The Peasant Queen

IV Alcyan Ford twenty years earlier.

IV

Alcyan Ford twenty years earlier.The Drow lord took the bottle, stroking its almost feminine curves sensually. Raising it to eye level, he deciphered the square letters. Grey mead, a grand cru. One of the first vintages that followed the reopening of the Helarieal vineyards after the defeat of the Feythas. Taking his special knife, he cut the wax seal and carefully cleaned off any traces of debris. Then he uncorked it. With delight, he sniffed the bouquet that came out of it.

He poured some of the wine in the crystal glass on the inlaid sideboard in front of him. He made it turn a moment, warming the precious drink in the hollow of the hand. He admired the dress of the beverage, almost transparent with a slight cloudiness. Then he raised the glass to his nose again. A smile lit up his face.

He walked over to his favorite armchair at the foot of which was a low table on which he put the glass. He looked around him. A magnificent place, expensive furniture, paintings by masters, a whole statuary in gold, marble or bronze. He was proud of his work and happy with what he had. The castle had been burned during the war. Its rightful owners, certainly Stoltzts, had disappeared. The stone structure had survived with almost no damage. He had taken over the place and restored it to its former glory. But nowhere else had he achieved such success as in this room.

Casting his eyes on a painting, he turned the chair to face him and sat down. Then he took his glass of mead and began to sip it. A delight. Finally, he didn’t regret that the war had not totally exterminated this race, just for such a masterpiece, they deserved to have survived. And since they were far enough away from his lands, he didn't have to put up with their ridiculous morals about respecting life and freedom. The only free race was his own, the others were only good for s*****y. One day he would surely finish the work of his former masters and exterminate them.

On the floor below, a noise disturbed his bliss. He tried to ignore it, but the conversation was really bothering him. His butler was trying in vain to fend off an intruder. If he wanted to enjoy his wealth in peace, the Drow would have to intervene. Annoyed, he put down his glass and got up.

He walked towards the postern; the peasants were not allowed to enter the main entrance, which was reserved for distinguished guests. Only the other Drows were noble enough to be considered as such, and even then, not all of them. Apart from the door, which had been replaced for his personal safety, the room hadn’t been renovated, and still bore traces of the fire that had ravaged the mansion shortly before he took possession of it: soot on the walls, cracked stones, remains of burned draperies, and armor distorted by the heat.

His servant was talking enthusiastically with a farmer, one of those who lived near the village two blocks away.

“What's going on? What’s the reason for all this disturbance?" he asked.

“Lord," said Jensen, "here you are at last.”

The poor fellow seemed relieved to see him.

“Here I am indeed. Well now, explain to me. Your cries of rage have disturbed me in my business.

“My lord, it’s about my daughter.”

“What about your daughter?”

“She has been kidnapped.”

“kidn*pped. I admit that this is really annoying.”

He looked the peasant straight in the eye.

“What does that have to do with me?" he asked in a calm, almost contemptuous tone.

“I... I came to ask for your help.”

“My help! Why me? And why should I give it to you? It's up to the Ortuin garrison to protect you, not me.”

“Because only you can go to her rescue. You’re the only warrior here.”

“I’m indeed a warrior. But what would I gain by going to rescue her? Do you have anything to offer me?”

The peasant stammered.

“The knight's code of honor,” he said at last.

The Drow burst out laughing.

“Honor, you’re very funny. You should be a jester for a living. If you wanted to have honor, you should have managed to be born on Edorian or Stoltzt lands, not here.”

As he let the dumbfounded Jensen to come back to his senses, the Drow waited for the giggles to subside.

“Do you have other daughters? You humans have many children. You certainly have another daughter.”

“Well, yes.”

“So what's the problem? You'll even have one less dowry to put together to marry her. The truth is that you humans reproduce too fast. Everywhere we go, we run into your teeming brood. One less, in the multitude, won't even be noticed.”

“I'll notice it," spat the peasant, "she's my daughter and I love her.”

“Love, after honor. You’re really funny. A human who talks about love. You don't know anything about real love. Affection perhaps. Love, on the other hand, is a noble feeling that only a noble race can experience. Yours only imitates it. Well, love her if you can, but don't bother me. I’ve heard your request, and I’ve decided not to act on it. Now you can back off and go back to your fields instead of wasting your time doing nothing.”

“You have no heart. Well, I'm going to look for her, all by myself. And I will find her.”

“Do so, if you like. But don't forget that it won't reduce the tax you have to pay.”

He waved his hand away from the opportunity. The servant pushed the peasant out.

“The master said you should leave," the servant intervened.

“You monster!”

He closed the door and blocked it with a metal bar that snapped into the wall. Satisfied, the Drow turned towards the staircase that led to his living room.

“Please remind me to teach that rude man a lesson," he said to his servant. “Burning down his barn should teach him some values without risking our supply.”

The butler nodded. Just as the Drow was about to leave, his servant called out to him.

