More Than Survive

Chapter 1

His name was Corwin, and he had been at the end of his rope for a long, long time.

The kingdom of Dreadmarche was a graveyard unto itself, snuffing out its enemies as its territory spread, whether those enemies made a valiant stand in battle or fell on bended knee.

After nightfall, the palace kitchens resembled dungeons more than kitchens, with pots hung from iron hooks like weapons ready to be brandished and great ovens hissing softly in their temporary reprieve from duty as if kept primed for baking and cremation alike. The long work tables were polished to gleaming, so shiny you’d be able to see the whites of your own eyes if you were held down against the surface of one for your beheading.

His name was Corwin, but in his term of servitude in the palace, barely anyone called him that besides the other workers. It was always ‘boy’, ‘rat’, or ‘you there’.

It was this invisibility that allowed him to get away with as much theft as he had–not that that amounted to much. Hunger had still managed to carve hollows beneath his cheekbones, to dig gaps between the bones of his ribcage, but without his occasional miscreancy, he didn’t know whether he’d be yet alive.

Sure of his way in the near-complete darkness, he let himself into the pantry and, as soundlessly as he could, unscrewed one of the jars of meat packed in fat and salt–reserved for the Queen’s soldiers, but the cooks had never missed a measly single ration gone astray before, so why should tonight be different?

The meat was as appetizing as anything he had ever tasted, even as it made his throat dry on its way down. A few bites was all he could scarf down in a hurry, and he would have left the rest for a future outing, but at the last second, figured he could sneak out the whole jar. His wasn’t the only hungry mouth in the palace, after all, and there was a special girl who he was long overdue to share his spoils with…

But then, lantern light brightened from around a corner, and a sharp bark of a voice sliced the air: “You there!”

Corwin spun, the jar falling out of his hands and shattering against the stone beneath his feet. Two palace guards loomed in the archway, their helmets and the gold-threaded embroidery of their imperial uniforms glinting in the light of their lamps.

“Stealing from the Queen’s stores?” sneered one, stepping forward to seize him. “Oh, Her Highness will love to hear about this!”

“Please,” Corwin rasped, his voice hoarse from days without water. “I–I only–”

But the guards were already dragging him away, the salted aroma of his would-have-been bounty wafting up from the floor. His bare feet scraped the cold stones as they hauled him through the echoing palace halls, past tapestries depicting bloody victories: rivers running red, enemy kings impaled on spears, the Queen herself standing with her bootheel upon the severed head of a conquered prince.

Finally, they reached the dungeon, where they threw him into a cell with creaking bars and a rusted chamber pot that hadn’t been emptied since its last use by the previous occupant. There were two other men in two other cells, but by their stillness, and the flies, and the stench, Corwin could tell that they’d already died.

“You’ll answer to Her Highness in the morning.”

***

The throne room yawned vast and sunlit, its every surface shined to gleam in the glow of morning. Candles flickered from where they were mounted on each wall, but a fragrant, floral perfume in the air covered the scent of their rising, white smoke. It was the warmest, cleanest room Corwin had ever set eyes upon. Ordinarily, he wasn’t deemed worthy of so much as washing the floors in such a space, and yet, the Queen’s guards dragged him across the floor like it would be no ordeal to have someone else scrub the prints left by his grime-covered feet once he was disposed of, and he would be disposed of, if the reputation that preceded the Queen rang any bit true.

At the far end of the room, like the blood moon cradled in the outline of a distant valley, sat Queen Amaranthe’s ivory throne, towering under silken burgundy banners, and seated upon it was the woman herself, ankles crossed in her gemstone-encrusted slippers, pointed chin resting in the palm of one pale hand as she leaned forward, elbows on the armrests, observant.

The Queen was a legendary beauty, but even knowing it from rumor through the grapevine, Corwin was taken aback in the spotlight of her sunwater-blue gaze. Her face was slim, yet soft, her plump pink lips parted in silent contemplation as the guards recounted to her how they’d caught Corwin mid-theft. Her hair, flowing in gentle curls past her shapely shoulders, was so pale yellow it was almost white. Surely, it was some divine trick that a lady so angelic in appearance was the very same known for razing cities to the ground.

As the guards took turns speaking, Corwin dared not plead his case. Then…

“Excuse me,” interrupted the Queen, stepping off of her throne. Sauntering up to confront the guard to Corwin’s right, she looked up at him–even standing at least a half head shorter in stature, counting the height of her crown, she was imposing in her own right. “You said this servant was discovered in the kitchen? Not the vault…not the armory…but the kitchen?”

