by Willa Hart
Micheal closes his eyes. The children all stand and sob silently, knowing that in this moment they might lose not one but two parents.
“Micheal, I love you,” Sally whispers. “Take care of the children. I will always love you.”
From the formation comes a fat-faced guard in the navy uniform of the army. He peers at Sally; she closes her eyes and the guards force her to her knees. A Mindslayer dressed in red come before her. He wears the black mask of a Slayer, his coal-black eyes shining out from it. He stands and stares at Sally who kneels before him. Blood slowly rolls from her nose and then her ears; she falls to her side and starts to convulse in the street.
“Momma, momma, no, momma!” Pearl screams.
Micheal is held by the guard with a knife still to his throat, forced to watch the death of his wife, the children forced to watch the death of their mother, as she writhes and convulses, white foam pouring from her mouth.
“No…Mother no…” Pearl starts to lunge, but Willem grasps her tight and presses her to him.
“Don’t look,” Willem whispers, his voice more adult than that of a child. His eyes meet mine, and I lock onto him and Pearl and Dorrit and I do the unthinkable in this most horrible moment: I send them a flood of love, of peace, of the knowledge that their mother will always watch over them, for the Goddess will make sure of it. And while they still cry, they no longer look.
“Nooooo!” Micheal yells.
The Mindslayer walks to the head of the garrison. “She was not a Slayer,” he says.
The guard releases Micheal and returns to formation. Micheal’s palms are on the cobbles and he cries. Sobs wrack his body and he reaches out to Sally, now lifeless and wide-eyed, yet not breathing. He crawls to her and cradles his wife, his mate, his love in his arms. His children curl up beside him and cry.
“Not a Slayer,” I whisper. “She was never a Mindslayer.” Tears roll from my cheeks. This is life as a Ninaku Dreg. To even be accused of having the Fatal Curse is certain death..
My Goddess, while the streets run red with Sally’s blood and her children weep, the leader of the guard knows that she was no Slayer indeed.
“Oh Jix,” I say, and burry my head into his shoulder. I press my eyes tight; I cannot look at Dorrit, Willem, and Pearl. How will they ever survive what they’ve just seen? But I know from experience that a person can survive many bad things.
Jix puts his arm around my waist and pulls me tight, pressing his chin to the top of my head. I am so upset, I have no block around my mind. Jix’s worry about leaving me seeps into my mind. His love and longing and sadness are like a thick honey that flows into me. A living, breathing thing; if I would ask him to stay he would try. Jix would throw away this opportunity to become part of House Roya for me and for my love. He would escape into the Dark Forest with me for forever and take his chances.
Little does Jix know that he’d be taking his chances much like Micheal did…but instead of being killed and being found not to be a Slayer, I would be killed and found to be a Slayer, then all my children would be killed in front of my husband too. The only good from this moment is that since Sally was not a Slayer, her children will survive; had she been found otherwise…she, plus Willem, Dorrit, Pearl, and her baby would be dead too.
“Oh, my wife, my wife, my beautiful wife,” Micheal wails with the children crying beside him. He cradles the head of his beloved. Dorrit and Willem each hold one of Sally’s hands while Pearl rocks beside her mother.
“We must…we must help him,” I say. I move toward them when a thick hand clamps onto my shoulder.
“Where you going? You impudent whelp?” Dribble is an idiot and a coward, and yet as the man my parents sold Huali and I to, he controls my entire life.
“To help,” I say. I press my thoughts to him, not enough for him to know it’s me or what I’m doing, but enough to make him feel a touch of fear.
His hand releases my shoulder, and he squints, filled with confusion and anger—his general state—but instead of questioning me or telling me no, he simply wrinkles his lip in disgust and turns away, back into the heat and wet of the laundry.
I walk to the children and take Sorrel, the littlest child, into my arms. She looks to not understand, or maybe it’s the trauma of the experience, but as I scoop her into my arms, she places her tiny, chubby arms around my neck and presses her tear-stained face into my shoulder.
“Come on, sweet girl,” I say, for I have no other words.
“Momma, sleep,” Sorrel whispers into my neck.
