Evening gold had barely touched the stained-glass windows of the dowager queen's apartments, yet inside a storm was already raging. Servants accustomed to Marianna's, flawless composure-pressed themselves to the walls: tonight their mistress paced from corner to corner, heavy folds of her black gown sliding across the mosaic floor like coils of smoke. Hands laden with perfect rings clenched and unclenched, as though she were throttling an invisible enemy.
-How dare she?- The cry shattered the air like brittle crystal.- Some crowned chit dares look down on me? I, who held this court long before Theodore was born! I, whose blood gave him the very right to sit that throne!
Silk hissed over marble like a whip. Porcelain figurines on a side-table trembled, one toppled, shattering, yet neither Marianna nor her son spared it a glance.
-Regnald!- She snapped the name more sharply than etiquette allowed. - Do you even hear me? Or do you dismiss me as your worthless "brother" does?
Regnald smirked, making no hurry to straighten in his seat.
-I hear, Mother, I hear.- His voice was smooth and lazy, as though he savored her fury. -Amusing to watch how one…-he paused, choosing the word-…bloodless queen can rattle you.
Marianna halted before him, gripping the carved back of a chair as if she meant to strike.
-She is no queen!- she hissed. -She is a child of fortune, a barren flower, endowed with a title she did not deserve! It was only thanks to me, thanks to my patience and generosity, that she ever rose above her position!
Regnald reached for his wine, lounging on a brocade sofa. Long fingers idly spun the sheathed dagger at his hip, amused by its weight. Mocking indulgence flickered in his grey eyes.
-Mother,- he drawled after a sip, -you thunder so loud the crystal railings might crack. The servants will go deaf.
-"Thunder?"- Marianna whirled; the pearl veil on her braid shivered. -This impostor publicly rejected my patronage! In front of servants, in front of ladies-in-waiting! In a jester's decorum, and her words are steel needles. "The storm tempers the tree..." - she mimicked hoarsely. - Tree? I'll show her what happens to a daring branch!
-Oh, Beatrice knows how to keep a face,- Regnald said, flicking the dagger's scabbard. -Had she been a man, I'd hire her for my guards. Alas…
- You jest, while the king grows stronger!- Marianna strode to the window, clutching the sill as though she would wrench it free.- Theodore lifts her closer to the throne, and now that puppet has woken and wants to play warrior-princess. She cuts my strings, son. And when the puppet falls, so does the puppeteer.
A dull black flame lit Marianna's eyes.
- All this should have been ours,- she snarled.-Ours, Regnald. Not Theodore. You should have sat on this throne! You are my son, the blood of my blood! Not he, the cold bastard, the fosterling of the late old man, who betrayed my name and my pride for the sake of political games!
Regnald reclined, indolent mask veiling predatory interest.
- Then, Mother, perhaps less shouting… and more action?- His tone slid like a snake settling into shade. -Theodore has sat too long. Remind him that royal blood is no shield against steel. His throne balances on old oaths. Kick the base and it creaks. Let him pretend to rule-while we cut the roots.
-"His roots?"- Marianna arched a brow.
- Roots, branches, leaves.- He shrugged. - First we dry the spring. A thirsty tree topples queen-bird and all. Court will recall the elder line me, not a pampered bastard."
Marianna finally stilled. A thin smile cracked her face like ice.
-You still believe the regalia are yours?
-I don't merely believe,- Regnald purred, gaze half-lidded. -I know.
She drew nearer, pearls chiming, palm caressing his cheek with the chill of a blade.
-Then, my child, time to show Theodore and his tragic queen who truly crowns this court. You will be the sword, I the hand that guides it.
Regnald answered with a cobra's lazy grin.
-As you wish, Mother. Shake the branches; let the fruit fall at our feet.
Marianna straightened; sleeves of black silk hissed like a lash.
-And how, pray, shall we remind Theodore of his… frailty?- Polite again, yet a predator's hum lay beneath.
Regnald swirled his wine. Amber liquid slid along the glass, as though he weighed another's life in the light.
-The crown rests on three stones,- he listed, lazy fingers counting. -The army's sword, the treasury's purse, and the temple's blessing. First stone is loyal. Second… watched by council. But the third, Mother, is the one easiest to shift.
Her eyes narrowed.
-You speak of the temple elders?
-Of those already whispering that the king's wife 'neglects her sacred duty.- Regnald's smile tilted.- Tomorrow the emissaries demand double stipends; the young queen refuses-temple cries sacrilege. People listen. Garrisons doubt. We merely slip a spark where it burns best.
He sipped, tasting his own words.
-You propose to set the temple…. against them?- Marianna settled onto a chair-arm, guarding the idea as a fragile gem.
-I propose reminding the elders who once filled their coffers,- he said, idle. -Spread word that Theodore bleeds 'divine' silver on forts commanded by godless northerners. Rumor is a seed. Should the temple fancy generous tithes-well, we'll promise restitution… after a change of throne.
Marianna's gaze flared.
-And if Theodore agrees to their demands?
-Better still. Treasury drains, soldiers go unpaid, and disgruntled men talk loudest.
He bent, drawing an invisible map on the tablecloth with a quill tip.
-Let the world think he's torn between sword and altar… then present the only 'savior' figure.- The quill tapped his chest.- Me.
Silence tightened like a string. Marianna stared at her son; true admiration lit her face at last.
- Prepare the letters,- she whispered.- The ones that can be 'accidentally' read in temple archives. And couriers for the frontier garrisons.
Regnald rose, tossed a grape into his mouth, and smiled without chewing.
-All for the crown, Mother.
-All for you, my king,- she corrected.
He did not dispute her. In hidden cupboards seals clinked-lilied crests once owned by the late king. The dowager queen guarded symbols of power as jealously as old grudges.
A draft slid under the door, as if the palace itself sensed a new intrigue brewing.
Within that hush there was no faith, no honor. Only hunger. Hunger that now wore her son's easy smile.
Outside, the gardens drowned in a blood-red sunset, as though the earth mirrored the future victims' fate. Inside, porcelain shards crunched beneath an unseen heel, but neither mother nor son heard: in their minds sounded only the crack of a breaking crown.