The Queen of Exile

Her knees banged against the side of her armored pony, the steady clop of it's hooves striking against stone nearly drowned out by that of the ocean. Far, far below her, icy spray clawed against the cliffside, reaching for its prey way up high.

Fand didn't give the lively sea so much as the bat of an eyelash, instead drawing her horse away from the edge and further inland towards the distant treeline.

Rock ceded to grass, barren landscape meeting the abruptness of ancient trees and their burrowing roots. Fand frowned at the redwoods, but dismounted quickly.

She had traveled for five days straight as ordered; she was exhausted, and her horse, bearing armor and whatever stuffs she decided to bring, was very near to collapsing. Only the curse of her husband, the King Dulcam of Harenstav, had kept them going. But now they could unwind, and from there, plan.

Fand unclipped her saddle bags, her weapons, and her bed roll. Her legs and behind ached tremendously, but she instead focused on her horse. The mist-gray beast already stood a little taller without the weight of her baggage, and it snorted with relief when the armor slipped off and clanked against the mossy ground. Fand ran fingers through the horse's hide, wary of the sweat coating it and the strain it must've been under.

She was about to water it, give it some nourishment - but the legs collapsed beneath it, and it rolled onto its side in the nestles of a particularly large tree's burrow. She kneeled, thanked the dying pony for carrying her into exile, and slashed a knife cleverly designed to look like a leaf across it's throat. Hot blood gushed, and the horse breathed it's last.

Fand stood, her own heavy and hot armor glittering with the blood of her steed, but she did not care to wipe the fine silver scales of the red debauchery. She only slipped out of it as if it were a shell to be peeled off a cooked egg.

Cool air kissed her skin, rich with the salty moisture of the nearby ocean. She breathed a sigh of relief much as the horse had, and considered slitting her own throat.

She had committed a treasonous crime.

Fand had killed her own son, Willhem, to curry favor with the lord of Bask.

Her lips tightened, and she couldn't help but to stare at her painfully mortal hands, wrinkled as hands grow to be and written with stories. She would not doubt if some oracle read her palm and only saw death in her future.

Blood was creased between her fingers, dampening her grip and reminding her how it had felt to hold her son down and plunge the knife into his heart. Something within her tore, as if it were her own heart that the blade had split clean through. But she deserved the pain; more than her son had.

Dulcam had inherited a throne after a weak ruler, and she had been attached to his side since the day he walked in to see the former king dead in a pile of his own blood, Fand standing over him. Dulcam had praised her then, offered her to be his Queen for winning him a throne. Greedy for power, Fand had accepted.

But other rulers doubted the bloodletting Queen and the presumed weak progeny of the former king. The lord of Bask chief among them. Within the seven years after Willhem, their son and heir, had been born, the lord of Bask had swayed many lower courts to his side until he had a veritable army. Fand had approached the lord alone, promising whatever he wanted to tear the army apart and resume peace under the Queen and King.

He had wanted royal blood to be spilled, and he would relinquish the fight.

Fand never told anyone of his demand, or of the peace treaty they struck that night. She had debated killing her husband, Dulcam; but the seven years prior and allowed them to grow fond and more like husband and wife than ever before. She loved him, just as much as she loved her son.

But she could still bear many children yet.

Fand, back to the present, unrolled her sleeping pack and set it up. Though it was midday, her weary muscles cried for a deeper rest than one that could be find on a lilting horse's armored back. It wasn't long after she collapsed onto her bed roll that she fell into a deep sleep.

***

She woke to the whispers of morning among the distant canopy, and the buzzing of flies over her dead mount. Fand curled her nose, known for her little mercy, and gathered her things on her own back. She set off back to the cliff edge, and followed it along.

She missed her servants attending her. She missed her spies whispering the court gossips in her ear. But more importantly, she missed the soft kisses of her husband, who had taught her what little mercy she had. He still was unaware of the peace she had brokered with her bloody hands, but Fand was in a place of little importance to be able to tell whether the lord of Bask had stayed true to his word. She hadn't talked to anyone other than herself for the past five days.

She thought it might've helped to cool her boiling anger into a simmer, but she found it ignited when she came upon a tavern nestled into a grove of trees. She had stumbled upon it when she went looking for a place to rest. She approached, asked what kingdom it hailed from, and slipped back into the forest.

She was still within her kingdom's distant grasp, unable to use any amenities provided by her former rule. And she could not return home.

Fand found herself settling that night in a burrow of tree similar to the one her horse had collapsed into. Her arm cushioning her head, she thought hard about what she wanted.

It was hard to say. Before, she had wanted power and had achieved it much faster than she probably should've. She could go back to being a spy and assassin; of what court or kingdom she did not know. Perhaps she could revenge Dulcam and his weak ways. He'd shown her mercy even after she had killed their son. After all, she was still alive.

