bardictype
patreon
Lady Death's Diary: Chapter 1
🕑 Added 2021-01-01 20:40:03 +0000 UTCChapter One:
The girl in the neighboring cell pressed her face against the bars, her nose intruding into my own cramped enclosure as to sniff out secrets.
The dungeon’s lone glowstone lantern was cheaply enchanted, its bluish light pale and flickering, but illuminated enough for me to make out her disheveled curls and stained apron. A servant in the castle above then, rather than a noble resident. Her cheeks were still rosy and plump, not yet starved of sunshine and food. I’d pretended to be asleep when the guards had brought her down earlier, to avoid making myself a target. My imprisonment had thus far lasted a week, assuming I’d correctly kept count of bread heels, but already my jailors recycled their insults. I’d gone from being a traitor, to a witch, to a murderess, to a whore, and then back to being a traitor and witch again. They’d obviously been recruited for their brawn rather than creativity.
Comparatively, my fellow captive seemed armed with an inexhaustible supply of profanities. She’d hurled them against the bolted door until her voice grew hoarse and she decided to address me instead.
“You almost look like the Crown Princess.”
“I was the Crown Princess.” I paused, then amended my statement, “Almost.”
Her eyes traced a pointed path from the ragged hem of my dress to my unwashed hair, once a sleekly brushed curtain but now fell in matted clumps barely covering my earlobes.
“You don’t much look like a princess now,” she said.
“Prince Loren ended our engagement. Although I am still the daughter of a duke.”
“You don’t look like that either.”
I couldn’t help but be amused by her bluntness. Few members of Court had ever dared to be honest with Verdan’s future queen. After my arrest, their fear of me had silenced them instead of reverence, the only difference between their condemnation and awe being a higher curl to their upper lips as I’d been dragged from the throne room to the castle dungeon.
“My father would agree,” I said. The Duke of Kothe had always been a stickler about maintaining proper appearance, but his lectures could no longer reach me.
The girl heaved a sigh and collapsed backwards onto her pallet. We both ignored the fat cockroach that scuttled away from the straw at her landing.
“My father will be appalled, when he discovers I’m locked in here,” she said. “Your family hasn’t petitioned for your freedom?”
I ignored her question. “Who is your father?”
“The Castle Steward. No doubt he’s already working on a way to have me released.” She thrust her hand through the bars without bothering to rise. “I’m Emilia.”
“Tru.” I shook her hand. Hers was calloused but mine was the filthier by far, a week’s worth of grime embedded under my nails and cuticles chewed jagged.
She tightened her grip and pulled me closer, until my arm could go no further through the bars and our faces were but a breath apart. Her eyes widened.
“Lady Vitrula Rhys,” she said. “I’ve dusted that angry brow a hundred times in the castle’s portrait gallery—used to wonder what reason a rich lady could have to look so annoyed by life. Silent Fourth, you really were Prince Loren’s betrothed. I thought you a madwoman with a passing resemblance.”
“They say I’m a madwoman regardless.”
She gave a contemptuous snort and released my hand to prop herself up on her elbows. “If a sweetheart ever treated me the way His Highness did you, I’d have tried to murder his new girl too. His betrayal must have broken your heart.”
I shrugged. Loren’s wandering eye hadn’t come as a surprise, and my heart was too scarred for him to wound.
Emilia interpreted my lack of reply as agreement. “Not that I’m in a scurry be wed, mind you. There’s plenty of keen lads, but once a girl agrees to go steady with one, she’s trapped if someone better comes along.” She shot me an apologetic look. “The rules are different for princes, I guess.”
My laugh had languished too long unused to be easily summoned, and it caught in my throat when I tried to chuckle at her statement’s truth. Emilia, perhaps concerned by my silence that she might have overstepped, redirected the topic towards an increasingly inventive list of revenges which she intended to extract upon the man responsible for her imprisonment.
“Of course,” she finished with a sigh, “my words are all gust. Lord Delos could cost my father his position. Best case, the arse doesn’t press charges because he’s too embarrassed to explain why I threatened his bits with a butter knife. Maybe thinks twice before he gets handsy with the next maid.”
