Chapter Two ~ Saerula
Princess Saerula of Ganluc lay sprawled on her chaise longue in an obscure pastoral chateau. A scarlet dressing gown of diaphanous silk draped over her body and pooled at her ankles. Her fingers curled around the parchment scroll that had just arrived from that wretched country, Latoph. Her husband, who was second in line for Latoph’s throne, should be dead by now—her partner, Marquis Terzak, had promised to see to that. She’d been waiting for confirmation that the promiscuous Itzi-lover was burned to ashes so she could throw a celebratory feast.
The king and queen of Latoph would be next. When they were out of the way, Saerula’s son, Dauntere, would assume Latoph’s throne and Saerula would rule as Queen Mother. Latoph had a myriad of perfect ports, was rich in resources, and ripe with multitudes of peasants to enslave just as her father, King Pendo, had done here in Ganluc. Saerula only had one brother to poison before Ganluc would be hers as well.
For now, Saerula shared affections with a muscular young ornament named Laban, who was useless for anything beyond her sensual indulgences and general amusement. The stupid paramour actually thought she’d marry him and take him with her as she moved into power. Idiot. She’d enjoy his charms for now, but sentence him to the mines when he became a liability.
When the messenger who’d brought the missive had left, Saerula slipped a long fingernail under the wax seal and unrolled the scroll. Thin black brows arched as she noticed the handwriting was not that of the marquis.
Your Supreme Majesty,
It is with deep regret that I inform
you of the death of Terzak Rebono.
King Arx executed him in the public
square of Ny, using four horses owned
by the duke to pull him apart.
I await further orders.
It was not signed, but if Terzak was dead, there could only be one other who would inform her. Saerula scanned the words again, laughing that her informant had not used her husband’s name. The last fool who’d spoken it in her presence had had his tongue cut out.
This was a setback, but she wouldn’t let this dampen her aspirations. She still held the trump card, Dauntere. Or rather, her father did. Saerula wasn’t sure where, precisely, but it was unimportant as long as someone fed the wailing brat and kept him from catching any fatal diseases. Children were such a nuisance. Thank the Heavenlies she’d had a son first. Had her firstborn been a daughter, she’d have been obligated to stay with that philandering koopchuk her father had forced her to marry, not to mention enduring another pregnancy.
Saerula tossed the missive into the fire and drained her gold chalice, running her fingers over the cabochon jewels embedded in the goblet’s bowl. Yes, she’d bide her time, awaiting the outcome of Daddy’s planned war.
“Laban, dear,” she called. “Come pour me some wine. And bring that tasava oil. You may rub me down.”
