Page 12 of Shadows and Roses

It felt like the guards at his back growled. She didn’t flinch.

A few seconds later, Castien presented an intricate rose carved into the grape. The knife work for that had taken him several moons to master. It probably wouldn't impress her, but he couldn’t resist a message.

"Hmm," she purred as she stroked the rose. Her cold eyes scrutinized him closer. "You’re surprisingly good with a knife. Perhaps youarethinking of the best way to slice me up."

His back itched again. He probably shouldn’t play games with the Queen.

Chuckling softly, she popped the grape into her mouth and bit it clean in half.

Castien carefully set the knife aside and inclined his head. "My apologies if I’ve displeased you, my Queen. Do you have a request?" Guesswork was tedious. He needn’t do so with his recurring clients, and new clients weren’t shy about what they wanted.

"Ha. Massage my hand. You can do that much, I hope?" She extended her hand, tucking her whip handle into a small sheath on her wrist.

"It would be my pleasure." Her claws were painted a dark red today. He hesitated, then took her hand in both of his, the small, delicate limb belied by calluses all over her palm. Had she gained those calluses from the leather grips of swords or the handles of whips?

Her attention turned to the Escort seated on her other side, effectively ignoring Castien. Fine by him. Her cold eyes were entirely too unsettling.

As were her courtiers. He wasn’t sure which was worse.

The scene was similar to yesterday. Courtiers with food and drink chatting with each other, ignoring their leashed servants. The Queen occasionally glanced at the crowd, her sharp gaze flicking over her subjects like a hawk searching for prey. It was a curiously fascinating look—as long as she didn’t pin it on him.

From this vantage point, he could see all the nobles at once, but the crowd and noise were more than he was accustomed to. No detail was minor—not the woman beneath a table, her head between a lord’s legs, not the cracks of whips churning the air, and especially not the whimpered cries of the servants.

So perhaps he could have been excused from not noticing a particular crack, one that became rhythmic and repetitious. It came from one of the tables on the right side of the hall. The sound wasn’t uncommon in the semi-privacy of the courtesan's halls. But here, while the Queen watched with her icy stare?

No one else seemed bothered by it. Many heads turned toward the sound, all of them watching intently. A few eyes darted at the Queen, who observed with her usualcold, casual indifference. The general noise of the hall softened as though everyone was waiting.

The speed increased, accompanied by an occasional high-pitched cry.

There was a man, a lord, standing next to the tables, the crack following every drop of his arm. The cry came from a young servant on his knees. Harsh, red lines marked his back—blood. The whip shredded his shirt, opened his skin. Grinning at the blood, the noble's whip came down harder. With a weak groan, the youth fell forward. Castien looked away.

He couldn't as easily block out the whistling and slapping of every lash. When the Queen went still, he involuntarily glanced back.

The boy lay silent, unmoving.

"Lord Dristal."

The Queen’s voice was sharp and cold, ringing out as clear and loud as the midnight bell. Castien stiffened, his heart racing at that predatory tone. Silence washed over the nobles. Then sneering smiles and gleeful eyes widened, while those near the lord and the dead boy cleared a space. The lord froze, his grin disappearing. He turned slowly and bowed to the throne.

"My Queen," he choked out.

She clasped her hands together. The click of her claws tapping against each other echoed into the silence while she contemplated the lord and his shaking whip. A few soft snickers cropped up.

"My dear lord," she drawled, "why did you execute the boy?" Ice threaded her lazily enunciated, almost gentle words. Castien suppressed a shiver.

"H-he stepped on my foot," the lord squeaked.

"Mmm. Did anyone else witness this offense?"

The lord's eyes darted side to side as no one spoke up. His face turned pale.

The Queen’s voice hardened. "You know the laws. Walk, Lord Dristal. For murder without cause, walk as many paces as you lashed the boy. You did keep count, didn't you?"

"Um, n-no—" he started to say, then realized his mistake.

"Not to worry. I'll count for you." The Queen smiled—a small, humorless thing. An ugly cheer broke the quiet crowd, laughter clearing the tension. The nobles gathered around the terrified lord, some encouraging, some mocking, and some "helping" him along as his whip was yanked out of his grip.

Castien frowned as coins changed hands. Beside him, the Queen sighed, the softest word dropping from her lips: "Eight."

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