“That’s right, Highness. Sneaking around in the middle of the night like a–”

Without warning, Amaranthe whipped a sharpened dagger from some concealed place inside the voluminous layers of her skirts and slashed his throat in one swift motion. He collapsed to his knees, then to his side, spluttering, bug-eyed, and writhing as he gushed blood from the neck, until he fell silent and still.

“The kitchens…honestly…rookie bastard must think I’m destitute,” she muttered, more to herself than anything. “Like I can’t spare a hunk of bread…” She wiped the blade on her sleeve, then turned her gaze to Corwin. “I’ll bet you were just hungry, weren’t you, little mouse?”

He nodded, but otherwise, was still as a statue.

“And as you can see, I have no patience for self-aggrandizing glory-hogs who insist on wasting my time.”

He swallowed thickly.

“Speak, little mouse.”

“I see, Highness,” he replied, eyes to the ground.

“And supposing I spare you from the guillotine…you wouldn’t be inclined to waste my time, would you? I’ve been at want, for quite some time, for a personal attendant…one who serves me, and only me.”

Corwin fell then, to his elbows and knees, forehead pressed to the stone floor, shuddering in confused dry sobs, his posture as subservient as that of a pig farmer’s daughter when the Queen’s caravan passed through the villages, but breathing twice as quick. “I’ll serve you, Highness!” he swore. “With the obedience of a slave and all the devotion of the holy women in their temple to the–!”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she cut him off. Then she turned to the remaining guard. “Put him back on his feet.”

The guard grabbed him around one arm and dragged him upright.

“If you’re true to your word…”

Her head, and only her head, moved, tilting to regard him with a smile, her eyes like cannons, her teeth like sharpened daggers. “Then you shall survive. In fact…I daresay you will very much more than survive.”

Before he could begin to decipher what that meant, she gave a signal he didn’t know how to interpret, and then, he was turned around and escorted toward the doors at spearpoint. “I shall send for you tomorrow at sundown, little mouse. Oh, and you?” she added, as a last minute aside to the guard’s back. “Get someone to clean up this mess.”

***

Corwin stood naked in the washing chamber, shivering as scalding water poured over his skin by the bucket-load. Palace attendants scrubbed at his arms and legs with rough cloths, scraping away weeks of dirt and neglect. They poured perfumed oil into his hair, combed out the tangles and the green grime until it shone honey brown like never before, and dressed him in soft linen—not the coarse servant’s garb he was used to, but a robe finer than anything he’d ever touched.

When they finished, they led him down a narrow, silent corridor, torchlight flickering along the stone walls. The guards did not speak to him. The maids did not meet his gaze. Corwin’s heart thudded against his ribs with every step.

They were taking him to Queen Amaranthe’s private chambers.

He had no idea what waited for him there.

The doors were impossibly wide, of carved dark wood inlaid with silver and stones and gold. When they opened, Corwin nearly stumbled: the scent of roses rushed at him, heavy and dizzying.

Inside, the Queen’s bedchamber was huge, its curtains the same deep burgundy as the banners in her throne room, only the cloth was not so heavy, so that they fluttered in the early evening breeze wafting through the open windows. Amaranthe reclined against the mountain of cushions upon her massive canopy bed, wearing a silken robe that, while loose, fell to accentuate her every shapely curve.

“Corwin…your name is Corwin, right?” she said, patting the space on the bed beside her. “Come.”

His name sounded like a command when it slipped past her lips, even as softly as she spoke. Lightheaded, he approached and knelt by the side of the bed.

“No, little mouse, I mean HERE.”

In disbelief, he staggered to his feet and sat on the edge of the mattress. A guttural laugh built up in the Queen’s throat. Then, she gripped him around one frail wrist and practically tossed him over her own body. He bounced against the surface of the downy feather bed and landed on his back with his head cradled by the pillows. “Isn’t that better, little mouse? Now, relax…tonight, you’re my honored guest.”

With a flick of her eyes, she dismissed the guards and maids, but only seconds later, a new pair of maids came, as if by orchestrated clockwork, bearing bottles of deep red wine on a tray. The Queen accepted the glass her servants poured for her, downed it in one, and laughed heartily, the sweet red liquid dripping from the corner of her lips as she snapped for another. “Drink with me, little mouse. You there, girl, pour some wine for my new companion!”

When the goblet landed in Corwin’s hands, he knew better than not to sit up and drink. As soon as the wine flowed down his throat, its heat made his cheeks flush, his head spin…

And it made his stomach feel hollow, like someone had just finished digging a grave in there.

