Captain of the Guard
Between the smooth white columns lining the entrance to the Queen's temple, the sun streamed fleetingly. The sunlight gilded the water in the reflecting pool, glistened on the gold-and-silver figures hammered onto Cassandra's armor. As reflected light from her armor dazzled Cassandra's eyes, her muscles tightened in response. Her shoulders straightened and her hands clenched on the slender shaft of a javelin. There was no greater honor for any soldier than to be Captain of the Queen's guard, or to guard her during her rebirth.
Cassandra spared no glance for the door behind her, embossed with copper in a glorious sunburst. Cassandra was young for the honor—barely twenty-seven summers—but she had shown great presence of mind in the Battle of Latross against the Usurper, slaying the Usurper's only son to the advantage of her mistress. In the eight years and countless battles since, Cassandra had shown herself to be no less wise, no less valiant, no less cunning than she had been in that first battle, even impressing the ageless sagacity of Queen Phoenixia.
Thrusting from the glittering breastplate, her arms were still sheathed with dense muscle, darkened with long months in the sun, stronger and more disciplined than they had been when she had first come to the Queen's service. Beneath the riveted hem of her leathern tunic, her legs bulged with the leashed strength born from uncounted miles over mountain and plain, wearing the armor and weapons of the trained warrior. At her side, a full-sized broadsword that many men could not have wielded shone with the oiled care it received, but the hilt was worn from the hands that had used it so often in eight long years.
A feathered helm of beaten silver crowned her, just touching a chiseled face, that, if it was thinner and more lined than it had been eight years before, was no less attractive in its simple unsophisticated physical beauty. The eyes were black, framed with charcoal lashes in a pointed face, but her glorious copper-colored hair hung from the top of her helm, plaited like a shimmering snake coiled upon her shoulder. The same copper that burned on the door behind her.
The Queen's consort, Brasson was behind her, too. The chosen one, he was taller even than Cassandra by a full hand's breadth. His armor was no less heavy, no less costly, and he had earned his too in service to the Queen. He had fought in Phoenixia's service for nearly twenty years and had never disgraced himself or the Queen. At long last, the Queen had been caught up in his strength and his quick and facile mind that had outthought the forces of the Usurper time and again. He was a great warrior and the lover of the Queen.
But Cassandra was Captain of the Guard.
Behind her, Cassandra heard increased activity behind the fiery doors and knew the rebirthing was close at hand. How long it would take, she could not guess; there had been no rebirthing for nearly 100 years.
Cassandra knew nothing of bearing children, knew even less about the workings of a near-immortal like the Queen. But she had seen the Queen enter, lined and faded as might be expected from her near century of age and yet strangely swollen with a belly full of child. And still breathtakingly beautiful. Cassandra had noted Brasson's involuntary gasp of awe at the sight of the woman who loved him, saw the longing in his eyes as the door closed and locked behind her. Phoenixia would bear his child but he was forbidden to join her. His place was here, guarding his lady's safety.
One hundred years ago, Phoenixia herself had been born here, twelfth in an unbroken line since the beginnings of time, but her mother had born twins, two perfect children. One was blessed with the soul of her mother, and thereby all the souls that had gone before. The other, dispossessed of what might otherwise have been her heritage, was both doomed to and blessed with an existence as a mere mortal wherein she could wed, have children, and enjoy watching them grow to adulthood before aging and dying soundlessly in her sleep. Such a fate Phoenixia could only covet.
If Phoenixia's sister had not been discontented with her lot, her sister's second son had been. His anger had bled down three generations, until, at last, his descendant, Dabren the Usurper, had attacked the ancient Queen, forcing her to flee the throne that had been hers and her mothers' for twelve hundred years, to fight as a rebel in her own land.
Until now. Cassandra, and most particularly Brasson, knew that Phoenixia's fight was over. That, whatever would happen, she would never return from behind the copper door, that a new Queen was the only hope for the continuation of the unbroken line, the carrying over of souls.
Cassandra hoped it would happen soon. Her skin prickled with an unnamed disquiet, even though her ears and eyes told her nothing, even though the Queen was safe behind spell-locked doors that could only be opened with one of two magical keys: the Queen's and Cassandra's.
Cassandra saw the flicker of movement behind a column and flung her javelin, quicker than thought. Brasson's javelin was in the air at another target before hers had struck its victim. Other members of the guard were not so lucky, struck down before they could draw their swords by a silent horde of the Usurper's elite soldiers. Cassandra's sword was red with the blood of seven soldiers within seconds, but there were twenty of her own soldiers already dead, the rest but Brasson already dying. Hopelessly outnumbered, Cassandra resisted the urge to move backward and fight with her back to the door, to allow any of the Usurper's men even two feet closer to the Queen's chamber. Beside her, Brasson fought with equal desperation, knowing the fight was futile.