“Yes, darling, Momma sleeps.” I fight back the tears and take Sorrel from the street and through the shop, to the stairs and up into the family’s quarters. Sally sacrificed her life and because of it, Sorrel is safe. Rage swirls with sadness in my belly. I hide my eyes and fight back tears, because even though she’s alive, I understand the pain of Sorrel’s future, because she, like me, will never again feel the warm embrace of her mother.
Chapter Five
Leo
What is now Uncle Vlissimal’s study was, once upon a time before our parents were killed, the study for our mother, the Queen, and our fathers. While none of us in our Tripsett knows for certain which King was each of our father, and according to Roya Law it simply doesn’t matter as we all came from our mother’s womb, it’s not hard when looking at each of us to know which mate of our mother fathered each of us brothers. The portrait of our mother and the Three Kings still hangs in the great hall opposite the door to their study.
King Libress, white haired and blue rimmed with silver eyed is tall and lean, his muscles thick but long. There were whispers that his bloodline flowed with the blood of the Fae beyond the Dark Forest. Fleet of foot, strong, clever with his words and thoughts—it’s quite clear when looking upon this portrait that he is my sire. The trait I carry from my mother is the Mindslay, and my joy and playfulness —when the urge is upon me, which lately it hasn’t been. As well as my sexual drive…not that any man really wants to know about his mother’s sexual propensities, it’s not uncommon knowledge that our parents enjoyed the marriage bed; a Tripsett cannot be born without a strong sexual attraction between the parents. Sarkany stands beside me, he, too, looks at the portrait.
“Giant shoes to fill,” he says.
For him especially. King Robert is his father. So obvious. The Bear was his nickname and so clear as to why he was called this. King Robert was big, a giant among men, thick-muscled, hairy, with a giant laugh and appetites that were never satisfied. According to legend, The Bear’s bloodline flows with the blood of the shapeshifters of the forest, the Wolveskin and the Bearswyn. Wine, women, sport, hunting, the outdoors—Robert was the King that understood the pleasures of the flesh and the wilds. Sarkany not only looks like Robert, but he often behaves as him too. Robert was the most physical of our fathers, as is Sarkany. Finally, King Xi. He is tall and lean, with eyes the color of coal and curly hair to match. His eyes almond shaped and without the occipital cut that both Sarkany and I share. His blood, so it’s told, flows with the blood of The Dragon and The Damned. Taraz looks like his father and is sharp-minded, mechanical, quiet, serious, and has a photographic memory. To actually get to know my brother Taraz is a study in patience and perseverance, so for Taraz to be inclined to actually be interested in the Ninaku bird—
“Just stop,” Taraz says, interrupting my thoughts. “Every time you look at this picture of our parents you want to decide which of us belongs to each of them, and it simply doesn’t matter because we belong to them all. Besides, you know that’s not how genetics work in the Kingdom.”
“It’s easier for me,” I say. “If I look like Libress and act like Libress, then Libress must be my father.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Taraz says. “It’s not always the case.”
“Who cares about Father,” Sarkany says. “I’m just grateful for Mother.”
We all smile. Because there is truth in Sarkany’s words. Our mother was a Lioness, a Mindslayer, a ruler, and the
ultimate Queen.
“She saved a kingdom,” Sarkany says. “If our mate can be half the ruler that Mother was—”
“Then we’ll have done a fine job in selecting her,” Taraz says.
“First we need to find someone who can be our bride,” I say.
“Not easy, that,” Taraz says. “But tomorrow night we shall have our pick.”
A thick thud of dislike plows through us. The heavy weight of this responsibility as well as the dislike over the prospect of being chained.
“Uncle has returned,” I say. His dark presence is just beyond the study door.
“With the blood of the Ninaku woman upon him,” Taraz says under his breath with an edge in his voice, one that conveys to me what we’re all feeling and thinking—that while we always have had Palace Dregs, before today neither of us ever gave much thought to the Dregs that lived in the slum of Ninaku.
“He’s not alone,” I say.
“Wagu,” Sarkany says.
