Talystasia: A Faerytale

by Haadiyah Cardinalis

  His insolent eyes had drifted down the front of her frock, which infuriated her even further. The damp garment concealed nothing, only the macabre stains serving to provide her with some measure of modesty. Too proud to clasp her arms over her body, she held them stiffly at her sides, her fists clenched.

  "No to both. It’s not important right now. I've been here half an hour, and none of these incompetent …” she broke off, fury trapping the words in her throat. “No one even recognizes me,” she began again, “and Telyra’s army is getting closer every minute. Please, you have to do something!”

  "I recognized you from the moment I saw you.”

  “… You did?” she asked faintly.

  "I'd know the face of Lord Loren's daughter as soon as I’d know my own sister. Even if she was wearing a servant's tarnished dress and her hair was all out on display like a common tramp's. Black? I thought you’d be a brunette or a redhead."

  “Why would I be a redhead?” she demanded.

  “Pale skin.”

  "Can't you see," interrupted the cook, "Lord Loren's daughter or not, she's gone mad. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about!”

  The lieutenant ignored her. "I believe you," he said to Rose.

  "You do—?"

  "Despite our overwhelming numbers on the field, Telyra’s victory was assured before your father ever threw down the gauntlet. The past few years, the military has … has grown lax. I didn't mean to insult you." Reaching out, he placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’m a bit stressed. But you need to leave the hall now.”

  “Do I?” she asked, too disoriented to do anything about his hand on her shoulder.

  "What are you doing here, lieutenant?"

  Rose jumped at the intruding voice, turning to look. The lieutenant blinked, dropping his hand to his side. He pivoted slowly, as if he were waiting for a rusty gear inside him to turn him laboriously about. The expressionless mask he wore was either resolute control or stark terror.

  A bearded, middle-aged man in uniform was standing behind them, staring down at the lieutenant over top of a sour frown. Rose barely knew him personally, but she recognized him instantly.

  … Here at last was someone who could do something.

  "General Delvorak, sir.” The lieutenant raised his hand in a sloppy, apathetic salute. “Pardon my missing your approach; the stench of alcohol should have alerted me well before you’d turned the corner. But Mistress Loren required my assistance. Naturally that took priority. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Costellic. You cheeky bastard. What the HELL is the matter with you?”

  "Hey!” she hollered, leaping in front of the general. “Don't you know that Telyra is coming? Why are you standing here talking to him—?"

  "Is that so—" Garret Delvorak said slowly, surveying her coolly. “And are you a military advisor?”

  “You fielded way too many,” the lieutenant interjected. “This palace wasn’t built for defence. It was built for pride. You could argue it’s impossible to defend if the walls are breached anyway, but to just abandon these people and hope you win on the field …?”

  “What exactly would you suggest we do? Recall them? The city will be overrun.”

  “You shouldn’t have fielded them AT ALL!”

  Delvorak regarded him with scarcely concealed loathing. "Are you not supposed to be on the field ...?"

  The lieutenant jabbed his thumb at the general, glancing sidelong at Rose. "This is everything that’s wrong with your father’s regime, right here. Lazy, indolent, conceited, impractical, contemptful, moronic—”

  "—Are you even listening to me ...?” Rose screamed. “We don’t have time to argue about who should’ve done what. This isn’t about you. We're about to have to fight for our lives."

  "—I ORDERED YOU!" Delvorak roared.

  Neither man moved a muscle or even looked her way. There was so much palpable hate on the air between them that it seemed it’d combust.

