The Fairest (Sample)

GRISONCE ARLON

He witnessed everything. Standing behind the group of nobles in the shadows of the side doors, his eyes were fixated on the purple-eyed beauty who spoke so boldly against the king. He wanted to give an encouraging cheer to her witty responses but knew he’d only worsen her situation. He wanted to step forward and ask to be the one to discover what she was, despite already knowing the answer.

He shifted anxiously, sweaty hands fumbling with the gold buttons along his coat vest. For years, he heard the disgraceful stories of the Strange thief with purple eyes. Rumored to be a pest with a horde of sticky little fingers who needed to be caught and done away with. Some stories noted her bravery and some, her beauty, yet the majority scolded her existence and impurity towards the Diviines.

“Gris, we should leave,” his close friend and confidant whispered.

“Not yet, Rasheem.”

Rasheem Hanias was a man born with a disfigured right leg that was shorter than his left, giving him a bit of a hobble in his step. Born during the times when the laws were going through an amendment phase, he was taken from his parents to be a slave in the royal palace. Since the age of ten, he worked nonstop to gain the favor of the royals and nobles until being honored with the title of Master of the House. This position did not give him actual authority over the palace, but its maintenance and its workers.

Gris gestured to him to wait, ears attentive to the king’s final words. He couldn’t believe that despite the girl’s snippy rebuttals, King Dimitri gave her mercy. Still, he wanted an audience with the Purple Thief. He frowned, watching the quick interaction between the young lady and the Fiisen, and wished he could hear what had been said. Whatever it was, the girl grinned and yanked out of his grip with a nasty force.

“What if she’s a witch, Gris?” Rasheem asked.

“She’s not,” he said.

There was more about Mageia Unknown than what met the eye, and Gris had to confirm it. The only way to do that was to get permission to see her.

“Orlan, go,” he gestured to one of his high-ranking servants to do as he was told. The tall, average-looking man approached the king’s Knight Escort by the throne with strong confidence and handed him a note.

Ser Garret Slan scowled as he listened to the middle-aged servant. With a slight huff of annoyance, the royal escort took the note and ascended the throne’s platform as glasses of water were distributed amongst the family. Gris’ shoulders tensed as he handed the king the note. The king read it, with his wife nosily trying to peek over to read it too. When he was finished, he sharply returned it to Garret’s hand and shook his head.

“Gaw,” Gris growled and did not wait to hear the no. He turned and slipped out the side doors with Rasheem on his heels.

“Whatever you are thinking, do not think it. Rebuke it.”

“Rasheem, I need to do what I am th-thinking, or else I will dr-drive myself mad.”

“You are already mad, Gris,” he grumbled. “Saving that girl will not be smart.”

“If you were her, w-would you not be grateful for the assen-tance?”

Rasheem’s thin mouth opened, then closed, and his long brows wavered. “Assistance. It’s assistance, Gris. And I don’t know.”

“Mhmm.” Gris swiveled past noble officials, knights, soldiers, and guards littering the Grace Hall, seeking the relief of fresh, breezy air. He lowered his head to avoid any unnecessary eye contact, despite the turned-up noses, scrutinizing eyes, and chuckles cast in his direction.

He shielded his eyes, the color of pure honey, from the sun piercing its rays through the Grace Hall archways. Birds chittered beyond the bridge within the flower garden, fluttering into the air as people violated their territory. With feet pressed for action, he led them away from the hordes of people and the watchful eyes of his slaves to the rear of the throne room, where the entrance hallway to the dais began.

They exited the Grace Hall and into the Justice Hall, which possessed many offices, lounges, and the Library of Records. No one was allowed in this area except officials, assigned workers, and the soldiers standing on patrol.

“I doubt she is who you think she is,” Rasheem said.

“She doesn’t kn-know what she is, but I-I know exactly what she is.”

“She is a thief, a criminal. She means nothing to the gods.”

“You say this because-oh-elousy or-or spite because I d-did not let you finish your br-breakfast?” Gris hated how his voice and breath would die out at random, causing words to splurge together.

“It’s jealousy, and no and no.”

Gris shook his head, tugging on the buttons and the collar of his vest until one popped off and rolled somewhere. Rasheem cursed and went scurrying after the button, which gave Gris the upper advantage of dashing through the black doors of the Doomed. His friend, being a slave, was not allowed in this part, nor was he, but he needed to see a specific royal escort who owed him a huge favor.

Seeing him enter and approach, the dark-skinned soldier and his comrade stumbled to their feet from their stools. “Your Highness,” he greeted, bowing at the waist.

“Dargany Hale, how are you this evening?” Gris took his time to pronounce every word so as not to stutter.

“Good, Your Highness.”

“Do you remember what I did f-for you?”

“I do, Your Highness. Your recommendations allowed me to join Gideon’s escort,” he said with wide eyes. The soldier was stocky, especially with his full green and gold armor on, and was a head shorter than Gris. Gris was almost six feet, but he knew height was nothing for the 19-year-old to slash him down where he stood.