“Lord, can I ask you a question?”

“Go ahead, I'm only a few minutes away.”

“These peasants pay taxes to the Yrian King, not to you. How are you going to do it?”

“The Yrian King is in Sernos, not here. If he wants to come and dispute my claims, let him come, I’ll receive him.

“Well lord, that's all I needed to know.”

“Need to know?" asked the Drow, surprised.

“So that you should be ready to receive the envoys from Sernos as it should be.”

“Of course. If they ever come.”

The Drow walked away, looking forward to his future engagements, both immediate and distant, with fierce glee.

Picking up his drink, the host went around the room, admiring the works of art, one after the other. Each of them had a story, he knew them all. This porcelain vase, for example, had been given as a wedding present by the Silver Demon to the Queen of Junia. A few months later, the queen was driven from her throne by her own sister. The demon wanted to get the vase back to its rightful owner. The new queen refused to give it back, so he insisted. The resulting conflict led to the ruin of most demonic kingdoms. Thus, because of this vase, the demons failed to impose their hegemony on Uv-Polin.

Next to it, this flint knife with an ivory handle came from Mustul. It had been used by the patriarch of the tribe to break the seal of the vase containing the name of the new king. Of the two competitors, the cunning Helaria and the ambitious Leedle, it was the latter who ascended the throne. He continuously bullied and punished the disappointed candidate, and drove him into exile to found his own kingdom. A few centuries later, the descendants of Helaria drove out those of Leedle and merged the two thrones, reuniting the two enemy brother peoples. One thousand six hundred years of struggle had blocked the development of the Eastern Stoltzts. Seeing what they had achieved since then in one-tenth of that time, it is hard to imagine where they would be today if they hadn’t wasted their strength in this way.

The egg, carved from alabaster-like material, had been made from a mysterious stone found in the first village the Feythas deported. The tapestry had been owned by eighteen kingdoms, all of which had been wiped out in a war shortly after its acquisition. It had taken less than twenty years to give it its cursed reputation. This piece of gold came from a broken shield. The reunion of all the pieces, the legend said, would bring a grave catastrophe upon the world. So it was with all the precious objects gathered in this place.

The Drow then tore himself from contemplating his collection. He put his empty glass on the coffee table and left the room. The objects were beautiful, but they were inert. In his mind, there was no more noble material than living matter. And that was what he was now going to work on. For years he had been practicing. The soil of his land was full of these failed attempts. But today, the long-awaited day had finally arrived. He was going to create the work of his life, what he was born to do. He had finally found the medium worthy of his talent.

He entered a hallway that, although renovated, was devoid of decoration. Taking a torch, he went down several flights of stairs. With each turn of the spiral staircase, the humidity of the place increased. Soon it began to ooze from the walls. He pushed open a door and entered a small room. On one side, it opened onto a long corridor leading to the castle's jails. The Drow had no interest in it. He passed through the last door and found himself in a circular room, immense and dark because it had no windows and had a high ceiling. The layout of the place clearly indicated its function: brazier, easel, boots, an iron maiden, pulleys on the ceiling, left no ambiguity. And its size spoke volumes about the importance its builder gave to this activity. However, all these diabolical devices had been pushed back in a corner, the current squire had no use for them. He had kept only a wooden frame, from which hung some short chains, for the moment empty of captive.

He approached the wall. With his torch, he lit the oil lamp placed in a niche. An ingenious system, which he had designed, communicated the flame to a whole series of lamps - most of them located on a ledge halfway up the ceiling - spreading an intense glow in the room. The place was now brilliantly lit.

In the floor, a ring had been sealed. From the ring ran a chain. And at the end of the chain, a young girl was held captive by her ankle. For the moment, she seemed to be sleeping. The Drow knew she wasn’t. She was pretending, hoping that he would leave without taking care of her. Pretending to be dead, a tactic used in nature by the weak to escape predators. With some success it must be said, because carnivores were often suspicious of dead prey apparently without any visible wounds. Except that he was no ordinary predator, he wasn’t there to feed, and this tactic was pointless.

With her eyes half closed, Deirane watched her captor. She was terrified and barely dared to breathe. The Drow moved towards her. He crouched down right at her face. The girl's heart missed a beat. She was waiting for him to leave, but he didn't seem to want to do so. A searing pain suddenly twisted her thigh. Panicked, she got on all fours and tried to run away as far as the chain would allow.

The Drow had a self-satisfied smile on his face. No more pretending to be dead now. He had managed to trigger a panic that would overwhelm her and make her his thing. He walked over to a table with some instruments on it. He took a square of cloth and a bottle of mead, a spirit too strong to be consumed pure, and returned to Deirane. He cleaned his knife with the peasant woman’s dress before sheathing it. With the cloth soaked in alcohol, he wiped the drop of blood. The shackle prevented the prisoner from removing her leg while he treated her.

