Conquering His Queen: A Sci-Fi Alien Romance (Zalaryn Conquerors Book 1)

by Viki Storm

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  About the Author

  © Viki Storm 2019. All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form by any means without the prior written consent of the author, except in the case of brief quotations for critical reviews and certain noncommercial uses permitted by law.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, locations, and events portrayed in this work are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  Sold to the Alien Prince (Zalaryn Raiders Book 1)

  Captured by the Alien Warrior (Zalaryn Raiders Book 2)

  Claimed by the Alien Mercenary (Zalaryn Raiders Book 3)

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  It is uncomfortable sitting in my father’s chair.

  My chair.

  I forget that he’s dead.

  I forget that I rule this planet. Little old me. All by myself. It would be funny if it wasn’t so damned frightening.

  I am in the reception hall, sitting on the throne. It is hewn from stonewood and as cold as ice, even in the warm season—not that our warm season is all that warm.

  Keep your heart as stony and cold as this knobby old chair, my father always said. Hot heads and soft hearts ruin civilization.

  There are so many people with so many problems. I can’t help them all.

  Illness. Blight. Crime.

  This is my planet, and to hear the stories of woe—one petitioner after another—you’d think it’s sliding into utter chaos.

  Maybe it is.

  Maybe chaos is the natural order of things. My thrice-great-grandfather founded this settlement, disgusted with the materialism and degeneracy on Earth. His vision was for humans to return to a simpler life, to get away from the technology that was poisoning their minds and weakening their bodies.

  This is supposed to be the simple life? It doesn’t feel like it.

  On the days of the full moons, I hear petitions. It’s a tradition begun at the settlement’s founding and carried out by each King thereafter. My brother should be here, holding court, listening to the petitions and grievances of the citizens. But I don’t have a brother. My mother only ever bore two daughters.

  Even so, I never expected to inherit the position of Queen Regent. I still see myself as a princess, scampering about the palace. Queen? This should be my older sister’s lot, but she’s gone.

  We don’t talk about her—or any of the others we lost that day.

  “So you see, Your Grace, he should pay for the repairs.” A petitioner looks up at me expectantly, waiting for my decree. I wasn’t listening, and I’m not sure what needs repairing or who should pay for it. Another of my father’s favorite sayings was: Everyone’s guilty.

  My father and I disagreed on many things, but not on that. Everyone’s guilty of something.

  “How much are the repairs?” I ask. This petitioner is one of the merchant class; the fine suede of his trousers is dyed a rich green, the color of the forest canopy at dusk. A ring sparkles on his pinky finger.

  “Six hundred coin,” he says, tilting his jaw slightly toward the ceiling.

  “And the name of the man you accuse of wronging you?” I ask. I can tell by the way that he purses his lips that he’s annoyed I don’t remember the name, but he won’t dare say anything about it.

  “Gorren,” he says.

  “The miller’s boy?” I ask. This is too much. The miller employs a lad (though he must be going on thirty years by now) to lug barrels and sweep the floors. Everyone thinks of him as a boy because, though he is bearded and has a few gray hairs at the temple, an unfortunate accident during his birth left him with the mind of a child. Gorren’s an honest lad, strong and kind, but so dull-witted that most of the tradesmen have let him go for one reason or another. But not the miller, who is soft-hearted to a fault. The miller treats him well and lets him sleep in the granary. “You want the miller’s boy to pay six hundred coins for your repairs? Six hundred coin doesn’t pass through his hands in the course of one year.”

  “He was negligent,” the petitioner sneers, those thin lips of his pressing together like strips of liver on the butcher’s scrap heap. “He should be held accountable.”

  “What did the constable say?” I ask. If the man is escalating this matter to the royal court, he must have first exhausted the constabulary and local magistrate.

  “That is another matter I wish to bring to your attention. The agents of law and order are not promoting fair and equal justice in this city. They—”

  “That ring on your finger,” I say, gesturing to the gaudy stone bulging from his hand. “What’s it worth?”

  “Excuse me?” he spits out haughtily, as if berating a clerk in his shop.

  “Excuse me?” I say. “You should hope that I have the decency and heart to excuse you. You waste my time over an accident. You expect a simple-minded boy to pay you more than he’d earn in two years. All for six hundred coin when the baubles and fripperies adorning your vestments total ten times that and more. I ask again. The ring. How much did it cost?”

  He stares at me, indignation turning his cheeks red.

  “Answer the Queen,” my guardsman, Yar, says. “You seek her counsel, and she is trying to give it to you. If you don’t have the good sense to take it, perhaps I can give you my own brand of counsel. Gotta warn you, though—the princess is wise and does her thinking with her head. I’m an old soldier, and I’m not that smart, so I do my thinking mostly with my fists.”

  The petitioner swallows, and the little click in his throat echoes in the vast hall.

  “I do not remember exactly,” he says.

  “Take your best guess,” I tell him. “Or else we can fetch a jeweler to make an appraisal.”

  “About two thousand coin,” the petitioner says.

