Soréla stood on a main promenade of the nobles quarter of the coastal capital city of Port Faeldan, its wide avenue paved with cobblestones, flanked with a variety of sumptuous shops, and dotted with well-heeled residents and their occasional entourages. Having newly arrived from Colchesse last night, she marveled at the deeply tan skin the native residents all carried. It lent a natural glow that she found aesthetically pleasing, and it contrasted starkly from the fair to light tan skin of the people from her native country of Relb. She felt slightly envious of the complexion she did not share. She herself received a few appraising glances from the local gentry, but she overheard no comment, and none broke stride nor conversation in response to encountering her. Seagulls intermittently called out in the distance.
She knew she stood the greatest chance of opportunity at amassing a fortune quickly with her newfound powers if she came to Parithan, the wealthiest nation on the continent. She required that scale of resources if she was to succeed in repaying the steep price she had agreed to pay in order to gain those powers. She had left home decades ago with a similar plan before fate had intervened, but she was just a girl then. Now, she arrived as a woman, with a much better general idea and vastly better means to get what she needed.
She began to walk the district, attempting to start studying what she could of the locals and their interactions without being too obvious. Understanding the status quo was vital if she was going to turn it to her advantage. She rounded the corner of a side lane which further headed down toward a hedge-lined curve of a road that led out of sight, and a seamstress shop on that lane had its doors open under an awning, inviting her to review its wares. Soréla passingly wondered what possessed this shop owner to expose her wares to the sea-salted air; she was begging for ruination if her delicate inventory remained overlong on the shelves and mannequins.
Also in the lane, but parked on the side opposite her, stood a large and ornate carriage of gilded and polished wood, hitched to four matching grey geldings and carrying a group of people. That group now exited, and all the servants flocked around someone that she couldn’t see as they escorted their employer into a wig shop across the street. Soréla made her way into the seamstress shop, actively checking a few fabrics and dress designs, but also keeping a wary eye through the open doorway on the carriage and its obviously important personage. Perhaps she could leverage forming an acquaintanceship with this person to introduce her to society and begin to learn the machinations of the local power base.
After several minutes, a hubbub arose in the street, and Soréla and the shopkeeper both stepped to the doorway to investigate. The servants were attempting to console a short, overly-bejeweled woman in a cream satin and pink lace gown. An ornate tiara of rule adorning her head, heavily overwrought and completely gaudy in Soréla’s opinion, marked her as the Queen of Parithan.
As Soréla walked out to stand at the lane’s edge under the doorway awning, she heard another noise down the lane, prompting her to turn her head. A smaller carriage, also led by four horses, raced dangerously fast around the blind curve and hurtled toward them. She and the seamstress both prudently took a step backward.
The queen was visibly upset about something from the shop she had just left. The servants tried their best to soothe her majesty, and they begged her to reconsider. She stomped her denial to them in front of the horses of her own carriage and made toward the dress shop. An instinctive urge to warn the queen prompted Soréla and the seamstress to shout at the queen in unison. “NO!!”
Indignant that anyone would dare command the queen to do anything, her majesty even more defiantly strode forward into the street. This now placed her directly in the path of the oncoming carriage. She started to open her mouth with a remonstration to the pair. “HOW DARE—,” she yelled.
Only too late did she and the oncoming driver both realize her mistake. The queen turned her head in horror to see the carriage bearing down on her. She attempted to fling up her arms to try to shield herself, but that was useless. The horses trampled the queen before the driver could bring them to a halt. After being forced to the ground under the onslaught of equine legs, a wheel of the carriage directly rolled over her neck, severing her majesty’s head from her body most completely. Crimson streaks and grey-brown smudges now marred the cream satin and pink lace, and the tiara rolled around to land at Soréla’s feet.
Two of the ladies-in-waiting shrieked while the rest fainted, and the driver of the offending carriage immediately began vomiting from his buckboard into the street once it was stilled. Behind her, Soréla also heard the thump of the seamstress’s body hitting the doorway as the woman fainted. The driver of the queen’s carriage flailed about uselessly with his reins, unable to speak or otherwise act as a result of the trauma he just witnessed.
Soréla almost laughed with unexpected glee at this sudden fortune for her plans. She had to force herself to school her expression into one of complete seriousness, mindful of having an audience. This day worked out better than Soréla had hoped! Immediately, a calculated plan formed in her mind, and Soréla took advantage of her proximity to the royal tragedy to insert herself into the situation. She knelt down to retrieve the slightly dented tiara and called out. “Driver!” The driver looked up from heaving his stomach contents into the street as she approached him.