I grimaced. Armond Delos was an uppity toadstool usually found stuck to Loren’s side like horseshit on a polished boot. He was the worse type of noble, believing respect to be his birthright without realizing it needed to be earned by upholding one’s responsibilities. It came as no surprise that he’d broken Bellcrest Castle’s code of conduct.
“Delos’s bits deserved a sharper implement,” I said. “If Steward Hamen is your father, he won’t allow you to be kept here.”
She buried her face in her hands with a groan. “Papa wanted me to apprentice under my aunt, but I told him that I’d go mad measuring the fat feet of dowagers for slippers and begged him to find me work at the castle. Less than one month later, and I’m already making trouble.”
“Armond made trouble when he cornered you,” I corrected her sternly. “King Eldin doesn’t tolerate assaults on his subjects, especially when they’re working under his own roof. Armond will face repercussions once you reveal his actions.”
“Lord Delos threw a bag of coin at a guard,” she whispered, “and the guard threw me down here. How many more purses for them to throw me somewhere else?”
“I won’t let that happen.”
She lowered her hands and stared at me. The blatant pity in the maid’s eyes pierced deeper than any courtier’s contempt. Neither of us spoke after that. Emilia pretended to sleep, her shoulders shuddering in suppressed sobs that I likewise pretended not to notice. Any kind words I offered wouldn’t be believed, and only come across as emptily condescending.
Without natural light, the passage of time was measured only by the increased cramping of my stomach and dryness of my throat. When the jailor arrived for his daily visit, he threw my loaf through the bars, guffawing when his aim proved true and the bread struck my forehead. Emilia’s portion, he tossed beside her cot, and for once he bent to place the cups of water upright on the floor rather than dropping it midway and forcing me to lap droplets off the cobblestones like a street dog. His hungry gaze lingered on Emilia, strengthening my resolve to see my pretty jail mate freed.
“Does he always treat you like that?” asked Emilia after the prison door slammed shut. She tested a tooth on the dark bread before wincing and using her fingers to tear through its crust.
“Better I let him hit me with stale bread than have him aim a second time with the water,” I said. “He only brings one cup a day, so take care not spill.”
“Still.” She sounded upset. “It’s not right, even if you are a witch.”
My gut twisted at her words, and I set the bread aside. Emilia noticed and hastened to add, “You must have loved the Prince deeply, to have been driven to such measures.”
Had I loved Loren? The earliest pages of my diary asserted as much. But those emotions belonged to a different life, one where I’d been naïve and optimistic and hadn’t spent six months trying to poison his replacement bride.
“I’m not a witch,” I said.
The hard bread took her a moment to swallow, and she stuck out her tongue in disgust once it had gone down. “Everyone knows that you tried to curse Prince Loren’s new betrothed. Not that I blame you overmuch, but Papa says magic is so dangerous that even the Court Sorcerers hardly ever work spells.” Her voice lowered conspiratorially. “Between you and me, I’d like to see a spell cast. Just once, mind you, and from a good distance away.”
“I tried to poison her, not curse.”
Emilia’s brows lifted at my insistent clarification. “Better than magic, I suppose.”
I closed my eyes. None of the Table of Law’s Councilors had believed me at my trial, yet for some reason I wanted her to understand. She’d been truthful with me, brutally so, and I was reluctant to pollute one of my rare honest relationships with lies. But how to explain? She’d sounded so confident in her claim Steward Hamen would do everything in his power to rescue her, so long as he learned of her location. Our fathers were too different.
“Do you have any siblings?” I asked.
She nodded. “Three brothers.”
“Are they protective of you?”
She snorted. “Not Adger. He thinks that just because he’s a year older, he can boss me around. But the younger two are sound.”
“What would they do if your lover scorned you for another? Or if Lord Delos hadn’t been put off by your butter knife? What would they do to a man who wronged you?”
“Beat him bloody,” she answered promptly. “After I had my turn, of course, and after my mother whipped his knuckles raw.”
My heart squeezed at Emilia’s offhanded mention of her mother, but she’d otherwise given me the answer I’d hoped for.
