nobles with fans over their mouths and looks of unease on their faces.
The biggest issue, Pipperly thought, was the redheaded, crimson-lipped, ruby-gowned harpy seething daggers at her from the foot of the steps, surrounded by no less than a dozen noble ladies simpering at her every quiet gripe and hiss.
Vivian Whitehall was a crimson viper, and the only daughter Duke Maximus Whitehall acknowledged as his, due to her position as his first wife’s only child before her death. Pipperly knew he had at least four more due to indiscretions, but they were all either heavily bribed or violently disposed of, depending on the status of the mothers.
He acknowledged every single one of his sons without question, a total of fourteen young men of the age of twenty-nine and below. The youngest, Pipperly thought to herself silently, should just be turning five months old...
The doors opened with a sudden BANG, and the court fell into absolute silence as the royal guard in polished metal plating strode forward, helmets in place and their weapons very obviously drawn as they marched in unison around a fuming, furious temporary King.
“HOW DARE YOu sit in the...”
The man’s voice had started as a raging, echoing bellow that filled the room with a touch of wind magic, but had died off at the end when they’d reached the foot of the stairwell up to the platform, where Pipperly sat calmly, relaxed in the seat and watching him with grave, impassive golden eyes.
“You mean my throne?” she asked, cutting off any rant he could have conjured from his empty throat before it could even start. “You’re wearing something that belongs to me... I intend to have it honorably..”
Maximus Whitehall, stunned to his core, could only stare dumbly at the woman seated so elegantly upon the throne. She was gorgeous, with dark hair, sharp eyes the color of warmed honey, and topaz stones.
Clementine had returned.
Pipperly smiled, sweet and formal and insincere.
“Thank you for keeping my seat warm, Duke Maximus Whitehall.”
Comments (0)
See all