  “Well then,” I say, clapping my hands together. “This settles it. Yar, take the ring.” Yar grunts in approval. He’s getting on in years, but he’s as strong as ever, tall and broad and fearsome to behold. He’s been at my side since I was a child, and I fear him about as much as I fear a strong wind, which is to say not at all.

  Yar approaches the petitioner and extends his hand. The petitioner looks from side to side, as if he expects someone to rush out and stop this nonsense. And it is nonsense, I know that much. All of it. I am not fit to rule a planet by myself. Yet here I am.

  The petitioner hands over the ring, and Yar presents it to me. I don’t want the thing, and I know that if this fool paid two thousand coin for it, it’s probably only worth eight hundred at most. All I want is to stop seeing petitioners. My back aches from sitting upright in this damned chair, my mouth is dry from all the polite talk, and a headache pulses behind one eye, tendrils of pain swi
rling around my head looking for purchase. I slip the ring into my pocket. “Yar, see that he receives six hundred coin from the treasurer on the way out.”

  “Yes, my lady,” Yar says. I know from the way my bodyguard smiles—so broadly that I can see the missing molar in the back of his mouth—that the petitioner will get a few bruises from Yar’s rough treatment as well.

  My father’s Right Hand, Stine Collee, approaches from his seat in the shadows. I remember watching my father hold court, and more and more often toward the end, Stine sat center stage with my father—many times giving he edicts and pronouncements while my father merely nodded his assent.

  My father’s death has upended a lot of lives on this planet—perhaps Stine’s most of all. He’s gone from being Right Hand and ruler in all but name down to one of many advisers.

  “That was Erwill Sonnes,” Stine whispers. He is too close for decorum, his lips grazing the lobe of my ear. “It was unwise to humiliate him. You should have had the miller’s boy whipped for an indigent.” I look at Stine. The lines on his forehead furrow into deep trenches. He was an attractive man once. When I was much younger, all the girls giggled at his handsome face and regal posture and wondered if any would be lucky enough to be made his wife. That was many years ago. Now his back is bent from leaning down to whisper into the King’s ear, and his face is marred by the perpetual sour air of gloom about him.

  His words chill me to my core. Erwill Sonnes is the leader of the merchants’ guild, and no one wants to make enemies of the merchants.

  “You should have told me,” I say. Though I never would have had the miller’s boy whipped, I would not have so publicly treated Erwill like the pompous ass he is.

  “It is hard, my Queen, to give counsel from the shadows. Perhaps if I drew my chair closer to yours?” he says, leaning close again. His lips graze my ear and I struggle to repress a shudder. I back away just an inch so his hot breath will not waft across my skin. “Or perhaps you have considered honoring your father’s dying wish?”

  My father’s dying wish was that I marry Stine.

  Stine keeps asking, and I keep putting him off.

  “It is too soon since my father’s death,” I say lamely. It has been more than two months, and this response will soon fail to keep him at bay. “Let the people recover from the loss of their King. They are not ready for a royal wedding.”

  “Balderdash,” Stine says, hissing the words in my ear. The force from his breath blows strands of hair away from my skin. “They want stability. They want to know that the planet is secure, not that a little girl is running things.”

  “I am a woman and Queen Regent,” I say, trying to keep my voice low so the others in the hall will not hear. The petitioners have been dismissed, but there are always councilors and servants lurking. “I am perfectly capable of carrying on my family legacy and ruling this settlement.”

  “Then start by honoring your father’s wish. Who are you kidding? You were raised to be a nobleman’s wife, not to govern. You know how to stitch pretty embroidery and pluck a pleasing tune on the lute and plait your hair in ribbons that match the hand-dyed silk of your custom-made gown. You need me. Let us marry as your father wished and be done with it.”

  “You are dismissed,” I say. I grit my teeth to keep from scolding him.

  “I didn’t mean—” he begins, trying to backtrack. His face is red, but I’m not sure if it’s anger or shame that colors his cheeks.

  “I will consider your arguments and think upon the wish of my father, as well as my duty to the planet and its founders.” He waits for me to say more, but when I turn my head and stare forward, out into the great empty hall, he takes his leave.

  I wait a few moments for Stine to go, then stand and smooth out the wrinkles on my gown. I can’t wait to get out of this outfit. The corset is too tightly bound about my ribcage.

  As I am walking back to the East Corridor that will take me to the royal apartments, the sudden boom of the doors opening startles me. A ragged man stands in the hall, his hair like wisps of cornsilk dying on the stalk.

  “Court has ended this day,” I say. I try to give him a warm smile. It pains me to turn away petitioners, but there are just so many. “I apologize. Leave your name with the clerk and you will be first to speak on Full Moons’ Day, I promise it. Good day.”

  But the man does not turn to leave. I look for Yar, but Yar is gone with the merchant.

  “No!” the man shrieks.

  He is running toward me, an unmistakable look of desperation and insanity clouding his eyes.

  The last thing I think is that my father was right; I was too hot-headed dealing with the merchant and too soft-hearted dealing with this man.