“My father’s power in Verdan is second only to King Eldin’s,” I said. “His pride won’t be appeased by giving my ex-fiancé a broken nose, and even that is considered treason when the man being punched is the Crown Prince.”
Her mouth formed a perfect oh as she interpreted my meaning. “War,” she said simply.
My lips cracked as I smiled, but the sting was worth it now that someone finally understood. Of course, unlike Emilia’s father, the Duke of Kothe cared more for protecting Rhys family pride than his actual family. I’d read the letter he’d sent me after Loren’s decision to annul our engagement and had translated between the lines of his bluster. My father would not remain loyal to a Crown that had dishonored his daughter. If said daughter died in the crossfire of his retaliation, along with a thousand other of Verdan’s citizens, so be it.
Although she’d finished her bread, Emilia kept her hands pressed against her belly in a futile attempt to tamper its pangs. I’d done the same during my first few days. I passed her my loaf through the cold iron bars, which she accepted after a half-hearted protest. An empty stomach wouldn’t kill me.
My execution was scheduled for tomorrow.
* * * *
A fist of fear pummeled within my chest. I forced my footsteps to ignore its panicked beat and keep pace with two soldiers escorting me from the dungeon. The leader kept her hand on her sword hilt, ready to draw the weapon should I try to bolt, while the one following behind snickered each time his overlong steps caused his boots to scrape the backs of my bare heels.
Emilia, exhausted from her night spent weeping, had somehow slept through the wail of rusty hinges when they’d opened my cell door. As the guards locked heavy manacles around my wrists, I’d choked down my enraged protests so as not to wake her. Best the girl stayed unconscious for as much of her ordeal as possible. Despite my intention to quietly comply, bile had burned its way up my throat. I had learned to not let fear show in my face, but it still controlled my stomach. The taller soldier had leapt back as I dry heaved, disgust twisting his craggy features—perhaps he now trod on my feet as petty vengeance for our reversal in power, however temporary it had been. His instinctive withdrawal had sparked my current plan: one which would be humiliating and most likely end painfully, but was the only way to fulfill my oath and keep Emilia safe from Armond’s bribed guards.
For the time being, I lowered my head and bit my lips so as not to cry out as my assaulted ankles dripped blood onto the floor. We exited the first hallway and started down a narrower second. In an attempt to come across as biddable, I quickened my steps whenever the first guard yanked on my shackles and slowed when she paused.
“Eager for your crowning, princess?” The heavy-footed guard laughed uproariously at his own joke, ignoring his colleague’s annoyed glare.
Execution is preferable to your company.
Even decapitation wouldn’t make you less ugly.
When my father invades Bellcrest, I hope he kills you first.
I ached to lash out with a dozen retorts but held my tongue. He snorted at my docility, and his next step kicked my calf hard enough to make me stumble. The other soldier spun around.
“That’s enough, Maris,” she snapped. “Stop messing with the witch.”
Witch. No wonder she hadn’t curtailed his abuse sooner; from her standpoint, I was less than human. I doubted she would accept my explanation that the spellbook in my bedchamber hadn’t been mine, and that I had no idea who planted it there for the maids to find. No one had, except Emilia, not after guards had raided my closet and discovered the vials of aspswort extract, powdered blackvein leaf, dreamroot, and vanilla that had taken me half a year of experimentation to perfect. Six months that I’d spent vapidly smiling at Loren and his new fiancée while smelling like cough compress and wearing gloves to hide the blackvein burns on my palms. There was nothing magical about chemistry, but the Table of Law’s perception of my guilt mattered more than reality.
Maris sneered at me. “As you order, Lieutenant.”
She turned back without acknowledging his reply, but shortened my chains’ tether until the two of us walked abreast. More likely to avoid further delays than to protect me, but my heels nonetheless appreciated their reprieve.
My anxiety climbed higher with every step of our grim march. I had expected to pass at least one member of the castle staff by now, but the halls were abandoned. Had the servants been warned to keep their distance from the witch, lest I curse them for witnessing my final moments? I’d been relying on curiosity to draw out at least a few. Only a short stretch remained before we reached the courtyard where the wagon awaited to take me to Bellcrest’s main square. By then, it would be too late to save Emilia.
