The Queen's Blade Prequel II - God Touched (31 page)

“
Stinking killer,” the soldier said. “Take off your jacket.”
Blade shucked the garment, but the guard still glowered. “And the
shirt.”

The assassin
removed his black shirt and dropped it on the bed beside the
jacket, then stripped off his leather vest, knowing it would be
next on the list. Apparently the Queen had ordered him stripped and
searched, a sensible precaution. The soldier stepped closer to
remove Blade’s daggers from the wrist sheaths, but tugged to no
avail until the assassin pressed the triggers that released them.
The man passed them to his comrade and turned to glare at Blade
again, then jerked his head at the door.

“
Get going.”

Blade headed
for the doorway, and the guard who stood in it stepped aside while
the other one picked up Blade's jacket. As the assassin exited the
room, the guard gave him a shove that sent him staggering into the
wall. The soldier moved past to lead the way down the passage, his
cohort falling in behind Blade. He got the impression that they
would have liked to beat him further, and refrained only because he
was about to meet the Queen. Doubtless they would blame him for the
abuse they had meted out, although it was worth a few bruises to
speak to the Queen.

The corridors
became more opulent as they made their way through the palace,
going from dressed stone to grey-streaked white marble. They passed
rooms furnished with gilt chairs and carved tables, the walls hung
with vast paintings of battles, forests and queens. Servants
hurried past on errands, and groups of gossiping men in rich robes
gathered in a glass-roofed atrium filled with warm light and
greenery.

As they drew
closer to the Queen's chambers, they passed noblemen clad in velvet
and satin and powdered ladies adorned with gold and jewels. Many of
the nobles turned to stare at Blade with deep disapproval, some
even wrinkling their noses in disgust, while the ladies whispered
to their friends behind fans, and some giggled. Blade recognised
two or three noblewomen who had propositioned him, and now turned
away as he was escorted past. Except for the lack of chains, he
might have been a prisoner.

The soldiers
took Blade to a pair of tall, cream doors inlaid and trimmed with
gold, where two white-plumed guards in golden armour stood, staring
ahead with stern expressions. The chief advisor waited beside them,
looking impatient, and turned with a frown when the assassin
approached. Blade folded his arms, disliking his shirtless state.
She raked him with a startled glance, clearly displeased about
something.

“
The Queen has agreed to meet you,” she said. “That does not
mean she will grant you an audience. First she wishes to see you,
and then she will decide. You will enter behind me, and when I step
aside you will make your prostration. You will not arise until she
orders you to. You will not speak unless she addresses you, and you
may not sit unless she invites you to do so. You will show her the
utmost respect at all times, which means you will not raise your
eyes to her face. Is that understood?”

“
So I must address her feet?”

“
Yes.”

“
I see. And am I to meet her without the benefit of
clothing?”

The girl
raised her chin. “The Queen ordered that you be stripped to the
waist, to ensure that you carry no weapons.” She glanced at his
guards. “Did he have any?”

“
Only these, Chief Advisor.” The belligerent guard retrieved
Blade's daggers from his cohort and held them out, hilt
first.

The girl took
them as if they were dipped in dung, her nose wrinkling.

“
Careful,” Blade murmured. “Those are sharp.”

“
I am not a buffoon.”

He smiled. “I
am so glad you cleared that up for me.”

The girl
glared at him, then snorted and swung away. As the gold-armoured
guards pushed open the doors, Blade discovered that his mind had
gone blank, and he had no idea what he was going to say. Then
again, he mused, the chances were good that he would not be allowed
to say anything, and the Queen merely wished to satisfy her
curiosity about the impertinent commoner who had demanded an
audience. Warm light flooded out of a room whose white marble
floors gleamed and golden furnishings glinted. The chief advisor
entered, and Blade followed.

***

About the
author

T. C.
Southwell was born in Sri Lanka and her family moved to the
Seychelles when she was a baby. She spent her formative years
exploring the islands – mostly alone. Naturally, her imagination
flourished and she developed a keen love of other worlds. The
family travelled through Europe and Africa and, after the death of
her father, settled in South Africa. T. C. Southwell has written
over forty novels and five screenplays. Her hobbies include
motorcycling, horse riding and art, and she earns a living in the
IT industry.

Cover design
by the author.

Visit the Demon Lord blogspot:
http://www.demon-lord-book.blogspot.com

Contact the
author at [email protected]

Acknowledgements

Mike Baum and
Janet Longman, former employers, for their support, encouragement,
and help. My mother, without whose financial support I could not
have dedicated myself to writing for ten years. Isabel Cooke,
former agent, whose encouragement and enthusiasm led to many more
books being written, including this one. Suzanne Stephan, former
agent, who has helped me so much over the past six years, and
Vanessa Finaughty, good friend and business partner, for her
support, encouragement and editing skills.