“And Lady Alana,” I say. Her presence fills me with light, a former handmaid of my mother and now a respected member of The Chamber, she’s been a part of our rearing, much to my Uncle’s dislike, since the death of our parents.
“Let’s get this over with,” Sarkany says. He strides forward, always the manliest of us, always wanting to get the worst part of anything finished.
We walk through the door to the study. Four desks inhabit the far side of the room—the middle one was Mother’s and it is now where our Uncle the Regent sits. I grit my teeth, because even after more than a decade, I’m still not used to Uncle sitting in Mother’s chair and doing Mother’s job.
Lady Alana stands in front of the desk facing the door, in an emerald green dress that goes to the floor. Her hair is the color of fire and her eyes match the green of her dress. Her skin is as light as the foam upon the waves. Her smile sends a wave of love that ripples through the three of us brothers.
“There you are.” Uncle’s voice rings through the room.
My heart aches every time I enter this room, but the presence of Lady Alana today offsets the pain.
Uncle is tall and lean and resembles Mother—he’s her brother after all; he has her dark eyes and dark hair, except where Mother’s eyes bore a gentle kindness and love, Uncle’s eyes almost always only contain a vicious contempt and judgement. Wagu, Uncle’s Valet, stands by Uncle’s side. He is short and squat, thick and bald-headed. His jowls hang and his fat lips are red and pursed.
Uncle wears the red-and-purple of the Roya House, the Roya family crest of a gold circle with three triangles each of a different color embroidered on his shirt. Wagu wears a navy blue heavy silken robe that goes to his feet with the Roya seal embroidered over his heart—assuming he has a heart.
I loathe Wagu. I tolerate my Uncle, because The Counsel saw fit to name him Lord Regent after the death of Mother and Fathers, but he is an unkind man who doesn’t do well by the Kingdom. I close my mind because my Uncle often probes my thoughts, thinking that I’m unaware of his trespass. I pretend not to know, creating blocks and thoughts that are kind and generous to him that cover my true feelings about Uncle and Wagu.
“Gentlemen, you are three minutes late,” Uncle says. He lands his gaze on each of us through slitted eyes. “You understand the necessity of punctuality, do you not? I’m on a schedule doing your business, the business of the Kingdom. All of it for your future.”
Lady Alana’s smile does not waver but a hint of annoyance passes over her brow.
“Thank you, Uncle,” I say. “I know the dedication and focus you give to your job as Regent on our behalf.”
Suck up, Sarkany thinks. He sends the thought privately to only me and Taraz across the private Tripsett link we share.
Uncle stands from his chair. “All my work is on your behalf and for the greater good of the Kingdom.” He clasps his hands behind his back and walks in front of Mother’s desk. He glances toward Lady Alana and then proceeds to pace in front of each of us, as though a General eyeing his troops. “Even today, nasty business in the Ninaku slum with a Dreg accused of Mindslaying.” He uses the word nasty, but his thoughts tell what he truly thinks of the fate of the Dreg: a delicious delight.
“Was she in fact a Mindslayer?” Taraz asks.
“No, so her children will live.”
“But she is dead?” Taraz asks.
Uncle shrugs, much like one would after swatting a fly. He feels as much for Ninaku Dregs as one might a rat in the kitchen scullery.
“Is there not a way to determine a Mindslayer without killing them first?” Taraz asks.
Quiet, I warn, as Uncle likes little more than to lecture us.
“While Lady Alana and I disagree, the peace of the Kingdom and the safety of the Eliterrati requires that any Dreg with The Gift, or the Fatal Curse as they rightly call it, must be eliminated. A Mindslaying Dreg is like a spark to dry-kindling. They know nothing of how to use the power and will incite an uprising or worse. They will indiscriminately kill those around them. They’re stupid people, barely human even. Their bloodline does not allow for intelligent thought—they barely have free will, so inclined as they are to do what they’re told. It would be a dereliction of our duty as the Royal house to allow a Dreg Mindslayer to live.”
“Regent, you’ve made your thoughts on bloodline purity quite clear to The Counsel,” Lady Alana says. Her voice holds a soothing tone, but Uncle would mistake Lady Alana’s kindness for weakness at his peril. It’s always been my assessment that Uncle remains Regent primarily because Lady Alana feels our world was up-ended enough by the death of Mother and Fathers.
