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Failure

Chapter 19

Donica listlessly studied her face in the mirror. Her red mane was loose and thin strands of it hung lifeless across her forehead. Lines were under her dull green eyes. She took a long sip from the wineglass in her paw and gestured with long red nails for Primus to lace her up. The big Beauceron slave obeyed, setting aside his tray to step behind her and set to work. The gown was a pale gold piece with red sleeves and bright gold trim, low cut to bare cleavage and shoulders, and generally worn in the evening. Primus tightened the back with the casual expertise of someone who had been doing it for forty years, and as the queen's stays pressed painfully on her ribs, her white cleavage swelled.

Staring in the gold mirror, she thought she looked tired. And old. Beside Corene, she was beginning to look the hag. Sometimes she looked at the princess - so young and robust - and secretly loathed her beauty. If she didn't need her where Etienne was concerned, Donica would have been rid of Corene a long time ago. She couldn't stand having someone prettier than she in the castle - a reason why no female Beaucerons had been allowed on the grounds during her reign. Then little princess Corene needed a handmaid, and not wanting some male Beauceron to get his paws on her, Donica swallowed her pride and purchased Flavia off the market.

She still remembered taking Corene to the auction, where Beaucerons stood on display, hopefully waiting to be purchased, groomed and beautiful, black fur glistening. Beaucerons everywhere were in excitement -not that the calm creatures were ever much at showing it. But Beaucerons loved to serve and loved to be dominated it. Though their faces remained outwardly calm, each time one was purchased, it went eagerly with its new master, tail wagging behind it.

Corene had been seven years old when Donica took her to purchase a slave. The queen and princess were given a special balcony seat, as below on the stage, Beaucerons turned slowly about, breathless and eager, as wealthy dogs raised cards and made bids.

Donica watched the proceedings with Primus behind her chair, her forearm resting on a cushion as her other paw held a long cigarette. She lazily kissed out smoke, as beside her, little Corene sat on the edge of her seat, swinging legs hidden in the ballooning skirts of a pink gown that rose around her like icing. Her long white mane had been down, and her long lashes had fluttered with excitement. They sat through six auctions as the slaves below were trafficked on and off stage: three adults, two teens, and one little boy.

Corene wanted the little boy and looked at Donica with pleading eyes.

Donica kissed out smoke and said without looking at her, "No."

Corene flattened her ears and peered down at the stage again. But her ears pricked forward and she brightened when a little girl was led on stage by a leash. The girl was very pretty, black like all Beaucerons, fur glossy and mane long. She kept her head down and folded her paws as the auctioneer bellowed a description. The specimen's name was Salme. It was five years old, had been spayed, and was trained in all things domestic. To demonstrate, the little Beauceron pup went to a small table and poured a glass of lemonade to a round of applause. Bids began immediately, but Corene cried that she wanted the puppy.

"Pleeeeeease, your majesty!" Corene squealed.

Donica's lips curled at one corner in the smallest hint of a smile: there were some days when Corene was wonderfully adorable. She kissed out smoke and gestured a lazy paw at Primus, who held up a card. The other bids stopped immediately, and Corene took her new puppy home. She named it Flavia.

Later, when they were back at Wychowl, Corene asked Donica why she couldn't have the boy puppy instead.

"He was ever so sweet and handsome, your majesty," she chirruped.

Bastian, Donica, and Corene were strolling through the garden, it was evening, and Corene was wearing a light blue gown of soft muslin, with skirts that flowed straight as water to her slippers. She had Flavia on a leash and tugged it gently as they walked along. The little Beauceron pup followed her, head down and ears flat.

King Bastian pushed Prince Etienne in his pram and glanced at Donica with a small smile. "Why, her majesty fears you would love a male slave, rebel, and flee with him. And you are already betrothed to my little one here." He reached in the pram and tickled Etienne's chin. The fat little puppy giggled.

"Our little one," Donica corrected happily and leaned over the pram to smile lovingly at Etienne.

Corene didn't see how the king avoided the queen's eye. She practically choked Flavia as she leapt forward to peer in at the prince. She smiled at him and wriggled her finger in his fist. "But his mother is hurt," she whispered sadly.

"No," Donica corrected indifferently. "She is dead. And we shall never tell him."

Corene looked up at Donica, blinking and confused. "But why, your majesty?"

"Because it would hurt him to know the truth," the queen gently coaxed. "Best he believe I am his mother, child. And I am his mother."

Corene seemed happy enough with the explanation. She skipped away, long white mane bouncing, as Flavia ran to keep up with her. The children began to play, mimicking the way they had witnessed the adults play croquet. Corene took up a stick and pretended it was a mallet, as Flavia placed a rock on the ground for her to strike like a ball.

Bastian watched the children a moment before he glared at Donica. "One day, we will have to tell him the truth."

Donica sneered. "What good would that do him? He'll have enough on his shoulders running a kingdom without --" She halted in amazement when Bastian grabbed her upper arm and squeezed - so hard it hurt. But she didn't show it. She went still and glared at him.