Gris cleared his throat and prepared to pronounce his next words properly. “That means you owe me a favor.”

“I suppose so …” he said, but Gris caught the slight moan in his tone.

“Escort me to the h-holding cells for the appearances today.”

Dargany shifted feet, hand fumbling with the hilt of his sheathed sword. Gris read this and narrowed his eyes.

“Dargany?”

“Look, man,” the soldier said, breaking formality. “I know we have history, me being your friend and once a part of your escort, but we were reassigned here for a reason.”

“W-what reason?”

“The commander personally chose us to make sure no one entered the Doomed today. Of all days.”

“The Purple Thief?” Gris said.

“That and probably because everyone knows how you allow your curiosity to control everything you do,” Dargany said with a smirk.

Of course, they did this because of me, Gris thought and growled with annoyance.

“But you know who I am. I have au-author-,” he said, tongue suddenly deciding to go limp.

“Authority,” Dargany finished to Gris’ disapproval. The soldier nodded. “Yes, Gris. I know. But the Commander … Actually, he wants us to report any visitors.”

The soldier simply glanced at his companion, who had also jumped up from his nap to stand in respect for their royal visitor. Gris glared with his head tilted down just a bit, a useful action he learned over time that gave his piercing honey eyes a dangerous appeal. It worked, as usual. The soldier swallowed hard before bobbing his head in every direction.

“You were not here, Gris.”

“No, you were not,” said the companion. He looked close to pissing his loins.

Gris beamed. “Good. Thank you. However, this does not c-cover your favor.”

“Really?” Dargany said with a hint of disappointment.

Gris nodded, knowing exactly what the soldier could do for him. Once he asked his companion to join Rasheem in the hall, he gave Dargany his daunting plan. Despite Dargany’s weariness and doubt and the repercussions if they were caught, Gris had to assure him that he would take all the blame and consequences if anything were to happen. Which it wouldn’t because he was known for his sly and clever tactics about the royal grounds.

Gris exited from the Doomed with pride in his step and dashed off down the hall towards the palace’s main house.

“What did you learn?” his friend said, quickly limping as he tried to keep up with Gris’ wide strides.

“Nothing. But I have a plan.”

“Grace me with it.”

“No.”

“You are a troublesome boy, you know.”

“Yet you haven’t unfriend me.”

“Unfriended.”

“Whatever.” He nodded to his slaves, deep in their tasks.

“I wish you would put your investigation and research on hold and try exploring a bit with some female companions.”

“No,” he simply replied.

“You are Grisonce Arlon, the prince and the rightful heir to the Ardanian throne.”

“I know that, Rasheem.”

“You need a princess—a wife, so the people would love you.”

“The people would s-still hate me. And a Strange will n-never have the throne.”

“Doesn’t matter. You are a Royal by blood.”

“The king could easily hand it over to Gid or Relana,” he scoffed.

“Another reason why you should take this seriously. Prove to them that despite your stutter, you are capable to rule.”

“I don’t need to prove anything,” Gris said. “They will believe what they w-want to believe. Or hear, in this matter, w-whether I am kind or diss-soshee-tated. Ugh.”

“Dissociated. It’s dis-sociated.”

“I know!” He said, wanting to speak faster, but it only made his stuttering worse. He quickened his pace despite his friend being a natural limp walker.

Rasheem continued. “And that is the more reason to put yourself out there again. You once were the life of the family.”

“I never had a family, just royal acquaint—” he stopped himself to take a breath, then repeated, “acquaint-tan-ces.”

“You should spend more time with Gideon.”

“Uck, Rasheem. Don’t embarrass yourself.” They entered one of the palace’s foyers designed in shades of green and sprinted up the winding stairway.

“But he is your brother.”

“S-stepbrother. And I don’t want to be around Gid and his company of whores.”

“But have you ever considered—”

“Rasheem, I thought you were my friend. My f-father gave you to me, not to help me in my social life, but to s-serve me.”

“I have been serving you by helping you with your social life. I’ve served you honorably since you popped out of the womb. I just do not approve of you isolating yourself.”

“It’s not like I have a choice, or-or like anyone cares.”

“And correction, your so-called father wasn’t the one who gave me to you, but your late mother.”

Gris gave a sharp, seething sound. He halted at the top of the stairwell and spun to glare at the man. “Watch your tongue,” his voice fell deep with warning.

Everyone knew within these palace walls to never mention his dead mother, Nari Komali-Arlon, unless they were prepared for a harsh rebuke.

Rasheem’s mouth opened and closed until his wanted rebuttal turned to pure regret. “Forgive me for bringing her up,” he apologized, pursing his lips.

“Never mention her unless you wish to join her,” Gris scolded.

The Master of the House bobbed his head, which only made Gris’ gut churn with his own regret. The man was 38 years old, old enough to be his father. He learned to embrace obedience no matter the cost or drastic age difference. However, being under Gris’ care as Master of Slaves, gave Rasheem some privileges which many masters would consider highly disrespectful.

