Princes and Pawns

The overly gaudy, exquisitely tooled, and finely gilded doors were pulled open to the roar of trumpets announcing his arrival. Brash as ever, the man in the black mantle with the large silver broach just over his thick shoulder boldly strode into the Queen's court. "Count Tomas of Aquee!" shouted the portly and balding herald, emphasizing the name with a hefty thump of his bronze tipped staff upon the ancient marble of the great hall. The old portly man had to lumber indignantly to place himself in front of the young man with the curling black locks and devilishly green eyes, to lead the Count and his entourage towards the raised dais at the far end of the expanse of marble for formal introduction to her majesty.

Aquee, moved like an alpha wolf entering the den. His every stride spoke of hidden power beneath his cloak and tight black leggings. The heels of his boots, more fit for the field than for marble floors clicked irrepressibly upon the marble in the silence of the hall. He refused to allow himself to smile, keeping his face as cold and solid as the stone of the hall. With a wave of his exposed fist that clenched his black leather gloves, he drove a scurrying servant and his tray of wine from his path, as surely as if he had struck the man fully on the jaw. As if nothing could stand in his way. Beneath the folds of his cloak, his left fingers played with his metallic gift for the Queen.

He could feel the prickly burn of a hundred eyes upon him as he strode on, nearly running down the chubby herald in his impatience. He could feel their envy, perhaps even their fear? The corner of his lip curled briefly at this thought. The stuffiness of the room, its air thick with hardly pumping blue blood, at some level appalled him, and at another fed his vanity like brimstone to fiery pit, in everlasting symbiosis. 'Yes, Tomas, at long last you have arrived,' he thought bemused to himself, nearly treading on the herald's brown robe trim.

One of the pairs of eyes that watched Aquee crossing the hall came from a pair of old brown eyes. "Your, Grace?" Jezzina's young voice hissed in a whisper. The duke's hand had stopped its delightful, unseen ascent beneath the table and her skirts the moment the announcement of this stranger was made. As the black clad man crossed the floor, like a lion across his own savannah, the duke had just locked his eyes upon him and made no other move. She had never experienced this before, never in all her two years at court had Arnulf of Guisson allowed a simple introduction to halt his relentless attacks upon her willing flesh.

This new black man was worth looking at, Jezzina had to admit. Young, and by the look of his shoulders and the rippling of his thighs in his hose, he had to fit as an ox. There was the hint of violence and danger about him as he boldly strode towards the throne, as if he was at the head of invincible, conquering army. Though his small entourage consisted of but three men, one looking no better than a blind beggar, and but two young women that followed with their eyes downcast to the floor.

"Shh!" his grace Arnulf, Duke of Guisson hissed silently. Jerking his hand from the inside of Jezzina's thigh cruelly, her bunched up skirts rustled almost loudly in the still hall as they fell back into a rumpled modesty. Jezzina turned her face away from Arnulf, her sweet young cheeks flooding to a rosy pink, knowing she should never have opened her mouth. A lump of fear began t creep into her throat.

Arnulf's well-experienced gaze swallowed every detail of Aquee as he crossed the floor. The man was but of average height, and his fashion sense was highly questionable. He wore a high collar, black of course, and without a ruffle as was preferred by her majesty. For his first entrance to court, Aquee was as audacious as was his reputation. One victory in battle and he acted as if he were the conquering captain. Yet, he was not fit to drink at the same table as Guisson! The bastard child of a monk and the old Count's consort, what is the world coming to? Arnulf drown the rage filled shout that was welling in his throat with a deep swallow of wine. Lowering his goblet, he leaned slowly to his left, "Destroy him," he hissed into the blonde giant man's ear at his left. The hulking man simply flashed a broad smile that revealed a hole in his teeth back at his master. A meaty hand slid down to affectionately rubs the hilt of his well-used dagger.