  Looking helplessly on as the two of them faced off, each seemingly intractable, she couldn’t help but wonder …

  What in God’s name are they thinking?

  ~~~

  "—I ORDERED YOU!" thundered Delvorak, an inch from Corin’s ear.

  His bellow drowned out Miss Loren’s shrieking terror. Again, Corin managed not to flinch, but he felt sick.

  "I must not have received your orders,” he responded a moment later, taking a breath. “… Oops."

  “Is that a dress uniform you’re wearing?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Where is your armour?”

  Corin shrugged. “Where’s yours?”

  "And where is your UNIT? Half of them are MISSING. How do you MISPLACE fifty men?! I knew Palianov was off his head when he gave you that charge. You’re a lieutenant."

  "... Aren’t they on the field?” he asked innocently. Fifty, he thought with a mental snort. Not quite.

  “NO,” Delvorak fumed.

  “How could you know, being as you're not either? Haven't been all day, from what I've heard. Generals these days … hiding in their whiskey bottles and sending young recruits to die ...”

  Delvorak's face turned the colour of one of Mistress Loren’s magenta gowns. He shook with silent rage, nearly foaming at the mouth.

  "Mistress Loren here tells me we are about to be overrun. But you don’t really give a damn. You just want me to get out of your face. By the way—ignoring a lady of noble birth; tsk tsk. I better find that unit, huh ..."

  Swallowing his apprehension, he turned his back on Delvorak and started walking away. Behind him, the commander spluttered audibly and stamped his foot.

  "COSTELLIC—!" he roared.

  Corin halted, stiffening. Delvorak’s spittle had actually landed on the back of his neck.

  "Miss Loren.” Resisting the urge to wipe it off with his sleeve, he turned back, looking straight at her. He couldn’t meet Delvorak’s incensed stare. "You need to leave the hall. Please come with me." He beckoned.

  "Must I—" she demanded, proud and peerless, glaring at him from that forest of damp curls.

  Under her indignation, a trace of fear lurked deep in her eyes.

  No, not just fear. It was more than that. Like she’d seen the devil himself.

  "Absolutely," he answered, grabbing her bare, blood-streaked arm.

  She could yell, she could scream, he didn't care. There was no time for his curiosity or concern, and certainly not for propriety. This would all be over too fast.

  Surprisingly she didn't shout; she slapped at him instead, but she may as well have been swatting at a fly.

  “I could have you executed just for touching me,” she hissed, her voice trembling.

  He tried to think of a clever comeback, but all that came out was a queasy moan. Grabbing her arm was going to be the least of his problems in just a few short minutes—and execution was likely a guarantee.

  With an empty laugh, he dragged her around a corner and into a servant’s corridor that made a dead end near the great hall. There were muffled shouts from around the corner, but he ignored them.

  Throwing open the door to a broom closet, he grabbed her by the shoulders and looked her directly in the eyes while trying desperately not to see them; they looked close to mad.

  "There will be fighting in the palace shortly—in the great hall," he informed her.

  "I ... I don't understand. What's going on—? You can't just push me around like this—!"

  "You are not," he said firmly, “to go anywhere.”

  "Telyra’s men have breached the walls? But I thought no one knew they were coming! Why didn't you tell me—?"

  "Because—I don't know! Please, for your own safety."

  "You're not telling me something.”

  The words were dagger-sharp. They shocked him, and the truth fell out.

  "Damnit … That's quite right. And you're to stay silent and in this little room. You are not to come out until I fetch you. You are not to move, to talk, t
o breathe, if possible. Is that very crystal clear?"

  She nodded mutely, her eyes wide and misty.

  "Then ... go in your little room," he finished, pushing her backwards lightly into the cupboard. "And ..." He broke off, shrugging weakly. There was nothing else to say.

  "—What's your name? I didn’t catch your name."

  "Corin Costellic, at your service … Lieutenant," he added guiltily. "And I am. At your service." He gave her a moment to widen her eyes before slamming the door in her face.

  His gut roiled and the knot in his throat felt like a block of ice. Black ice. He hadn't lied to the general; he was going to find his unit—that was, those he and his accomplices had bribed with bargains, promises, compensations, or flat out lies—and several higher-ups who had bribed him in turn with the mad hope of reform. Keledrain, Rand and Cue would be waiting for him in the hall. Palianov was on the field. He didn’t know where the hell Daranov was.

  Sprinting back to the great hall, the laughter exploded out his mouth like vomit.

  The nobles were all in hiding, and yet, the great jewelled doors to the hall were flung open wide to the stormy night air and Telyra's encroaching army like an indiscriminate whore spreading her legs to any who would have her. Never before had he seen such a ridiculously perfect depiction of utter hubris and blind-arse stupidity.

  Straightening his uniform, he approached Markus Keledrain with the corner of his mouth smirking. It was as uncontrollable as it was inappropriate, but he couldn’t help it.

  "Sir?"

  Corin opened his mouth to speak, but they were both interrupted by an echoing cry from across the chamber:

  "TO ARMS ...!"

  General Delvorak was jumping drunkenly up and down at the far end of the hall like a fool in a stage show, sword drawn and shaking in the air like it was a wooden prop. “Enemy at the gates!”

  Keledrain laughed, almost as if they were not about to be overrun by enemy combatants, and not about to do the terrible thing they were set upon.

  Shaking his head, Corin fought down the nausea that was threatening to erode his courage.

  ... The man's already suicidal, after all; look at him; he's insane. Well, every man has his day ... and his came long ago.

  He spoke shakily. "Begin."

