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“Nobility doesn’t make you more valuable than the rest of us, Lady Nerith,” Shenya retorts.
Lady Nerith? So the bejeweled girl is the daughter of the Lord who governs our region. I haven’t seen her in person before now, but I met her father briefly once, when I delivered baked goods to the Lady Mayor’s house on a feast day. He seems kind enough, and he grants a good deal of autonomy to the mayors of all the towns and villages under his care. Apparently his daughter has rather an inflated sense of her own importance, though.
“What could you have to lose, anyway?” Shenya continues. “As the daughter of a noble house, becoming queen would still be a step up for you. You’d sit on the throne of this land and rule beside the King, enjoying even greater wealth and power than you already have.”
“Unless he doesn’t choose me,” Nerith says. “He can only choose one.”
“And the others will return home,” I add comfortingly, for the benefit of the weeping girl.
To my surprise, the other women don’t corroborate my statement. Instead, they exchange knowing glances.
“What?” I look at each of them in turn.
“We’ve already asked the guards about that,” Shenya says quietly. “They told us the women who aren’t chosen as Queen will remain at the palace permanently, as royal concubines.”
Well… fuck me.
2
She left her basket behind when they took her.
No one else seems to notice it, so I pick it up, hoping for more food. Never in my life have I tasted anything so delicious as that woman’s muffin.
Now there’s some fodder for a dirty joke. A missed opportunity—I should have quipped something about her “tasty muffin” earlier, when she and I were talking by the fountain.
They called her “Juliette.” There’s something musical in the name, and I’ve always liked music. Music, food, and sex—my three favorite things. Music in her name, food in her hands, sex in every voluptuous curve of that lush body.
Pity they took her away before I had a chance to enjoy her.
With the basket in hand, I move through the crowd, keeping to the shadows of the tenement houses. I’m taking the same route as the royal guards and their wagon, simply because it’s the fastest way out of the city. I’ve lingered here long enough. It’s time to move on. Time to go back to the woods, where I’ll wander alone, amusing myself at the expense of the few travelers who dare to pass through the Riddenwold—the thick, ancient forest that cloaks the western border of this kingdom.
When I grow tired of wandering the woods, I venture into this town or that, amusing myself with simple mischief… like drawing pox curses on the King’s statue, for instance. I’ll usually steal a chicken or a pie, and maybe fuck a buxom wench in some dark alley. My visits never last long, though.
I like Maystead more than other towns I’ve visited, but I’m not such a fool as to believe I could ever live here. I belong nowhere. Not with the Elves of the Riddenwold, and not with humans. I carry the blood of both, and neither will ever truly accept me.
This is a better life, anyway... a life of liberty to do what I like, whenever I like. I’m not tethered to the Sanctuary where my Elvish kin live, in the great ravine at the heart of the forest—nor am I bound to a grubby farm, nor any bustling city full of smoke and sewage and rattling wheels. I drift between worlds, son of neither and a burglar of both.
Today I choose to leave the humans behind and withdraw into the woods again. I can see the faraway line of trees through the open town gates—a shady haven from the late-summer heat.
The mounted guards and the wagon roll out of Maystead’s main gate, while I saunter out through the narrow footpath gate, munching another muffin. It’s so delicious I can’t help groaning a little.
The woman is an excellent cook. An artist, in fact. The layers of flavor baked into this single treat are incredible. The fluffy cake-like texture, the delicate sugared crust on top, the way I get occasional bursts of fruit—it’s magnificent.
Yet she’s being hauled off to play whore to a King who will never realize her true talent. I’ve heard enough of his latest decree to understand that he’s only interested in magic and pussy. I’ll wager her pussy is as plump and desirable as the rest of her, but as for the magic… I didn’t sense any such thing from her. When I’m in the presence of a human with a touch of the Kin, the Mother’s Kiss, my skin tightens a little, the hair on my arms lifts, and the back of my neck crawls with awareness.
I felt none of that with this girl.
I smelled her before I saw her—smelled her tears. Elvish noses are sensitive to the tears and arousal of humans. The fragrance of her sadness lured my attention, and her beauty kept me interested.
Those tears smelled like the deep blush of maroon roses, infused with the honey of love and the black spice of betrayal. I approached her, thirsting for that emotion, wanting to lick her round, rosy cheeks. But instead I stood beside her, joked with her, and asked her for food. I didn’t really expect her to give me any. But she’s as generous as she is talented.
I step off the road and walk under the eaves of the forest, in their cool shadow. Instead of veering deeper into the forest, I’m lingering in the open, my eyes on the royal guards and the wagon full of women.
I frown deeply, my mouth full of muffin.
Why am I still thinking about the woman—about Juliette?
Maybe it’s the fact that her brother practically sold her right under the noses of the entire town, and no one protested—not a word.