Another ten steps. The final door was an armlength away. I could no longer wait. I crashed into the lieutenant with a choked gasp. My nails dug into her surcoat, and my body went limp so that she was forced to clutch my upper arms to prevent us both from toppling over. Maris tried to pull my hair, but the short strands slipped through his fingers, making me ironically grateful for the shorn bob I’d been given to better facilitate the guillotine’s final cut.
I groaned loudly, and then once more for good measure. The lieutenant’s grip on my chains slackened in her attempts to push me off. Maris, smarter than I’d given him credit, released my hair and tightened beefy fingers around my neck. I didn’t dare let go of the lieutenant to claw at his hands, even as my instincts screamed to fight back and it became harder and harder to take in air. Despite being unable to see his face, I couldn’t risk suffocating trying to ascertain his vantage point.
I puffed out my cheeks and gagged.
As threats went, it was far from elegant. Father would have been appalled by my plan’s crudeness even if he’d have struggled to critique its efficacy. Maris paled chalk-white at the prospect of being spewed with sick. His clammy fingers released my neck, and he recoiled, exactly as he had in my cell. My knees straightened, and I ripped my chains from the lieutenant’s hands. The sudden removal of my weight put her off balance, and the unexpected force of my shove was enough to push her aside.
I didn’t look back to see if I’d successfully knocked her down or if she’d managed to catch her balance before falling. My legs pumped with speed fueled by desperation and terror and some fragment of lightness that might have resembled hope. I’d lived in Bellcrest Castle for the past three years, since my engagement to Loren, and knew which corners to turn and which passages to dart down.
Boots thudded behind me, but the two soldiers were hampered by their ceremonial armor and weapons almost as much as I was weakened from my captivity, and I possessed both a head start and no incentive to conserve my strength. My only goal was to reach the kitchens and tell someone about Emilia. Maris and the lieutenant knew my escape was impossible: more guards stood vigil at all palace exits, and even if I made it up the stairs and leapt out a tower window, I’d still be killed by the fall. “Justice” could be corrupted, paid off, or hidden from, but it couldn’t be outran.
Before my imprisonment, I’d preferred the company of my books to joining Loren’s friends for archery or hunting. A week spent in a dungeon had not improved my athleticism. My legs ached and my lungs burned, until I continued forward mostly out of momentum and my breath wheezed with every stride. The footsteps behind grew louder, closer. The kitchens were too far away. I wouldn’t make it. My promise to Emilia had been a lie.
Maris, however, was not so winded that he couldn’t simultaneously yell obscenities at my fleeing back as he ran. He lacked Emilia’s innovative panache, but bellowed loud enough to draw attention. A mobcap peaked out from behind one of the hallway doors, its wearer’s eyes wide beneath the lacy rim as she observed the ongoing chase.
Thank you, Maris, you bloated bovine bastard.
My scream drowned out his shouts. It ripped my throat, raw and guttural, and echoed through the hallway. “Steward Hamen’s daughter is in the dungeon!” I yelled. The girl cowered behind the door as if it were a shield but didn’t look away. “Tell Hamen! Emilia is—”
Pain exploded through my right temple and cut short my words. Maris’ fist drew back again; this time, his blow knocked me to the floor. I heard the door shut. Even if the servant believed me insane, the mad witch’s ranting would be too good of gossip to keep to herself. Someone would report my words to Hamen, and the Castle Steward would petition King Eldin for Emilia’s release. Armond wouldn’t be able to bribe someone to make her disappear, and even if he lied about his reason for ordering her locked up, Hamen hadn’t become Castle Steward without gaining the King’s trust. His daughter would, at very least, receive a trial. I could only pray to the Triad that hers proved fairer than mine.
Maris kicked me twice before the lieutenant caught up and barked at him to stop. Her rough hands hauled me upright, and Maris squeezed my shoulders so tightly I feared the bones would shatter, holding me still as she jerked heavy burlap over my head. The darkness made running impossible, but I no longer had cause to flee. Had the soldiers been able to glimpse my smile through the sack, it would have confirmed their opinion that I was a lunatic.