  ~~~

  The closet was musty and cramped and dark; it felt like a trap. Backing away from the door, Rose’s ankle twisted and she tripped over a pail. With a deafening racket, the entire row of brooms, mops and dust-bins collapsed and clattered to the floor.

  Cursing, she hopped back over to the door. Sweat and rainwater trickled down her neck, her breath coming in shallow gulps.

  From down the hall, there came a shriek, a clatter, and a scream, followed by a frenzied climax of shouts.

  Had he locked it?

  Turning the knob cautiously, she peeked outside. The ivory walls gleamed softly under the glow from the chandeliers.

  Why'd he leave me in a dead end ...?

  What to do … She could stay here and try to wait this out, but sooner or later she was bound to be discovered. If the lieutenant was to be believed, only a skeleton crew had been left behind to defend the palace. It should have be crawling with extra guards, but judging from what the general had said and what she was seeing, he was telling the truth.

  She knew that many of the guards were actually infantry reserve members, but she never would have expected them all to be summoned back to the field. What was worse, both the men she had spoken to appeared to be lunatics. In three short years, her father’s military had apparently been reduced to a stunted, worthless rabble. What was it he had said …? The military had grown lax. Understatement of the century.

  Waiting here was not an option. Unfortunately, she’d have to pass close to the great hall to get to one of the main arteries of the palace. That meant moving toward the fighting.

  … So be it.

  The din from the great hall grew steadily louder as she padded down the passageway.

  Edging around the corner, she pulled back out of sight, her heart thumping under her ribs, the corridor spinning.

  The great hall was a molten montage of blue and red, the colours erupting together like melting paint as man tangled with man. Blood splattered brightly to the milky marble floor. It had only been a grisly half-second, but there was something very off-colour about what she had just glimpsed.

  She was just ginning herself up for a second glance when out of nowhere, a gleam of metal scythed down toward her skull. Shrieking, she dodged aside, shooting past a stormy blur of blue and spurring into a blind, reckless run. Around her, the marble of the great hall stretched like a plundered field of snow, its virgin whiteness spoiled by blood and crumpled, misshapen heaps. With a deafening skid, she slid to a stand-still.

  The fighters around her faltered. At first, she thought they’d noticed her, but their eyes were fixed on the doors. It was as if a seismic wave had rippled through the chamber.

  A horseman had thundered into the light of the hall. The chestnut beast seemed an explosion of burning flesh, a rabid, crazed thing, barely bounded by muscle and bone, the rider atop its back a perfect, vicious complement. His long, whipping hair was as red as the bloodstains that covered his face and neck. The blue uniform and leather armour he wore were as gore-spattered as a butcher’s apron. But it was the rusty gold circlet that left no doubts. One vertical scar ran the length of his eye, as cold and empty as those of the dead men lying on the floor.

  He was looking right at her.

  She bolted, mindless with panic.