“As you wish, Your Highness. Forgive me.” His eyes dropped to the floor.

Gris didn’t know what to say, so he continued walking. This time, they were in silence, a silence he did not like because he knew Rasheem always had something to say.

So, he quickened his walk through the corridor that extended to his chambers. He took notice of the difference in decorations from the other parts of the palace. The stone walls were bland white or maybe gray, depending on what time of day it was. The tan cobblestone floor wasn’t polished or carpeted, and every window on both sides possessed charred black drapes all year round. The chilly breeze wisped through the corridor, and not a single bird chirped. He always took note of this, and despite the despair that made his skin crawl, he never could push himself to care enough to order any changes. Plus, it kept unwanted visitors away.

They approached the end of the corridor, to the boring brown doors he had planned to change, but never gotten around to it. And unlike his Royal Family, who had at least two escorts posted at the doors, he had none. He preferred none. Once inside his personal chambers, a half-lit chandelier and some candles cast strange shadows everywhere while the fire in his fireplace slowly died. This part of the palace somehow never received much daylight, which found favor from Gris over the years.

To his direct left was a staircase leading up to the true place he called home. His study, his library, and his lab spaces, where he has dissected both dead animals and people. Not for pleasure. He was not a madman, but out of pure curiosity for science, anatomy, and health. Those cadavers were brought from a few city morgues, which never sat well with Rasheem, or anyone for that matter.

Every chance he got, he would seek new information for his expanding book and scroll collections. And thanks to his father giving him his own monetary account and little supervision, he was able to do just about anything he wanted.

After fumbling to take off the annoying coat vest, he threw it on a pile of discarded vests and coats collecting on a sofa in his lounge. He unbuttoned his shirt and sleeves and rustled his pitch-black curly hair until it felt alive on his head. He easily slipped out of his boots, fashionably made with no laces, and slid into a pair of thick slippers.

Rasheem stood by, watching in idle contempt, as Gris bit into a half-eaten cheese sandwich, grabbed a glass bottle of fruit juice, and sprinted up the stairway.

“Rasheem, you may take your leave,” he shouted over his shoulder.

“Our work for the ceremony is not done.”

“Give me a minute,” he grumbled. Rasheem tsked his teeth, shook his head, and walked away.

Gris stopped for a slight second to do his heartfelt ritual before fully entering his workspace. He touched the forehead of a gold statue of Rasaal, the mind god of wisdom and knowledge, on an anointed shrine, then touched his own forehead. “Bless me with your guidance,” he prayed.

He clattered his teeth together as he scurried to the table designated for his books, scrolls, writing parchments, and journals. He relit the lanterns and flipped through everything, searching for an important book that had gotten lost amidst the clutter.

A knock on the door thundered through the lower chambers, followed by the door’s chiming bell. He didn’t have to tell Rasheem to get the door because they already knew the reason for the intrusion. He knew the visitor was from the kitchens or the maintenance staff, for this bell was placed at the rear of the lower chambers, which led directly into the slave quarters. It was hard to hide the fact that the heir to the throne lived and spent most of his time in the chambers of a lesser man with the scandalous position as Master of Slaves.

He had come to common terms with his shameful position. If the slaves presented themselves with submissiveness, did their jobs correctly, withdrew from any attention, and above all, did not escape or cause harm to anyone, then they had the privilege of keeping their human dignity. If they did their part, he didn’t have to pretend to be the bad guy and whip them.

He couldn’t hear what Rasheem was doing downstairs as he now focused his attention on a very important book. An ancient book forbidden in the kingdom and forgotten by many people in Ardania. It held every truth from the birth and history of the Realm of Valeera, to prophesies, to the divine communion of the Diviine Six Gods, and above all, the five Ordained. The very religion the Crown has declared blasphemous and would send believers directly to their deaths. This sacred book was for those wishing to expand their knowledge and faith in the truth, unlike the Ardanian Sacred Book relating to Fair and Strange, division, and human sacrificing.

Gris’ research over the past year or so had brought him to a new enlightenment. And that enlightenment now sat awaiting her fate in a dark cell beneath the throne room.

Footsteps arose from the stairway. Gris’ attention shifted to Rasheem, whose stricken face sent his heart leaping into his throat.

“What’s wrong?”

“The king has ended Court appearances for today.”

“Early … That’s not unusual. He’ll see to cases in the privacy of his study.”

Rasheem’s mouth opened and closed, indicating bad news to come.

“Okay …”

“You have been summoned,” his manservant said.

Gris’ jaw dropped, ears ringing with shock. “Pardon me?”

“The Royal Luncheon at noon. You’ve been invited, no exceptions.”

To his stepsiblings, or to anyone, for that matter, one should be thrilled to spend time with the royal family for the Annual Royal Luncheon. However, Gris was the very opposite. Three years ago, he stopped attending, and no one seemed to care. Now, something had changed, and his gut told him this might not work in his favor.