Stone of Tears

At last the man drew back the door to reveal a dark pit. Her legs felt as if they wanted to turn liquid. Only the hands gripping her arms held her up. They were going to put her in that dark pit. With the rats.

She willed her legs solid again. She was the queen. But her pulse would not slow.

“How dare you put a lady in a rat-infested hole!”

Prince Fyren stepped close to the black maw. One hand on a hip held back his unbuttoned, royal blue coat. With his other hand he hefted a torch from a bracket.

“Rats? Is that what worries you, my lady? Rats?” He gave her a derisive smile. He was too young to be so well schooled at insolence. Had her arms been free she would have slapped him. “Let me allay your fears, Queen Cyrilla.”

He tossed the torch into the blackness. As it dropped, it illuminated faces. A husky fist caught the torch. There were men in the pit. At least six, maybe ten.

Prince Fyren leaned into the doorway, his voice echoing into the hole. “The queen worries there may be rats down there.”

“Rats?” came a coarse voice from the pit. “There be no rats down here. Not anymore. We et them all.”

A hand with white ruffles at the wrist still rested on Prince Fyren’s hip. His voice taunted with feigned concern. “There, you see? The man says there are no rats. Does that ease your apprehension, my lady?”

Her eyes darted between the flickering torchlight below and Fyren. “Who are those men?”

“Why, just a few murderers and rapists awaiting their beheading, same as you. Quite vile animals, actually. What with all I’ve had to attend to, I haven’t had time to see to their sentences. I’m afraid being down in the pit for so long puts them in an ugly disposition.” His grin returned, “But I’m sure having a queen among them will mellow their mood.”

Cyrilla had to force her voice to come. “I demand my own cell.”

The grin vanished. An eyebrow lifted. “demand? You demand?” He suddenly struck her across the face. “You demand nothing! You are nothing but a common criminal, a loathsome murderer of my people! You have been tried and convicted!”

Her cheek burned with the sting of his handprint.

“You can’t put me in there—with them.” Her whispered entreaty was hopeless, she knew, but she couldn’t keep it from her lips.

Fyren rolled his shoulders, straightening his back and coat as he regained his composure. His voice rose to those below. “You men wouldn’t defile a lady, would you?”

Soft laughter echoed up from the pit. “Why, course not. We wouldn’t want to be beheaded twice.” The coarse voice deepened into cold menace. “We’ll treat her real nice like.”

Cyrilla could taste warm, salty blood at the corner of her mouth. “Fyren, you can’t do this. I demand to be beheaded at once.”

There you go again: demanding.”

“Why can’t it be done now! Let it be done now!”

He drew his hand back to slap her again, but then let it lower as his simper returned. “You see? At first you proclaimed your innocence, and didn’t want to be executed, but already you are reconsidering. After a few days down there, with them, you will be begging to be beheaded. You will eagerly confess your treason before all those gathered to witness your punishment. Besides, I have other matters to attend to. I can’t be bothered right now. You will be put to death when I deem I have the time.”

With rising terror, she was only now beginning to grasp the full extent of the fate that awaited her in the pit. Tears burned her eyes.

“Please… don’t do this to me. I’m begging you.”

Prince Fyren smoothed the white ruffles at his throat and spoke softly. “I tried to make it easy for you, Cyrilla, because you’re a woman. Drefan’s knife would have been quick. You would have suffered little that way. I would never have allowed a man in your place such mercy. But you wouldn’t have it the easy way. You allowed the Mother Confessor to interfere. You allowed yet another woman to infringe on the dominion of men!

“Women don’t have the stomach for ruling. They’re ill suited to the task. They should never be allowed to command armies or to meddle in the affairs of nations. Things had to be set right. Drefan died trying to do it the easy way. Now we do it the other way.”

He nodded to a man behind him. The guard hauled the ladder to the doorway to lower an end into the pit as the hands on her arms moved her to the edge. The other men drew swords, apparently to prevent any in the pit from thinking to come up the ladder.

Cyrilla could think of no way to stop this. She voiced a protest, knowing it was foolish, but unable to check her panic. “I am a queen, a lady, I will not be made to scurry down a rickety ladder.”

Prince Fyren blinked at her ludicrous objection, but then motioned with his hand for the man to pull the ladder back from the doorway.

He gave a mocking bow. “As you wish, my lady.”

He rose, giving a slight nod to the men holding her arms. They released her. Before she thought to move a muscle, he rammed the heel of his hand into her chest, between her breasts.