The Queen of Hearts

Prologue


THE Queen of Hearts sat leisurely by her window. This particular glass, square window was her favourite of all her glass, square windows, as it offered the perfect view of her kingdom. The Serpent River wound through the two mountains, grey Kennobeth and her sister Athenes, as well as their smaller brothers and sisters dotted beneath their snow-capped peaks. The mountains marked the northern edge of Ithania, while the eastern edge was cut off by the Great Forest and the western and southern by the ocean.
As the Queen’s eyes drew nearer to the castle, the evergreens gave way to little groups of mud huts, then to the stone buildings of higher-ranking citizens, then to the neutral marketplace and the public square. It all looked quite disorganized from six stories up, like a young child had played a game of sticks and stones and forgotten to clean them up afterwards. The Queen observed this distastefully. She preferred her kingdoms neat and organized.
The harsh grey of the sky fit into the picture perfectly, matching with the disarray and usual bleakness of the country. Ithania was a small nation, but the capstone of the greater continent Iliad. Most traders were forced through the plains of Lysopia to take the Sovereign Route through Kennobeth and Athenes to send their wares overseas. Therefore, Ithania held its power in its sway over pretty much all Iliad’s trade.
The Queen shifted in the plush, red velvet seat and attempted to turn her thoughts to pleasanter things. Ithania was quite dreary. Her barons and nobles had worked themselves into a tizzy to give her the afternoon off, and all she’d done was stare out the window. That had seemed like a good, queenly activity, but it was also downright boring, as were many issues she dealt with.
She stood, crimson chiffon skirts flowing gently around her ankles, and paced the lengths of her royal chambers. She ran her fingers up one wall, examining the chipped blood-red paint with disdain. Her attendants had done the best to prepare the room to her liking, gathering every red accessory they could, but it fell quite short of her expectations.
Her space was elegant enough, if she viewed it quickly and as a whole instead of inspecting each element. Animals of legend were painted with care on the ceiling, and a few lions prowled the walls. The floor was hardwood, perhaps aspen, and felt soft beneath her satin slippers. A diamond chandelier hung above her bed-she’d have to speak to someone about having it relocated. She didn’t want to be impaled during a windy night. The centuries-old castle was quite fragile.
Turning towards the bed...the crimson sheets looked oh so inviting, but she was Queen. She didn’t have time to nap. So instead, she contented herself with lying back on the feather mattress, holding a scarlet feather pillow to her chest. Her eyes had barely closed when a masculine voice interrupted.
“Apologies for this rude intervention, my queen,” her minister of war laughed nervously, leaning against the door frame. She obligingly rose and slipped to the floor, barely concealing her amusement at the fifty-something veteran acting like a lovesick puppy. He ran a scarred hand through his short, steel-gray hair. His cloudy brown eyes never left her. She offered a dismissive wave, mildly surprised when he didn’t leave immediately. “The Lysopian queen requests an audience with Your Majesty,” he insisted, stepping forward even though her hypnotic gaze drew him towards the open door.
“I shall attend to her in a moment. Prepare the guardroom. I enjoy having them with me when I am conversing with fellow Order Royals.”
“But Your Majesty,” the minister of war protested, “they are barely in the Fourth Order. The hierarchal protocol states-”
His words died on his lips. The Queen had glided towards him, and her hand lay tantalizingly close to his face. He was frozen in place, heart pounding, as she laid her pearl-white hand on his cheek.
“What was that, my dear minister?” she purred. He gulped as he raised a hand to touch her. Instantly, she drew back and slapped his hand away. Tears sprang to his eyes as he fell to both knees before her.
“My queen,” he sobbed. She took on a gracing air and lifted his chin. He quivered in her direct gaze, all traces of a minister of war gone. He was simply hers. And she loved it.
A loud clearing of a throat startled the Queen, who glanced up to find the Lysopian queen watching with a disturbed expression. The Queen dropped the minister of war’s head, which bobbed like a doll’s.
“You are dismissed,” she said icily. He jumped to his feet and booked it out of her chambers, nearly knocking over the visiting queen in his haste to obey her. The Lysopian queen began to speak, but the Queen held up a finger and silenced her. “This is hardly a fit place to converse, Heather. Please, accompany me to the guardroom.”
Soundlessly, the two Royals made their way through a long corridor to the guardroom. The Queen smiled as she led-she respected the Lysopian, as she was possibly the only woman in the world that could visit her this constantly and not take her life in despair or try to murder the Queen in a jealous rage. They reached the end of the cold, bare hallway and entered the guardroom, where eternally loyal soldiers threw themselves into chaos at this surprise visit. Tables with pewter mugs quickly shoved into corners, wooden chairs and bar stools thrown away, and sleeping soldiers jarred awake. Finally, two chairs just short of thrones were dragged unceremoniously into the small room, their carved oak framing knocking against the faded scripts engraved into the walls.
The fourteen or so guards were ready to attention, posted evenly throughout the room, never taking their eyes off their Queen. Comfortable with their rapt attention, she eyed the visitor, enjoying the woman’s obvious discomfort. However pleasurable the situation was, she masked any trace of spite in her next words.
“You are always welcome within Ithania’s borders, Heather. What has brought you here on such short notice?” she asked sweetly, hardly bothered to restrain the iciness in her voice.
The Lysopian queen’s eyes darted around the guardroom, risking suspicious glances, then abandoned any attempt to secret her words.
“You seem to have everyone under your spell, Anduine,” she noted carelessly, “and for heaven’s sake, why couldn’t we have had a proper meeting in your chamber? Do you no longer receive visitors there?”
The Queen recoiled at the sound of her name. It was only proper for another Royal to call her that, but it had been such a long time, and dredged up such awful memories. “One, Heather, you tread dangerous territory. And two, I find my chambers filled with unmitigated bleakness. Whoever furnished them, obviously before my time, had a weakness for stuffed animal heads. They are positively unsightly, and I fear I shall offend Royal ancestors if I remove them. And anyways, I quite enjoy the company of my most loyal guards.”
At this, the guards nearly worked themselves into frenzy, shouting their names to the Queen, impeded only by her unspoken rebuke in form of a raised hand. The Lysopian queen shifted in her seat.
“This is what I mean,” she persisted, gesturing to the excited men. “Do you not fear that they shall cast themselves to their deaths to prove themselves to you? Is that what you want? You have stripped them of everything! They are all under your spell, you witch!”
The Queen’s face grew dark, and as she rose to her full height she exercised her full beauty, pushing out the extent of herself, unmasking what she hid to prevent insanity at the sight of her. The Lysopian queen shrivelled under the Queen’s fury. The guards fell to the floor, insensible.
“I am the Queen of Hearts,” she intoned, “I am beautiful beyond compare. No man can refuse to love me once he has seen me. No man can resist me once he has loved me. This is his curse. This is my gift.”