The silence was ended with the herald's abrupt stamping of his staff before the throne, "Her Royal Majesty Allora, Queen of Oriland, Westo, Chullia, Eria, and Phrasia. We, your loyal subjects present to you Tomas, Count of Aquee, your loyal champion of Durstine Meadows." The court erupted in the subtle roar of feigned approving clapping as the Herald bowed low and drifted off to the shadows. Allora, her chin resting heavily upon her long thin fingers, starkly white thanks to the wonderful whitening power of arsenic and a bit of paste to cover the age from view as she sat leaning forward and over one arm of her gilt and bejeweled throne. The position she had been in since this young man had burst into the room. She had remained still as the herald barked out her ancient titles, though only those of Oriland and Westo had any real meaning. The Chull were in revolt, and pandering support from her cousin the King of Phrasia. Eria, that backwards land across the sea could hardly be considered truly within her suzerainty, but she would of course refuse to acknowledge anything other than her maximum of power.

Before her was the young man who led a fledgling force of some four hundred untrained boys on an expedition that even Guisson had thought folly, and somehow drove the Chull from the field. She had since heard many stories about this man now before her. Peering directly into his bold green eyes she could see where the rumors of his contract with the devil came from. There were other stories as well, of how he was a natural commander and an expert in the use of cannon. Still more that questioned his ancestry. To all these stories, Allora had paid no attention. It did not matter if he had sold his soul, if he were a monk's bastard, or if he was a great captain. All that really mattered was that he had won. That is all that Allora cared about; well, almost all, she thought to herself as she scanned his face, the black curling hair, the thick black goatee beard, those blazing green eyes, and all surrounded in that horrid black of his clothes. She smiled her painted red lips to speak, "Count of Aquee, you have done us a great service and you have our deepest thanks," she extended her hand slowly towards him for his worship.

Aquee seized her hand swiftly, but gently and caught her by surprise; her power and position seemed to have no effect upon his demeanor. Her eyes widened quickly as he kissed her wrist as if it were a lover's lips then slowly puling his lips from her wrist he turned her palm upright before him and quickly flashed the hidden hand fro beneath his cloak and clapped her palm with the gold medallion. Looking up into her eyes, Tomas pulled back grinning slowly rising to full height, but still lightly hold the hand of the queen letting the flickering candle light of the chandeliers to dance over the heavy medallion for all to see. A murmur began to flood through the hall as he spoke, loudly for all to hear, announcing himself to the world he had so long been denied, "Your Majesty allow me to present you with the Star of Phrasia, Phrasia now has no heir, their late Prince had not the prowess of the blade I was led to believe." Allora's eyes bugged out of her head, the green prince dead, and at the hands of this black clad devil?

The entire hall rustled loudly and uncomfortably. Arnulf choked and spewed wine over the pure white table linens as he saw the mark of the crown prince of Phrasia dangling like a dead fish of the falsely white fingers of the queen. He pounded the goblet to the table and near leapt from his seat as many of the court did. "What devilry have you brought into these halls, Aquee?" Guisson demanded with a shout that quieted the crowd a bit pointing an aging finger at the newcomer.

Tomas spun on his heel at the challenge. His face at once flashed with hatred and stone. He was not a man that dealt with questioning of his doings well. Seeing the raised finger from the old man with the red and brown cowl and red, gold, and yellow checked jacket, he spoke, his tone was as icy s it was loud, "And who might you be, sir?" He asked with a vipers hiss.

Arnulf lowered his finger and used both hands to smooth his ruffled attire, too dignified to answer for himself to a freshman with no head for politics. "Dis is Arnulf, Duke of Guisson," the blonde giant at Guisson's side answered for his master, his hand tightly wrapped around his dagger. Aquae's eyes darted from the giant's dagger to the face of his rival, shrugging his shoulders he let the heavy dark volume of his cloak billow over his shoulders reveling more of his chest beneath a think layer of black silk tunic. "Well, your Grace," Tomas replied without a bow, placing his hands on his hips brazenly, "is it not in your tradition to bring your trophies from the field back to the crown you serve?"