  And here’s my punishment—a madman in the great hall, rushing toward me with nothing to lose.

  I stop in my tracks, my headache suddenly pulsing at double strength. “Good Queen Bryn, listen, please!” he says.

  I have not been stylized as Bryn the Good, and I do not care for it. ‘Good’ is a bland adjective assigned to women who make no trouble—but also make no progress. I would much rather be known as Bryn the Deceiver or Bryn the Multiplier. Anything but Good.

  “Court has been closed for this day,” I repeat. My heart is pounding, and I struggle to keep the tremor of fear out of my voice. This is what I get for sending Yar out with the merchant.

  “It is not closed!” the man yells. He rushes closer, and I can see the dirt stains on his trousers, the deep grooves on his forehead caused by long days in the sun, the gnarled, crooked fingers of a laborer. “You must listen, my Queen. No one else has!” Two guardsmen appear and take the farmer by the arms, dragging him away.

  “Hold,” I tell the guardsman, holding up a hand. “What is your petition?” I ask. I am intrigued. He’s half-mad with desperation—and what had he said? You must listen because no one else has.

  “Likely a water dispute,” Stine says. He has reappeared on the royal dais, always ready to give counsel. He puts his hand to the small of my back, leading me off of the dais. “You have already spoken and do not need to entertain a peasant’s whim.”

  It is not Stine’s words as much as it is his touch that enrages me. He shall not tell me what to do—as if in his mind he is already King.

  “I shall hear his petition,” I say and turn toward the petitioner. “Speak. What has you so worried that you have forgotten your manners in the royal palace?”

  The peasant looks ashamed, but relief floods his face. It is clear that this is no water dispute.

  “Thank you, Queen Bryn. I have forgotten my manners, but you will, too, when you see what I’ve brought.” I can’t help chuckling at that.

  It is exhausting to maintain my regal bearing during these sessions. I was not brought up to rule. Stine was right earlier when he said that I was brought up to be pretty and obedient so I might enter into a strategic marriage chosen by my father, the King. It is difficult to act haughty and unforgiving always, but that is what the people expect.

  “What have you brought me?” I ask.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, but this is no gift,” the farmer says. “Boys!” he screams over his shoulder. “Haul it in!”

  At his command, two strapping lads bring in a crude wheelbarrow covered in a rough-spun tarpaulin.

  “This is a farce,” Stine says. “A ploy to avoid this year’s tax.”

  “This is no joke,” the farmer said. “This is real as rain and serious as drought. And the worst part is that this isn’t all there is. There’s more. Every farmer beyond the rift has woken up to find at least one of these…abominations in the herd.”

  “What is it?” I ask, my curiosity at an almost unbearable pitch—which I know is the point of the farmer’s theatrics.

  “No one knows,” the farmer says. He sweeps back the tarpaulin and lifts the handles of the wheelbarrow, dumping the thing on the polished marble floor.

  I step forward, about to descend from the dais, and I feel Stine’s hand wr
ap around my wrist. I yank it out of his grip without looking back at him and approach the farmer.

  What he’s brought to the palace is beyond definition. It is a cow—that much anyone can see. But it is not a cow. Not anymore.

  It is a shriveled husk, the hide as twisted and petrified as the branches of the old oaks in the royal courtyard. There is a large, ragged hole in the chest, but no blood or gore can be seen, though the hole is the size of a winter melon. Its eyes are puckered raisins, the tongue a twisted twig jutting between crooked teeth.

  “There’s more of these?” I ask when I finally have the breath to speak.

  “A few each day,” he says. “Everyone beyond the rift is terrified. The Holy Men speak of plagues and demons. The Men of Letters speak of viruses. The women spread superstitions and make glyphs of warding. Children sing songs because they do not fully understand.”

  “I—” I start to say. But this is beyond me. Beyond the mien of dignity and superiority I have tried to cultivate since I ascended to the throne. Beyond the wisdom and knowledge that the tutors tried to impart upon me. “I will get my best scientists to examine this thing immediately,” I finally say. “I will send a retinue to your towns to speak with the herdsmen. We will fix this.”

  “Hail Queen Bryn,” the farmer says as he drops to his knees.

  “Save your hails until after we get to the root of this,” I tell him.

  “You are kind,” he says. A tear spills from his eye, and he quickly wipes it away with the dirty cuff of his shirt. I imagine what it’s like for them beyond the rift, the nearest neighbor a mile away. The capital half a day’s voyage off and most of the merchandise beyond your budget. The deepest dark of the night sky and the utter silence. Knowing that while you sleep, something is happening to your cows, the lifeblood of the planet. To wake and find yet another one of your herd desiccated——no, desecrated.

  No wonder he’s half-mad. Anyone would be. I am angry that so many of my people are living in this fear and uncertainty—that this is the first I’ve heard of it.

  “I will call a meeting now of my chief ministers,” I say. This cannot be allowed to continue. Without our cattle, we are nothing but a dry chunk of rock orbiting a dying star.