Then, there he was, Dabren the Usurper. Gliding over the marble floor soundlessly, he seemed to be made of smoke. Spotless, he drifted forward, his black cloak and clothing unmarred by the blood everywhere, his ivory skin and snowy hair unblemished. Only his red, red eyes showed signed of life, glowing with the feral hatred that was a part of him. Parting his men before him, he glided to a stop within swordsbreadth of Cassandra.
"Hello, cousin," he purred smiling.
Cassandra spit in his face. "Rot in hell, bastard."
There was no sign the spit hit its mark. Dabren only smiled wider. "Not today, cousin. What would our great-great-grandmother say to see us here, fighting against each other?"
"What would she say to see you force her sister from the throne? To see you take up arms against her ancestors? Do you think you speak for her? She and her firstborn son, my ancestor, were always of the same mind, that Phoenixia was the true Queen. It is only the poison of her second son that has filtered into this day, destroyed what she believed in."
Dabren had stopped smiling and his eyes glowed even more crimson with fury. "Well, here is your chance to change history. If you can take me with your sword."
Cassandra felt the urge to take him, bury her sword in his pallid face, free her Queen from the threat of him for all time. But Dabren was a magician, prepared, she knew, for any attack.
Cassandra swallowed to steady herself, knowing she must do what was necessary. She spun and thrust her sword into the chest of Brasson. For a brief second he stared at her in horrified shock and then mouthed a last message, "Thank you." Dabren was infamous for his skilled use of torture. Cassandra knew the Queen would be grateful if Brasson were spared his ministrations.
Dabren's eyes narrowed at Cassandra's interference, frustrated at the loss of a tool against the Queen. Enraged, he clubbed Cassandra to the ground. Cassandra slid against the Queen's marble totem, hitting her head on the huge marble figure. Cassandra lifted her head weakly, trying to focus on the jeweled eyes of the lioness who roared her defiance, pierced to the heart with a javelin. Cassandra's swimming eyes could not read the ancient motto, but knew what it said: "The guard dies, but never surrenders." For the first time, Cassandra smiled.
Taking the coiled braid in his slender hands, Dabren twisted her head around to face him. "Give me the key."
Cassandra's smile broadened.
"Do you think you can win?" he hissed. "Whether I slay you or not, the key will be mine. I need only slit your throat and there will be none to keep me from taking it."
Cassandra's smile remained untouched.
"I don't wish
to kill you, cousin. Gods know, you have always been too beautiful. I have wanted you since you left my father's house, an orphan, to side with this she-witch who stole our ancestor's legacy. We are the last two of her line. Give me the key and you can take your place as my Queen, start a new dynasty in your image."
Cassandra's smile widened.
"Will you force me to kill you? Cassandra . . . "
Cassandra's eyes held his unflinchingly and she pointed to the motto carved beneath the raging lioness. For a moment, Dabren's eyes closed as if in sincere pain, but opened again almost instantly, glowing with the scarlet rage he had long carried in his heart.
"So be it, cousin!" He jerked her head backwards and thrust her away from him as if he feared to be soiled. "Kill her. Cut off her head and throw it to my dogs." Behind him, Cassandra knelt and bowed her head, prepared for the blow . . . still smiling.
The dogs had long since torn the smile from her skull when Dabren finally gave up raging at his minions for their failure to find the key on Cassandra's mutilated body, searched inside and out.
The sun was just setting when Dabren heard the key in the lock. His men around him readied their weapons and his own eyes brightened with anticipation. He would be the unquestioned ruler at last.
The door blew open violently in a conflagration that seared through the great hall, killing, devouring Dabren and all of his followers. For a few seconds, there was the brilliant copper-colored magic of fire and then it was gone, leaving only ashes and blackened armor on the unsinged white marble where once there had been twice a hundred men.
Through the open doors strode the immature body of a tiny child, her red-gold hair curling like a halo around her dimpled face, her black eyes deep with the reflections of a multitude of old souls. Behind her, handmaidens crept forward, eager to help this child who was not a child, who stared unerringly beyond the columns at something even her eyes could not see.
In the weeds, beyond the new Queen's field of vision, lay the abandoned head of Cassandra. Denuded of her flesh, it rolled against a stone, only now dislodging the key that had once been beneath Cassandra's tongue.
Long live the Queen.
Conjuring Dreams or Learning to Write by Writing Page 23