“Uncle, you’ve made your thoughts regarding Dregs and the necessary purity of the Roya bloodline very clear,” Taraz says, glancing at me and then to Lady Alana, “but is there no way to determine a Mindslayer without killing the Dreg first? This woman was not a Mindslayer and yet she was killed simply due to an unfounded suspicion.”
“Tis one Dreg life that is sacrificed to save thousands,” Uncle says, and shrugs. “We did not call the three of you here to discuss policies on ferreting out Mindslayers amongst the Dreg population. We called you to discuss your duties to the Kingdom and your people and your continued dereliction of those duties.”
Sarkany’s chest puffs out as there is little more that can insult him than accusing my warrior brother of being less than honorable.
“The three of you must be mated,” Uncle continues.
Uncle stops in front of me and his dark eyes sear into my gaze. “As the most politically astute of your Tripsett, Leo, surely you understand the importance of this requirement? With each passing day you put your future and the future of House Roya and the peace of the Kingdom in jeopardy. You’re of age. It’s time to find your Queen.”
“As though we can manufacture her from thin air?” I say. I want to recall my words as soon as they slip free of my mouth.
“You’re the Roya Tripsett who are fated to rule the Kingdom,” Uncle says slowly. He stands so close to me I feel his hot breath on my cheeks as he speaks. “You have your choice of any woman in the Kingdom, surely amongst the many there must be one that interests you.”
“The Spring Ball was where your mother met your fathers,” Lady Alana says. Her gaze sparks with a memory and there is love in her smile. “I was there. I witnessed them dance with her that first night…it was”—she smiles—“it was magic. Your fathers’ love for your mother and your mother’s love for them felt immediate, almost as though…they somehow knew upon first glance.”
Meela. We all three think it in unison.
The shock of this thought ripples through our minds all at once. A dark-haired Dreg with brown almond-shaped eyes and light brown skin? Full lips and a sharp tongue? This is the face that inhabits my mind and the minds of my two brothers. Her body lithe and well-rounded, her breasts full beneath the coarse Dreg fabric. Though I’ve not seen them, her tight, dark nipples are in my mind. Her body naked with the three of us standing around her.<
br />
My cock grows hard with these thoughts, Sarkany thinks.
Yes, our three minds are all possessed with the visual of a naked Meela standing in front of us looking at our naked bodies in return.
Oh, that would be rich, bringing a Dreg home to Uncle, Sarkany thinks.
Not just any Dreg, I think.
But a Mindslaying one. Taraz’s final thought is dangerous, and we all three check our blocks and protections; for if Uncle had the visual and identity of a Mindslaying Dreg, Meela would be dead within the hour.
“It’s The Counsel’s greatest hope,” Lady Alana says, interrupting out thoughts, “that a similar kind of magic will occur tomorrow night, because as you know, it’s imperative that you find your Queen and be mated. The highest families of the Eliterrati will bring their marriageable daughters for you to meet. It is my expectation that by the next day, you’ll select the woman who will be our Kingdom’s next Queen.”
We’ve all been well-schooled in our Royal obligations, so we’re well aware that we must be mated by Winter Solstice or it shall be Katya who takes the throne—a fate our cousin does not wish to endure. Katya would be required, as Mother was, to corral three Kings. Ha—while it’s required of the Queen, it’s not necessarily a fate all women in the Kingdom wish to bear. I have at times wondered why Uncle hasn’t tried to lift himself from Regent to King—I can only think that Lady Alana, and other members of The Counsel who are still beholden to our parents, have held our power-grabby Uncle at bay. Still, even though The Counsel has many members that loved our parents, such as Lady Alana, they’ve made their expectations quite clear…
Meela is still in all our three minds.
Impossible, I think.
I brook no argument from my brothers.
I glance to Wagu and his steely green-eyed gaze is locked on me. A thought…a tendril from his direction skirts around the outer recesses of my mind. I strike out with a thought and cut it off quickly. Wagu’s eyebrow lifts.