With that, Arnulf pounded a fist upon the table and turned, leaving immediately, his host of an entourage filing out in silence in his wake. One by one, Tomas watched them all take their leave. Most were your typical hangers feeding this man's vanity with their feigned loyalty. However, the first one to leave and the last caught his attention. The young girl, young enough to be the Duke's daughter, but she sat too close for that, and any man of Guisson's position would be loathe to bring his daughter to Allora's debauched court. An obvious mistress, easily fewer than half the man's age by at least four years. He caught the glimpse of tear on her embarrassed rose of her cheek as she quickly leapt to follow behind her master. And finally, not moving until his master was at the head of the hall, there was the hulking Darrish, his tunic bursting over his muscular flesh, his head towering over everyone in the hall, his unkempt blonde hair haphazardly set upon his head bringing into question the quality of mind within his skull. His huge fist always clamped over the hilt of his dagger. His entire stooped being oozing with the threat of death. Tomas knew he would have to meet both of those again. Which would be more pleasant? He could only guess. He cocked an eyebrow as the giant finally broke his stare and stepped in to follow his master from the hall.

Allora tilted her head, her perfectly youthful flame red curls flowing over her shoulder from her wig as she watched the most dangerous man to her throne storm from her presence. Looking up at the dark stranger, she wondered if Guisson was still the most dangerous man to her throne. She must watch this new man; perhaps if she played her hand right she could get either, or both of these men to rid her of each other. She smiled the same soft smile like two red fig leaves hiding the sinister serpent behind her face cake that was her tenacious mind. The one part of her body that had remained as sharp as it was in her youth. "Count Aquee," she cooed as if nothing had happened at all, it would please us if you would be so noble as allow us to introduce our niece, the princess Raquel," Allora motioned in the lazy fashion of the royals to the young girl who stood beside and behind the throne. Raquel lowered her lashes and curtsied deep before stepping forward to allow the repulsively bold black clad man to take her hand and kiss it lightly.

As Tomas' lips brushed her wrist she felt a fire that made her nearly pull her hand back, looking at him in the face fully for the first time. She had been introduced to many an old man. Most had been like the Duke of Guisson. Old, power hungry and calculating. For all in this room, including her aunt, to who she would succeed as Queen being the only surviving heir, she was a pawn in various games of gathering power at court. She loved none, and distrusted all. Nevertheless, suddenly, the touch of this man's lips sent a sensation through her skin to her very core. His was the touch of both passion and drive. She could see in his eyes the same Machiavellian machinations within machinations. However, his was not cold politics, his was a dangerous concoction of passion and need for power. The feeling shocked her usual numbed self, her soft blue eyes widened briefly before she quickly lowered her lids and turned her head slightly, "It is my pleasure to meet your Excellency, Tomas of Aquee," it was the proper answer, but she could not hide in her trembling voice a curiosity and both Allora and Tomas heard it. Raquel's cheeks flushed as she caught a cold smile from the depths of that dark goatee. She turned her face further away trying to not feel those burning green eyes upon her flesh. Her cheeks reddened and she raised a small hand over her square lace trimmed bosom trying to steady herself. However, it was not hopelessness she actually felt something stirring at some place she thought could only be stirred by her and with great labor to do so. How could this be?

Tomas gazed at the young princess as if he could read her troubled mind, he knew he had her, and he held onto her wrist, perhaps more tan necessary. Allora watched the new predator stalk his cornered doe for a moment then, as if to break his hypnotism upon her niece, "Count Tomas, please join us as our honored guest for the feast is held in your honor tonight."

With that, she was able to lead him away to a seat near herself. She managed to have Raquel's seat moved to be directly across from the new comer.

Arnulf's spies would no doubt have seen this and would duly report the night's events in time. Her impromptu trap for both of them was begging to be laid She could not loose, if Tomas were to rid her of Arnulf, her over mighty subject would no longer threaten her power. If Arnulf were to remove Tomas, she could appease the Phrasians and hopefully avert direct war with that nation. Better yet, if she could manage, the puppet strings enough; she could rid herself of both of these disruptive influences to her little hive. Smiling to herself, she sipped her wine and let Tomas spill his boring tale of the defeat of the Phrasian prince. Ignoring his words and lost in her own thoughts she raised a painted eyebrow as he turned to face her in response to the tiny toe of a jeweled slipper she had dancing against his calf briefly. Then she went back to sipping her wine, ignoring him once more.