My ribs were bruised, my sight blinded, and within an hour I would likely be dead.
But I had kept my promise.
* * * * *
They uncovered my face only when it came time for me to ascend the scaffold’s steps. The sun shone sadistically bright, its beams refracting miniature rainbows off the guillotine’s polished blade, and the unseasonably warm day had cajoled nobles and commoners alike to revel in Bellcrest’s reprieve from winter’s chill. Down in the streets, spectators munched snacks of salted nuts and hoisted their children onto their shoulders for a better view of the spectacle. Up in the wooden stands, the nobility covered their noses and concealed smug smiles behind perfumed handkerchiefs. It was the perfect day for an execution.
“Vitrula Marianne Rhys, by order of His Majesty King Eldin Tivall, you are hereby stripped of your former title and rank for the crimes of treason and unlicensed witchcraft.”
“Yes, well, I am quite evil.” I raised my shackles slightly, mobility further hindered on account of Maris having bound my arms together with rope on the wagon ride over after I’d elbowed him, and waggled my fingertips at the pontificating chancellor. “I’ll hex you if you don’t hurry this up.”
The official’s beady eyes widened. He took an involuntary step back, nearly tumbling off the edge of the scaffold. I smirked. Most of his victims probably pled for a pardon or a stay of sentence, but I refused to grant anyone the satisfaction of hearing me beg. Upon regaining his footing, he glared back at me before reading the next charges from his scroll with increased gusto.
“For conspiracy to murder Lady Letticia Catherine Brown, fiancée to His Royal Highness Prince Loren Tivall, by means of forbidden magic . . .”
I looked up to the stands, to the occupied throne no more than fifteen feet away. My eyes locked with Loren’s, his as blue as the sky above. I was no longer so foolish as to dream that he might put a stop to this farce. That this time, he would save me. His perfectly shaped lips pursed before he turned his head towards the young woman seated beside him.
Letty.
The crowd’s jeers faded to a dull roar as I contemplated the couple. They resembled the lovers from an illustrated book of fairy tales that I’d reread as a child until the spine had cracked—both with golden hair and elegant features, his as masculine as hers were delicate. Letty’s fists clenched in her lap, and the shadows under her large violet eyes somehow only served to make her look more ethereal. Loren leaned over to squeeze her hand, whispering something into her ear that earned him a tremulous smile.
Shame that I hadn’t succeeded in poisoning her.
“For using your dark arts to curse an apple which would grant death to any whom consumed it . . .”
I rolled my eyes. If I’d known magic, I wouldn’t have been caught before I could put my plan to (literal) fruition. Methodology aside, the poisoned apple wouldn’t have killed Letty. Only sent her into a deep slumber, my hypothesis being that the Council wouldn’t countenance a sickly future queen and that they’d demand I be restored to my former position before Father finished gathering support for his ill-conceived retaliation. Unfortunately, when the ex-fiancée of the Crown Prince tries to poison his current betrothed, people automatically assume assassination.
“You are hereby sentenced to death.”
The executioner’s gauntlets pressed down on my shoulders. I complied, gently lifting my skirts in a mocking mimicry of a curtsy as I fell to my knees. The crowd roared approval. My expression stayed stoic as I positioned my neck upon the guillotine’s rest—cushioned, out of consideration for my former noble status. My life was forfeit. I would not surrender my last scrap of pride as well.
I had only one thought in my head before it detached from my body:
Not again.
Comments
Jo O'Connor
There's around 30! (The last 50 pages need to be edited, so final count is in flux.) Some chapters are shorter than others, so some months I'll be putting out 3 or 4 chapters instead of the usual 2 :)
I love Tru the moment she said “I’ll hex you if you don’t hurry this up”. 😆 Can’t wait until the whole book get posted! May I ask how many chapters there are in this book? P/s: I honestly don’t know whether to be pissed or crack up when the prince flirted with the other girl. Don’t know why the dude thinks an execution is a romantic enough place to do the flirting 😅