But the idea seemed fruitless. She loved Dulcam still, even if it angered her that, as Queen, she'd never been able to defend herself when it came time. She had had so little power in her seat of ultimate rule.

Fand rolled onto her side, staring at the dark bark of the tree as the sun began to set. Little orbs of light spattered against the tree, blinking in and out of sight as darkness truly began to gather, and she frowned, rolling back to the open whisper of air.

Tall grass swayed in her vision, flat to the earth as she was. But among the beetle green strands, little specks of yellowed light sprang around, as if traipsing across a jungle.

Fand sat up, and watched will-o-the-wisp's dance and fly around and blink with natural light. She fell asleep to their soft whirs and calming flickering of color amidst the darkness.

She still did not know what to do with herself.

***

There was something to be said about waking up with a knife to one's throat. Fand had a lot on that matter, most of them curses and swear words so foul even the heartiest of seaman would wrinkle a nose. But Fand was taken by men in cricket yellow uniforms, her belongings searched through and her weapons cast aside.

At least she knew it wasn't a poor man's robbing. No - they were too well uniformed and equipped to be mere thieves. Someone wanted her.

After but a few moments of struggle, she succumbed to their ministrations with a frown. She realized she had no reason to fight, and even less reason to desire escape over having her questions answered.

Though her legs groaned, Fand was once more astride a pony. Her hands were bound and her stuff neatly packed and gathered on her three other soldier's steeds. She didn't care to talk to the group of men; she knew they would not answer if their ruler were any smarter than a wild rat. Fand did think herself to be incredibly blunt as well, and they would probably not receive her ill-placed dissertations of flattery in any good way.

So, in silence, she watched the trees pass and the landscape change as the horses kept up a strong canter. She could tell she was out of Dulcam's kingdom quite readily as trees and sharp cliffs transformed into rolling hills of swaying grass and distant plateaus of warm-looking rock. The sun was hotter here, where a canopy of trees or a spray of icy saltwater could not cool it. But there was a slight breeze Fand appreciated, even as her arms ached in their bound position and her legs grew stiff from riding.

They gathered a campfire and fed Fand on some prairie creature, one that was bigger than a rat but smaller than an owl. Even with a brief royal tutelage, she could admit she didn't know what gamey meet she chewed, swallowed, and digested.

When she slept again, hands now bound in front of her, she once again saw the small light display of the bugs. She felt one of the guards eyes on her as she did, and - not wanting to appear weak or in awe - she reached forward, caught one of the bugs, and crushed it between her fingers. She almost expected glowing juices to spill across her calloused finger tips, but the bug bled the same as all the others. The guard did not say anything as Fand set to sleep, a rock prodding her back endlessly.

They rode the next day until the sun slanted in their faces, and a small town rose on the horizon.

"I am not allowed in any settlements related to the King Dulcam of Harenstav," Fand cautioned, her first words in days to another person. She was sure she was out of the clutches of her husband's kingdom, but she had to be sure. By then, a week after her exile, she was sure everyone within her previous reign was aware that she was to be captured or killed on sight.

The guards nodded. One replied, "Do not worry. You are far from that fool of a king."

She frowned, eyeing their choice of armor and weaponing with a far sharper eye than before. They guards had revealed a disliking of Dulcam; it had to be one of the courts Bask had swindled onto his side that had captured her.

Perhaps they sought to strike a more fatal blow to the King by using her. She hoped they knew it would not work.

Fand was guided through the city, the citizens too busy with trade and food to bother with the strange prisoner that entered. As she was led, eyeing the buildings and the people and their wares, she finally found her deciding piece of evidence.

A tangent of guards, bearing the emblem of a roaring lion. The symbol of Bask.

She frowned but said nothing. She had already suspected it, but now her suspicions were confirmed.

Fand dismounted and was untied once within the walls of the inner palace, this majesty of stone and wood and glass resting upon the knoll of a particularly high hill. It overlooked the city and its many quarters, several of it's tower spearing the sky.

She was to meet the ruler of this place. Immediately. Without wash, clothing, or proper meal.

No longer bearing armor as she was, Fand was walked into the throne room in nothing but a dirty shift and leggings. Her boots were scuffed and grass-stained as her knees and back from sleeping in the hills, but she did not bow or cower beneath the weight of a ruler's gaze - she was used to power and behaving as a Queen should.

Even if such a fatal attribute had led to her exile.

The Lord smiled down at her. "I offer a boon, Queen Fand."

"Then offer away," she said disinterestedly, just barely noting the use of her title.

"Well," the man began, ruby raiment heavy on his shoulders, "what would you give for your exile to be broken?"

She glanced up sharply.