Page 29 of Deadly Maiden

King Madlin Darsh

The barber bends and holds up a mirror, letting me see the results of his cutting skills in the reflection that bounces off the standing mirror behind us. My white hair is once more cropped to nothing on the sides and is short elsewhere. I raise a hand from the armrest and nod approval. He smiles, nervous as they often are when I require anything at this time of day.

Though mounted on the walls of the lounging room behind us, etharum lights lend a pearlescence to the balcony, the columns, and even to my hairdresser’s face. Beyond the trembling hand mirror, the sky has yet to gain most of its morning light.

The screams from the usurper carry up here to my balcony, as they are meant to. The white stone columns are square in cross-section and thin. The waist-height balustrade is carefully perforated.

Nothing truly blocks my appreciation of the harbor or of the main attraction chained to the rock beside Diante, my war-yacht. I created it so, knocked down a small part of the palace for this.

He makes for a gory daily attraction.

Blood shows on the flat white boulder that is large enough to stretch the length of a lesser fae’s house. My forehead crinkles as I wonder if I have that correct.

“Would you agree, Niall, that the rock we have chained him to would occupy the same space as an average house?” I smile thinly. I know that looking will discomfort the man. His twin pink plaits swing as he swiftly pretends to look over his shoulder then returns his focus to me.

“Sire, it is that large.” His gaze fixes on my hair again. He raises his scissors.

“Enough.” I present my palm, halting him. “We are done. Send in a servant with a glass of the Remekk and a plate of something the chef respects.” I gesture, vaguely. “I trust his tastes.”

“Sire.” He bows and flees after gathering his bits and pieces. Once the sound and scent of him is mostly gone, I rise from my chair and wander to the edge of the balcony to lean on the curved white stone. The fine etchings depicting the Battle of Orish lie beneath my hands. They are worn now. These years have been harsh to them due to my daily ritual.

Far below and to my right, the sea washes a fringe of blood back and forth. The dinner-plate-size rankor crabs know they will have a free meal each day. So far, they have only nibbled on a little of their prey, though he writhes as if they’ve consumed something important.

His feet do look rather shredded. My guards fend off the crabs, waiting for my choice.

“Until the day my daughter rises, you will please me, Jannik Stryke, also known as the Chained King.” I say this to himthough he cannot hear me. I smirk at that title for it is one I have given him. “Fuck you for killing her.”

It was not his hand that thrust the sword but the hand of one of his house guards, and that fae is dead. But it was his rebellion that brought us to war.

“And so you pay. And pay and pay.”

The bell rings, signaling a messenger is waiting. I turn and beckon, and the door sentinel allows the message to be passed to my major-domo, Margerite. She brings the tray of delicacies, the envelope, and the wine, decanted, and with a goblet of the golden Remekk.

“Leave it all. I will attend to myself.” I prefer privacy while I make this decision. I break the red seal and remove the message, read it while the cool sea winds caress my face and flutter the paper but fail to restrain my ire. “She’s fucking escaped.”

Jaw twitching, I read the sentences again.

Your majesty our exalted King Madlin Darsh, first Aos Sin of the realm, ruler of Zardrake and the dominion of Orencia.

Two troops of enforcers sent to arrest the girl, Wyntre Gothschild, have been destroyed. All are dead, barring one who is sorely wounded. A dragonshifter named Rorsyd has been unmasked as the killer and is suspected of aiding the girl. They fled into the countryside. Further enforcers have been dispatched. We expect to detain them soon.

“Soon? Pah!”

Rorsyd? A dragonshifter? I remember this name. He was in our army at the Battle of Orish. Whatever has caused this treason, he will be sorry, once I have his head removed.

The screwed-up letter drops to the floor as I wander to the small table to pluck my choice of the day. The twenty baubleshere represent body parts made large for easy recognition and furnished with a corded tie. The eye is a bejeweled brass ball with an eyelid in silver. The liver? With my forefinger I stir the embroidered red pillow that mimics the true shape. The feet are hollow bronze casts of feet. And so on and so forth.

I circle the table. Today…today I am annoyed.

I tie my choice to the yard-long metal rod and slot it into its receiving tube so it leans out from the balustrade. From the top of the rod, two golden balls swing on their tasseled cord. They gleam with etharum light. A shouted command says the men have seen it.

I dawdle, pacing, drumming on the balustrade as they pin him to the rock, legs spread, anchored by iron anklets and manacles. Iron hobbles his magik, and his most precious parts are readied for consumption. His body and limbs are clad in thick leather. The first three crabs waddle across the rock toward him, herded by the guards’ prods.

His screams intensify, but I give myself only a few minutes of this amusement before I stalk away.

I find Ruelle swimming, naked—well, she’s leaning her back against the edge of the pool, really, being orally pleasured by two of the new favorites. The man must be good at holding his breath.

“Yes, Madlin?” She bucks and moans as either or both of her people—the man’s tongue roams between her legs, the woman’s mouth suckles her breast—reach some spot on her that works orgasmic wonders.

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