Morgan Rice - A Rule of Queens

They passed through the gates and entered a vast city courtyard, the ground made of cobblestone, the city boxed in by the towering city walls. Hundreds of troops filled the square, their armor clanging, their spurs echoing, as they marched about. Otherwise, the city was oddly silent in the morning air.

As they slowly crossed the square, Volusia felt as if she were being watched; she looked up, and all along the city walls she saw people, citizens, their faces etched with panic and concern, leaning out of small windows and staring down, wide-eyed. Many wore grotesque expressions, some of them smacking their own heads, others swaying, others rocking and banging their heads into the walls. Some moaned, others laughed, and others, still, wept.

As she watched, Volusia saw one young woman lean so far out a window, she fell flying forward, face-first, shrieking. She landed on the stone with a splat, greeting her death fifty feet below.

“The first thing the touched Prince did when he inherited his daddy’s throne,” Koolian whispered to Volusia, walking beside her, “was to open the gates to all the asylums. He let all the madcaps have free rein in the city. It is said it pleases the Prince to see them on his morning stroll, and to hear their cries late into the night.”

Volusia heard the strange moaning and crying and screaming and laughing, echoing off the walls, bouncing off of the square, and she had to admit that even she, undaunted by anything, found it unsettling. She was beginning to sense a feeling of dread. When dealing with a madman, all bets were off. She did not know what to expect in this place, and she had an increasing sense of foreboding that it would not be good. Perhaps, for the first time in her life, she would be in over her head.

Still, Volusia urged herself to be strong. She was a goddess, after all, and a goddess could not be harmed.

Volusia could feel the tension thick in the air as they were marched across the square, and finally, to a soaring golden door. Knockers as big as she were yanked slowly by a dozen soldiers, the immense doors creaking. A cold draft came out and hit her from the blackness.

Volusia was led into the castle, and as she entered this dim place, lit only by sporadic torches, she heard laughter and heckling bouncing off the walls. As her eyes adjusted, she saw dozens of madcaps, dressed in rags, pacing along the floor, some following them, others shouting at them, and one crawling alongside them. It was like entering an asylum. The soldiers kept them at a safe distance, yet still, their presence was unnerving.

She and her entourage followed them all down an endless corridor, and finally into a massive entry hall.

There, before them, Volusia was shocked to see, was the touched Prince. He did not sit on his throne, like a normal ruler, or come out to greet them; indeed, his throne, Volusia was surprised to see, was turned upside down—and the Prince, instead of sitting, stood on it, arms out wide at his sides. Barefoot, he wore nothing but shorts and the crown on his head, mostly naked despite the cold day. He also was covered in filth.

As they entered and he spotted them, he suddenly jumped down.

They all approached, Volusia feeling her heart pounding in anticipation; but instead of coming out to greet them, the Prince instead turned and ran to one of the walls. He ran alongside the ancient stone wall, adorned with the most beautiful stained glass, holding out his palms and running them alongside it. As Volusia watched the precious limestone walls turn red, she realized the Prince’s hands were covered in paint. Red paint. He ran back and forth along the walls and smeared this paint along the precious stone, along the stained glass, ruining them; he smeared banners and heralds and trophies, all, no doubt, of his ancestors. And no one dared stop him.

The Prince laughed and laughed as he did so.

Volusia glanced at her men, who all looked back with equal apprehension.

It all might have been amusing, had not the chamber been filled with hundreds of deadly soldiers, all standing at attention, perfectly lined up along the center of the hall, surrounding the throne, all clearly awaiting the Prince’s command.

Volusia and her men were led down the hall, right up to the Prince’s throne, and she stood there, waiting, facing the empty throne turned upside down, watching the Prince run about the room.

Volusia stood there for she did not know how long, growing impatient, until finally the Prince broke free of what he was doing, ran across the room, the jewels on his crown jiggling as he went, raced to his upside-down throne, and jumped on the back of it. He slid down it like a little boy, landed on his feet, laughed and clapped hysterically, and then ran back up and did it again and again.

Finally, on the fifth slide, he landed on his feet and ran toward Volusia and her group at full speed. He stopped abruptly a foot before her, and all of Volusia’s men flinched.

But not Volusia. She stood there, resolute, staring back at him, calm, expressionless, as she watched a rainbow of emotions pass over his face. She watched him go from happy to furious to neutral, to happy again, to confused, all in the span of a few seconds, as he examined her. He did not really make eye contact, but rather had a distant gaze to his eyes.

As Volusia summed him up, she realized that he was not unattractive, an eighteen-year-old man, well-built, with fine features. The madness on his face, though, made him seem older than he was. And of course, he needed a bath.

“Have you come to help me paint?” he asked her.

She stared back, expressionless, debating how to reply.

“I have come for an audience,” she said.

“To help me paint,” he said again. “I paint alone. You understand?”

“I’ve come…” Volusia took a deep breath, measuring her words carefully. “I’ve come to ask for troops. Romulus is dead. The great Empire leader is no more. You rule the eastern lands, and I, the shores of the east. With your men, I can defeat the capital, before they invade both our lands.”

“Both?” the Prince asked. “Why? It is you they are after. I am safe here. I have always been safe here. My parents were safe here. My fish are safe here.”

Volusia was surprised by how astute he was; yet he also was mad, and she could not tell how much of him to take seriously. It was a confusing experience.

“Troops are but troops,” he added. “They fill the skies. You want to use them. They may use you. I myself don’t care for them. I have no need for them.”

Volusia’s eyes widened with hope, as she struggled to understand his erratic speech.

“We may use your men then?” Volusia asked, amazed.

The Prince threw back his head and laughed hysterically.

“Of course you may not,” he said. “Well, maybe. But the problem is, I have a rule. Whenever someone makes a request to me, I must kill them first. Then, sometimes, after they are dead, I grant it.”

He stared at her, sneered viciously, then just as quickly smiled, showing his teeth.

“I cannot be killed,” Volusia replied, her voice cold as steel, trying to project authority although she was feeling increasingly off guard. “It is the great Volusia you address, the greatest Goddess of the east. I have tens of thousands of men who will die at my whims, and it is my destiny to rule the Empire. You can either loan me your men and rule it with me, or you—”

Before she could finish, the Prince held up a palm. He stood there looking up, as if listening—and the silence was shattered by the distant tolling of bells.

Suddenly, he turned and sprinted from the chamber.

“My babies are waking!” he said, as he ran from the hall. “Time to feed them!”

He clapped hysterically as he disappeared from the hall.