A flash of twirling ruby and ebony light from her pupils met his gaze for an instant before her eyes returned to their usual hazel. Using her imbued, netherworld power of command, she spoke to him. “Stop retching, come down, and speak truly.” His body and mind instantly became hers to control. His heaves stilled themselves as he dismounted on her side of his carriage, and Soréla was mildly pleased.
Nobles and servants in the area began swarming the vicinity. Handkerchiefs fluttered, smelling salts were broken open, and various city guard could be heard fast-marching to the area from several directions.
Soréla pressed the driver with questions. “What is your name? Whose carriage is this?”
“Norwen, milady, and this carriage belongs to His Grace Lord Mithrin, the Duke of Southcape.”
“What instructions were you carrying out?”
“He ordered me to take the carriage to High Hill Street to retrieve Her Grace, the Duchess, from an appointment at the baths. Because he was late in dispatching me, he ordered me to go full haste to spare himself her temper.”
By now, the city guard had arrived at the scene, and they were cautiously retrieving her majesty’s body and head from the street on the opposite side of her and its driver, carefully placing her remains in her original carriage while the guard captain instructed the driver to take the body and a guard somewhere. Only the queen’s most senior lady-in-waiting was allowed to accompany her majesty’s body. The carriage began to drive off, leaving the other servants temporarily stranded.
“Thank you, Norwen, your cooperation is most appreciated. You are free to wait here by your carriage and await instruction from the guards, with whom you will comply, and afterward, you are released to your own cognizance, with only the memory of having voluntarily explained yourself to me.” Norwen nodded and gave a blank stare in response.
Soréla turned to the guard captain. She again exerted her power, losing no time to keep momentum in her newly-formed plan to position herself in control of the country. Sometimes, plans required years of patience and quiet manipulation to bear fruit. Soréla recognized that this was not one of those times.
“Captain!” As he looked at her, the flick of ruby and ebony entwined light from her pupils flashed again, snaring his will into hers. Soréla beckoned that he come toward her. She handed the god-awful tiara over to him as she started to speak. “Thank you for your timely arrival to this awful tragedy. I am so glad you are here both to convey our sympathies to the king for her loss and to explain how instrumental I was at investigating the situation for him. His Grace, the Duke of Southcape, specifically instructed his carriage driver to race the streets, recklessly putting her majesty into harm’s way. I am sure we can agree this driver was merely following his grace’s orders and is in no way at fault for doing as he was told. He should be spared while his employer should be made to answer for the careless instructions to his servants that cost a royal life.” The captain nodded. Soréla knew eliminating him so suddenly would shake up the local power base into an uneasy mode of guarded self-preservation, easing her entry into its circles.
“As guard captain for the district and the first official to arrive here, you will be summoned to the king to explain what happened to the queen. You will explain to his majesty that I, Soréla Dalmark, was the primary witness to the accident who had the resourcefulness to determine what happened just prior to your arrival. You will mention how astute, wise, and merciful I was at arriving at these conclusions, as well as how quick-witted I was at remaining calm and dependable amid the chaos of this awful scene. You will note that I neither fainted nor otherwise lost my composure when confronted with this gruesome misfortune. I also honestly returned the queen’s crown to your custody instead of making off with it.
“A casual remark indicating your inspiration by my behavior, suitable to a leader you would personally love to follow, would be most helpful, and you might somehow even mention with a sly wink that I am not that hard on the eyes, either. Don’t you agree?” Soréla smiled demurely and made a calculated point of carefully arranging her luxurious, black hair on the shoulders of her forest green dress to attract his baser desires and weave its effect into the compulsion.
“Yes, of course,” he replied, clearing his throat.
“Very good. Once you inform His Majesty of all these details, you can let him know that you witnessed me returning to my room at the Silvertide Inn on Crestwater Street should he need to find me. Once he dismisses you from his audience, your obligation to me is over. You may now resume your other duties.”
“Certainly, milady.” A curt nod in salute was all he gave before turning to his men. They had dutifully ensured all the onlookers maintained a discreet and respectable distance from the remaining carriage and bloody mess in the street.
Soréla nodded her acceptance, turned, and began to leave the scene. She couldn’t help from finally smiling at herself with the incredible luck that just befell her as she made her way back to her inn room, and she waited for the inevitable invitation to meet the king.
*
The further fate of Soréla will be revealed in The Bonds of Faith and Blood book series, Volume I: Omens of Dream and Shadow, Book I: A Thread of Waking Light.