“Do you know how I became Queen?” she asked, turning on her side to watch him with intent eyes.

Corwin sipped his wine in a manner he hoped was polite, still not knowing entirely what was expected of him. Was this truly mercy? A test of some sort? “You…you inherited the throne, Highness, from your brother, the late King Edwin.”

She barked a laugh. “Edwin was a fool. He took our country’s armies into the marshlands, seeking to conquer the Lowland Princes. And he died there, like a pig in the mud.”

She stretched languidly, like a cat, holding out her glass. The servant girl refilled it again dutifully. “So I took his throne,” she went on. “And while the nobles squabbled and the generals bled, I swept across the continent. I drowned the Lowland Princes in their own swamps. I burned the stone cities of the Western Dukes. I shattered the Sapphire Alliance before they could ever draw a blade. And now…” She smiled, eyes glittering. “Now Dreadmarche stretches further east to west than it ever has, and it all belongs to me.”

Corwin squirmed, half wondering why she was telling him all of this.

“Have you wondered, little mouse, why I have never taken a royal consort?”

Corwin’s mouth opened, but no words came, not at first. Finally, he whispered, “No, Highness.”

She laughed softly. “No? You should have.”

Should he have? If so, he’d spent his lifetime otherwise preoccupied.

Sliding closer, she rested one cool hand on his knee. “Men of the nobility cannot be trusted. Not one. They would marry me only to poison me, to seize the throne, to undo all that I have built. But you…”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “A mere servant, with none of those nasty ambitions…no wish except for your next meal…”

Corwin’s heart seized. His breath caught in his throat. But before he could speak, his stomach rumbled, and she smirked. “Oh, don’t you worry, little mouse. Dinner is about to be–”

Before she even finished her sentence, a new trio of servants arrived, bringing in a trolley piled high with delicacies: roasted pheasant, honey-glazed ham, sweetmeats, candied figs, spiced pastries, wheels of soft cheese, sugared grapes, mountains of steaming bread…

“Ah, wonderful, just on time,” said the Queen. “Fix my companion a plate, would you, girls? I imagine he’s famished.”

And at first, he was.

At first, it was a dream.

The meat fell off the bone and the cheese melted on his tongue between bites of sweet, sticky pastries. Corwin ate greedily, satisfaction blinding him as each bite soothed the hollow ache in his stomach. But soon—too soon—his bliss soured. In his haste, he overshot his capacity, fleeting seconds of comfortable fullness giving way to a new, more urgent ache as his belly began to tighten. His pace slowed. His hands shook.

“Don’t tell me that’s all you want,” said the Queen, smirking.

He looked up, wide-eyed. “Majesty, I—I can’t eat another bite.”

She smiled, cool and sharp. “Oh, but you can.”

She gestured. The servants moved, seizing Corwin’s arms and shoulders, pressing him back against the cushions. He gasped as Amaranthe herself lifted a spoonful of fig paste to his lips.
“You’re going to eat it all, my little mouse. You have no choice.”

He whimpered. His stomach cramped painfully, sweat beading on his brow. But the servants didn’t let him go as the Queen fed him mouthful after mouthful, her eyes wide and gleaming as she prodded his stomach with her fingertips, bringing up belches that tasted like whatever he’d just swallowed, thick in the back of his throat.

“There. Good.”

By the time the plates were all empty, Corwin was trembling, his breath ragged, his belly aching so fiercely he thought he might explode.

Amaranthe leaned down, brushing his damp hair from his forehead. “You’ve done well, little mouse.”

She lit a pipe, smoked deeply, and then flicked the ash gracefully into a crystal tray on top of the dresser on her side of the bed. “Escort him to his new quarters.”

The servant girls lifted him gently to his feet and guided him through the dark halls to a chamber he’d never seen before in all his exploration, a small but nicely furnished room with a feather bed, soft rugs, and a west-facing window. They laid him down, pulled the covers over his shuddering body, and left him with one candle burning on a table out of his reach.

Alone at last, Corwin clutched his belly with both hands. It hurt. It HURT, so much! It felt so stretched, so burdened, cramping and throbbing in tandem with his too-quick heartbeat, heavy and round as an enemy cannon ball under his skin, and though his new bed was softer than any he’d ever known excepting the Queen’s, he couldn’t stop weeping as he lay in it.

His last thought before queasy sleep took him was of the dead guard on the floor of the throne room.

Of whether he was better off at all.