Deirane begged the Drow for mercy. The latter paid no attention. He knew the languages of humans, he considered them unworthy of him and used them only under duress. As he didn’t seem to react to her words, she resumed her pleas in Helariamen. This aroused the lord's interest. She was bilingual. If he had thought about it, it would not have surprised him, Helariamen was the commercial lingua franca of the continent, including Sernos. And even though her Helariamen was hesitant and full of mistakes, it could be understood.

The Drow pulled his chair right in front of the prisoner. He sat down, looking thoughtful. He scrutinized her, figuring out what he was going to do with her. Because her captor remained still, Deirane stopped talking and stared at him.

Then he made up his mind. Suddenly, he stood up and pushed back his chair. Taking Deirane by the arm, he raised it. She started to howl with terror. Without much effort, he dragged her towards the gallows. The chain was long enough, he didn’t have to untie it. Ignoring the kicks and punches she gave him with her free hand, he clamped her wrist. Pulling back just a little when she tried to bite him, he seized her other hand and tied it as well. Then he took care of the ankles. He had to do it several times as she struggled. Despite everything, he ended up doing it. Completely immobilized, she forced on her shackles to try to free herself. In vain.

He rolled his tablet over to her. Seeing the instruments, scalpels, clamps, thread, needles and other surgical instruments placed on them, the girl's eyes widened in horror. In one corner, there was a wooden box with a large spool of gold thread on it. The Drow opened it and took out several compartmentalized trays filled with gems, neatly arranged by type and shape. All of them were small, except for one, a perfectly pure ruby.

Then he turned to his prey. She remained frozen for a moment. Before spouting her pleas in a tone that bordered on hysteria. Without worrying about it, he walked over to her. Grabbing her bodice, he pulled it back, stripping her completely. She became silent at once. His glance reflected his fear. He pulled back and admired it. Magnificent, a true diamond. A rough diamond, whose beauty he was going to reveal. Who would have thought that a simple peasant girl could be so beautiful? There were certainly prettier ones in the capital or in the south of the continent. But before the jeweler's work, the diamond itself doesn’t look very much. He was going to be that jeweler.

Taking his chair, he sat down in front of her. He imagined the shape his work would take, where he would arrange the stones, the pattern they would draw. He thought for a long time. Outside, the sky was beginning to lighten when he stood up. He took his smallest scalpel and began his work. For Deirane, a long ordeal had begun.

Night was falling when the Drow returned to his seat, his job done. He looked at the young woman. She stopped screaming several hours ago. He had kept her awake as long as possible, giving her potions to prevent her from fainting. He had let her pass out because he was afraid her heart would give out under the pain. She had to survive, otherwise it would be another failure, she would join all the failed attempts buried in the park. He didn’t want that to happen. Fortunately, this one seemed stronger than the others. She had held on almost to the end. Her heart had held out. She would live.

Once all the stones were in place, he had completed his work by applying a spell that would hold them in place. No one could remove them again; the magic would kill anyone who tried before he could exert enough effort to pull one out. The stones couldn’t be separated either, any attempt to mutilate them would result in the death of the person responsible. And the golden threads had become unbreakable, protecting her from sharp blows. Nothing could damage his creation, except death. He hoped so, anyway. The Drow had no mastery of magic, so he would have to trust the demon he had bought it from, something he didn’t like. Once the spell was transferred to the tortured young body, the glass bubble that contained it burst with a crystalline sound.

He stood there for a long time staring at her before falling asleep, exhausted by his work.

When he woke up, he could see that she had regained consciousness. She was looking at him. He got up, took a decanter and a glass from the bottom shelf of his table. He made her drink. While he expected gratitude, he got it. All that Deirane's face expressed was a mixture of fear and hatred. He didn't care. He didn't care what the lower races thought. He waited for any reaction from her. He was disappointed, once quenched she had let her head fall back on his shoulder, staring into the void so as not to see him.

“I gave you an extraordinary gift,” he said finally, “if you use it skillfully, you will have an interesting life. You will see, one day you will thank me.”

She raised her head and looked at him. He guessed that if she had had the strength and courage, she would have spat in his face.

Then he noticed her hand. She was wearing a jewel on her middle finger, a gold ring. Strange that he noticed it only now, whereas he had had plenty of time to observe her. He took it, examining it carefully. The diamond was a shard of quartz and the rubies were colored glass, while the ring was made of copper, polished to shine like gold and varnished so as not to tarnish. Beautiful work, prepared by a craftsman who knows his trade, a fake ring, nevertheless. Just what he expected from a peasant girl. He put it on his own finger.

“From now on, you won't have to wear fake stones. And this way, I'll keep something of yours when you leave here.”

He pushed the table out of her reach, then untied her. He checked to make sure the chain on her ankle was secure. She crawled away from him as far as she could. He threw her dress to her. She grabbed it, tightening it convulsively against her chest. He left the room, leaving the lamps on. When she was assured that he would not return, Deirane got dressed.