Royal Recruit - Susan Grant Page 0,5
Three
In her gymnasium deep within the palace, Keira, Goddess-Queen of Sakka, swung her smart-sword at an imaginary opponent. Working through a series of choreographed moves designed to hone and strengthen the body and bring focus to the mind, her long, thick hair whipped around her shoulders with every slice of the heavy sword. To her left and right, massive columns soared to the ceiling, the space between them open to various chambers—a meeting room, her bathing hall, an entertainment alcove where she could take visitors and watch troubadours perform. She took little interest in the rest of the palace. This was her sanctuary and she’d had it decorated in every color opposite the reality outside the thick castle walls: a world of ice and towering glaciers; a land of white, ice-blue and steely gray, where it snowed almost all year round.
Sometimes she wished she could wall herself off from the rest of the palace in much the same way.
The captain of the Palace Guard, the hulking eunuch Tibor Frix, stepped through the door. She’d known him almost her entire life. Not once had she ever seen him look anything other than as he did now: immaculate in a flawless uniform and gleaming boots. He snapped his fist over his chest and dipped his head in a bow. “The visitors have arrived, Your Majesty.”
“Send them in.” Gripping the heavy sword in two hands, Keira whirled on Prime Minister Rissallen and the individuals who had accompanied him, several unhappy-looking officers and ranking members of parliament. The usual cronies.
Tibor Frix stepped out of the way, his hooded eyes ever watchful as the prime minister stepped forward, crossing his arm over his chest and bowing low.
Keira took a moment to catch her breath. “Rise.”
“I’m afraid I have disturbing news, Your Majesty.”
“Do you really, Kellen?”
Rissallen’s lips twitched. He hated when she called him by his given name. She held her sword up to the cold winter light filtering through the skylight and admired the sparkle of tourmaline. Then she sliced the weapon through the air. It made a humming noise as it arced in a half circle. Simultaneously, they took a step back. All except Prime-Admiral Zaafran, commander of the Coalition Space Force, who simply regarded her as if she were a useless figurehead.
Wasn’t she? After all, these men came to her only under the most unusual circumstances—and never to ask her advice. They fed her the information as if worried they’d upset her, and had done so ever since she’d taken the throne as a child, thrust into the role after her entire family had died in a tragic accident.
But even though they often kept her ignorant of their silly facts, she frightened them, and she liked that. As long as she inspired fear, she maintained her power over them. If they ever lost their fear of her…
Don’t think of that. You’re strong, a warrior. Keira stabbed and parried an imaginary opponent, finishing with a vicious lunge at the Prime-Admiral’s heart.
Zaafran didn’t even flinch. She moved forward until the pointed tip of the blade made a hissing sound as it pressed ever so lightly into the officer’s gaudy, beribboned uniform. Pinned over his heart were medals and commendations that he’d probably earned but, regardless, his lack of fear irritated her.
Her mouth tipped in a smirk as she withdrew the blade and noticed the fleck of charred fabric around the tiny tear. That is for thinking you are better than me, you arrogant bastard. But she said coquettishly, “Oh! I must be more careful. You’ll be visiting your tailor later, won’t you?” She dusted a hand over the officer’s broad chest. “I’m sure it can be repaired.”
Dark brows lowered over angry eyes but Zaafran knew better than to stare her down. A second later he let out an almost silent exhalation and turned his eyes to the floor. Good boy.
“Taye!” Keira snapped her fingers to summon her favorite attendant. The slender, baby-faced eunuch took the sword and replaced it with a scented towel, which she used to blot perspiration from her face. It had been a brutal workout. Her skin gleamed, her muscles trembled. She’d worked her body to the limit, and goddess, it felt good. She wanted nothing less than total control over her body, and so she pushed it, sculpting it, emulating the warrior priestesses of the distant past. A time when having goddess blood meant something more than being kept in a cage until it came time to produce little princes and