Morgan Rice - A Rule of Queens

The people let out a hushed sound of awe, as they all looked up at it in wonder. Volusia looked up at the shining golden statue, twice as high as the others, a perfect model of her. She waited, nervous, to see how her people would react. It had been centuries since anyone had introduced a new god, and she was gambling to see if their love for her was as strong as she needed it to be. She didn’t just need them to love her; she needed them to worship her.

To her great satisfaction, her people, as one, all suddenly dropped to their faces, bowing down, worshiping her idol.

“Volusia,” they chanted sacredly, again and again. “Volusia. Volusia.”

Volusia stood there, arms out wide, breathing deep, taking it all in. It was enough praise to satisfy any human. Any leader. Any god.

But it was still not enough for her.

Volusia walked through the wide, open-air arched entrance to her castle, passing marble columns a hundred feet high, the halls lined with gardens and guards, Empire soldiers, standing perfectly erect, holding golden spears, lined up as far as the eye could see. She walked slowly, the golden heels of her boots clicking, accompanied, on either side Koolian, her sorcerer, Aksan, her assassin, and Soku, the commander of her army.

“My lady, if I could just have a word with you,” Soku said. He’d been trying to talk to her all day, and she’d been ignoring him, not interested in his fears, in his fixation on reality. She had her own reality, and she would address him when the time suited her.

Volusia continued marching until she reached another entrance to another corridor, this one bedecked with long strips of emerald beads. Immediately, soldiers rushed forward and pulled them to the side, allowing a passage for her.

As she entered, all the chanting and cheering and reveling of the sacred ceremonies outdoors began to fade away. She’d had a long day of slaughtering and drinking and raping and feasting, and Volusia wanted some time to collect herself. She would recharge, then go back for another round.

Volusia entered the solemn chambers, dark and heavy, just a few torches lighting it. What lit the room mostly was the sole shaft of green light, shooting down from the oculus high above in the center of the hundred-foot-high ceiling, straight down to a singular object that sat alone in the center of the room.

The emerald spear.

Volusia approached it, in awe, as it sat there, as it had for centuries, pointing straight up into the light. With its emerald shaft and emerald spear point, it glistened in the light, aimed straight up at the heavens, as if challenging the gods. It had always been a sacred object for her people, one that her people believed sustained the entire city. She stood before it in awe, watching the particles swirl about it in the green light.

“My lady,” Soku said softly, his voice echoing in the silence. “May I speak?”

Volusia stood a long time, her back to him, examining the spear, admiring its craftsmanship as she had every day of her life, until finally she felt ready to hear her councilor’s words.

“You may,” she said.

“My lady,” he said, “you have killed the ruler of the Empire. Surely, word has spread. Armies will be marching for Volusia right now. Massive armies, larger than we could ever defend against. We must prepare. What is your strategy?”

“Strategy?” Volusia asked, still not looking at him, annoyed.

“How will you broker peace?” he pressed. “How will you surrender?”

She turned to him and fixed her eyes on him coldly.

“There will be no peace,” she said. “Until I accept their surrender and their oath of fealty to me.”

He looked back, fear in his face.

“But my lady, they outnumber us a hundred to one,” he said. “We cannot possibly defend against them.”

She turned back to the spear, and he stepped forward, desperate.

“My Empress,” he persisted. “You’ve achieved a remarkable victory in usurping your mother’s throne. She was not loved by the people, and you are. They worship you. None will speak to you frankly. But I shall. You surround yourself by people who tell you what you wish to hear. Who fear you. But I shall tell you the truth, the reality of our situation. The Empire will surround us. And we will be crushed. There will be nothing left of us, of our city. You must take action. You must broker a truce. Pay whatever price they want. Before they kill us all.”

Volusia smiled as she studied the spear.

“Do you know what they said about my mother?” she asked.

Soku stood there and looked back at her blankly, and shook his head.

“They said she was the Chosen One. They said she would never be defeated. They said she would never die. Do you know why? Because no one had wielded this spear in six centuries. And she came along and wielded it with one hand. And she used it to kill her father and take his throne.”

Volusia turned to him, her eyes aglow with history and destiny.

“They said the spear would only be wielded once. By the Chosen One. They said my mother would live a thousand centuries, that the throne of Volusia would be hers forever. And do you know what happened? I wielded the spear myself—and I used it to kill my mother.”

She took a deep breath.

“What does that tell you, Lord Commander?”

He looked at her, confused, and shook his head, puzzled.

“We can either live in the shadow of other people’s legends,” Volusia said, “or we can create our own.”

She leaned in close, scowling, glaring back at him in fury.

“When I have crushed the entire Empire,” she said, “when everyone in this universe bends their knee to me, when there is not a single living person left that doesn’t know and scream and cry my name, you will know then that I am the one and only true leader—and that I am the one and only true god. I am the Chosen One. Because I have chosen myself.”

Gwendolyn walked through the village, accompanied by her brothers Kendrick and Godfrey, and by Sandara, Aberthol, Brandt and Atme, with hundreds of her people trailing her, as they all were welcomed here. They were led by Bokbu, the village chief, and Gwen walked beside him, filled with gratitude as she toured his village. His people had taken them in, had provided them safe harbor, and the chief had done so at his own risk, against some of his own people’s will. He had saved them all, had pulled them all back from the dead. Gwen did not know what they would have done otherwise. They would probably all be dead at sea.

Gwen also felt a rush of gratitude for Sandara, who had vouched for them with her people, and who’d had the wisdom to bring them all here. Gwen looked about, taking in the scene as all the villagers swarmed them, watching them arrive like things of curiosity, and she felt like an animal on display. Gwen saw all the small, quaint, modeling clay cottages, and she saw a proud people, a nation of warriors with kind eyes, watching them. Clearly, they’d never seen anything like Gwen and her people. Though curious, they were also guarded. Gwen could not blame them. A lifetime of slavery had molded them to be cautious.

Gwen noticed all the bonfires being erected everywhere, and she wondered.

“Why all the fires?” she asked.

“You arrive at an auspicious day,” Bokbu said. “It is our festival of the dead. A holy night for us, it arrives but once a sun cycle. We burn fires to honor the gods of the dead, and it is said that on this night, the gods visit us, and speak to us of what is to come.”

“It is also said that our savior will arrive on this day,” chimed in a voice.

Gwendolyn looked over to see an older man, perhaps in his seventies, tall, thin with a somber look to him, walk up beside them, carrying a long, yellow staff and wearing a yellow cloak.