  This can't be happening to me! Where is Father? Is he already dead ...? Oh no, is Alix then too—? And am I?

  My God ... why him ...!

  The hoof beats grew deafening in her ears, hammering into her brain when they found nowhere else to go. Damn!—she'd picked the wrong hallway; the one she'd just come out of—! She tried the broom closet door, screaming with effort. It was jammed.

  My God, she thought. This is it …

  ~~~

  Andreas burst around the corner and pulled up short when he saw Malek Loren's daughter slumped at the end of the corridor. Seleda reared in irritation.

  Was that Malek’s daughter? She was dressed no better than the meanest servant, and he couldn’t be sure, but he thought her face matched the portrait in Rizaq’s file. Judging from the bloodstains and her disarrayed hair, she’d already had a wild night.

  He drew his sword and flashed it before her eyes.

  She stared straight ahead.

  "Roselia Loren!" he snapped.

  She didn’t flinch.

  She looked as limp as a rag doll. Was she even conscious? Or was she so certain of death that she didn't realize she was still alive …?

  He swung again within a foot of her scalp. No reaction.

  He looked down at his hands, covered in blood, and back at her empty, dazed eyes.

  Tonight he could end this. He was so close now.

  He could kill off the rest of Malek Loren's sorry line starting with this pathetic, petrified girl.

  … Door to door through the rich estates of the courtiers and the corridors of the palace he could track down every last one of her aunts, uncles and cousins. If he had to, he could butcher every last citizen in Talystasia West, until every drop of Loren blood was spent. After a night of executions, he could rest from this soul-wearying conflict.

  And yet, there was something staying his hand.

  Why shouldn’t I kill Roselia Loren?

  He remembered the boy in the marketplace. It seemed a million hours ago that he had slapped him. Weirdly, he felt that same impulse now to reach out and slap her cheek, to try to shock some life back into her eyes. The ache between his legs begged for satisfaction, and there would be no pleasure in murdering this woman who could offer him nothing. He wanted to hear her weep as he tore her clothes off, to scream as he fucked her, plunging his knife into her, stabbing her again and again.

  Or maybe he truly
pitied her, as he’d pitied the boy.

  But why am I like this?

  When had he started digging this grave for himself? He could still see the light of day, just barely, but it was there, filtering through the cracks in his existence.

  He could slaughter every member of Roselia Loren’s family down to every last illegitimate child, and maybe, just maybe, this wretched diadem would fall off his head.

  Or … his blood chilled … he might find himself damned twice over, both circlets crushing down on his skull forever—with no hope of escape. What sovereignty was there in that, what victory?

  All he might win was a deeper circle of hell.

  His inheritance had done far more than trap him here inside the walls of this loathsome city. It had steered him off of every path he would have chosen for himself.

  Did he truly want to rape and murder this vacant, terrified woman?

  He didn’t know.

  Something in him snapped.

  May life not be too cruel to you, Roselia Loren.

  Pulling on the reins, he catapulted around, galloping out of the corridor and back into the fray outside.

  ~~~

  … And he was gone.

  The moment he disappeared around the corner, Rose collapsed, the trance of terror shattering like glass.

  For a few seconds, she couldn't even think. Then the full import of what had happened washed over her.

  Surging to her feet, she tore off shakily after him. "Why?!" she shouted, dashing down the corridor, but when she reached the threshold of the great hall, he was already galloping off into the night, his host a dark deluge departing through the glittering doors behind him.

  “Why did you spare me! Why are you leaving? Why …!”

  It was a miracle. On the cusp of victory, Andreas Telyra had let her live.

  She dropped her hand and swayed where she stood, staring sightlessly through the wide jewelled gates. It was as if her soul had followed him out into the darkness, swept up in his wake.

  The man closest to her, a Loren fighter, pulled his sword out of a carcass.

  The new shock set in slowly, reeling her back inside, drawing her awareness into her body, directing her gaze at her feet. The off-colour observation from ten minutes before pulled into focus, taking on shape … and hue.