MEADOWS OF THORN

“The greater the Kingdom, the less its women are respected and loved.” Such was the truth of the Kingdom of Coaxch. Within its gilded halls, women were regarded as naught but a nuisance — fit only for the bearing of heirs and the sating of carnal urges, most especially by those of royal blood. It is said that a woman who would call herself successful must first wage war for her freedom, then against society, then within herself, and only thereafter may she claim victory. Yet victory demands its price. The price of the grave. "I have chosen her today," the Crown Prince said, his voice cutting clean through the drowsy light of the Grand Palace chamber. The kingdom was known for merciless sovereigns and a people who stood as one, yet within the Crown Prince's rooms, life followed a different law. "Thank the heavens he did not choose us today." "Well, well. We pity Linda, but not enough to take her place," the concubines murmured. "Indeed." "His Highness is merely amusing himself, no doubt," one lady said with a quiet laugh. "Oh, come now, as if you did not loathe him." "I do. But Linda invited this, do you not think?" They whispered among themselves. Concubines were expected to be taken from their ranks, and the Crown Prince discarded them once their use was spent, like playthings fashioned for pleasure. His character was infamous for its cruelty. "He truly casts innocent women aside," the newly assigned guards said, awestruck. "By all the gods, he is vile." "He is, in truth." "Will you cease your chatter and attend to your duties?" Zaychari said, knocking upon the Crown Prince’s door. "Enter," came the command, with not a thought spared for the girl beneath him. The Crown Prince gave his order. "Yes, Your Highness." Zaychari replied, "Your Highness." "Please… I beg you—" Linda pleaded. Zaychari — "We shall return later, Your Highness. I implore you, let us attend to the other matter," Zaychari said. Zaychari was, undeniably, a knight of steadfast loyalty to the Crown Prince. Seeing Linda’s state, Zaychari averted his blue eyes. As if to banish the sight of the woman weeping beneath the Crown Prince, he ran a hand through his golden hair. The nation was neither grand nor meager, yet its people lived in contentment. Or rather, one might say its men lived in contentment. For they alone were counted as citizens. Linda was the daughter of a concubine from that small nation. 'Peace,' they called it. Linda’s mother, famed for her beauty, was never honored for it. Though she bore a royal’s child, the people named her nothing more than a wench. Such is the nature of men. The King never acknowledged Linda as his own blood, and the maidens of her age refused to regard her as human. Soon came the day of her debut. She had seen nineteen years. She stood alone in her own abyss. I could not turn my eyes from the pitiful sight of her. She could neither smile nor weep, only stand silent in an abyss of clamor. And the cruelest irony was this: she heard every word spoken of her and her mother. The court ladies spoke from behind their veils and painted fans, glancing toward her, chuckling low. Her hair fell in delicate waves to her waist, fair as spun gold. She wore brown and green, the dress shaping itself to her form, though it was the meanest garment in the hall. Royal by birth, yet clad as a pauper. After standing beneath the gaze of the court for what seemed an age, she at last moved toward a pillar in the great hall. Zaychari made his way to the timid girl. She stood alone, caressing her hair and clutching at the strands, her head bowed low. He knelt and retrieved the hairpin that had slipped from her locks. He looked up at her. Her lips, which she bit to still their trembling, were fair beyond measure. Her eyes glistened with tears not yet shed, though she labored to hide them.