"If I find out you had _anything_to do with Evelyn's death --"

"Ahaha. Stop _lying_to yourself, darling. We both know I had _everything_to do with it. Is it so hard to believe? And what are you going to do? Kill me? You don't have the balls." Smiling sweetly, she pried herself from his grasp and tickled Etienne's chin. The pup shrilled happily. She gasped when Bastian smacked her paw away.

"Don't touch him," the king hissed and pushed the pram on.

Present-day Donica moved through her bedchamber - this bedchamber she had shared for years with her beloved husband - and went to the desk, which stood on one side of the room, surrounded by a circular enclosure of bookshelves. She sat behind the desk and pulled the top drawer on the left. It was where she always kept a small portrait of Bastian to look at when she missed him. She took it out now and cradled it sadly in her paws.

Donica had never meant to lose Bastian. And she had never realized until Evelyn's death just how deeply he had cared for the duchess. Or perhaps some small part of her always knew. It angered her even now, to think of how she watched her own husband dancing with that whore at her ball in her castle. He had flirted with her shamelessly and before all the court, even as his very wife sat and watched. Donica would have been content to let Evelyn live in exile, but her fool husband just had to get the bitch with child, and then she realized her place as queen was in jeopardy. She was a failure.

A queen's first and last duty was to produce an heir. Donica had failed again and again, while Evelyn was clearly fertile. Evelyn's family were well-respected Beasts of the Chase whose ancestors were once great friends with the crown and had even helped to establish Varimore - it was how the Kingsleys came to rule Howlester. Donica, meanwhile, was a foreigner from Curith who had only married Bastian because her father promised her as part of some peace treaty.

While the dogs of Varimore were at most Beasts of the Chase, the dogs of Curith were Hounds of War. Rage and fire were their expertise, siege and shield, blood and triumph. That Donica was a master with a blade was no accident: it was in her very blood. Curith warred with Varimore for centuries, a futile attempt to take the most powerful kingdom and the holy seat of King Antony for their own. Curith fought Varimore. And fought. And fought. Eventually, the two kingdoms came to a stalemate, and Bastian's father struck a deal: the princess in exchange for peace.

With the marriage and the birth of a child, an alliance was supposed to form that would keep the kingdoms from warring: Curith would not bring war to its own blood, and what was more: the blood of Curith would finally sit on the holy throne of King Antony. Everything was riding on Donica to produce an heir. But she was unable. And for years, her father sent her angry letters, cursing her and shaming her. Her mother wouldn't even speak to her.

Then there was Etienne. Her little godsend. Donica smiled as she pulled another portrait from the drawer, this one of the prince when he was nine, sitting in regal attire with legs crossed, both paws on his knees, and his golden mane swept to the side in a tail. Her eyes softened as she looked at it.

Her parents believed Etienne was hers, as did her brother, who was ruling now in Curith. So proud they were the day they received her letters detailing the christening of Varimore's new prince. They rode all the way from Curith to see the child, and the family laughed and cooed over him while Bastian looked on, guilty and silent.

Suddenly tight-lipped, Donica put the portraits away and closed the drawer once more. She never could have guessed that Bastian would attempt suicide when Etienne was a boy. She had known Bastian since before adolescence, having written many letters to him during their long engagement, and while her beloved could have benefitted from a spine, he had never seemed the type to end himself.

Donica and Bastian were betrothed even before they were born. King Matthias of Varimore called for the peace treaty while his wife was pregnant with Bastian. Bastian was Queen Esmeralda Emerald's second son and third child, for Bastian had a brother at the time - a young Prince Victor Emerald - who died in a riding accident not long after the war ended. Donica's mother was also pregnant with the future queen of Varimore when the peace treaty occurred, while her older brother was in line for the throne of Curith. Donica was to have married Prince Victor when she came of age, but after the riding accident, it was decided that she would marry Bastian instead.

Though there was apprehension throughout Varimore that Bastian would even live to marry Donica. The Emerald family was known for their misfortunate. Those superstitious enough believed Bastian's sister, Princess Esmeralda Emerald II, died due to a curse the legendary Queen Nadheertia had placed on the bloodline. Others simply believed the royal family's luck was shite.

Some part of Donica was eternally grateful she had married Bastian and not Victor. By the time she was sixteen, Prince Victor would have been twice her age. She received her first letter from Bastian when she was seven and he nine, and she fell absolutely in love with him. They exchanged letters for years, and as they entered adolescence, the letters became steamy and so intense, Donica could only think with anticipation of their wedding night.

They finally met face to face on their wedding day. Bastian lifted her veil at the altar and his eyes brightened to see her beauty. She remembered how her heart fluttered to finally see him. He was so handsome and polite, caring and attentive. She ruled him as easily as she ruled Varimore, and before long, had him on his knees kissing her feet in the bedroom.

They were madly in love and madly devoted.

Then Duchess Evelyn Lorraine Kingsley appeared in their court.

Present-day Donica glowered as she thought of it. That was all it took: one pretty bitch turned Bastian's head, and Donica was no longer the love of his life. Donica was not sorry that she killed Evelyn. Not at all. She was only sorry that it hurt Bastian so.

One day when Etienne was a boy, Donica walked in their bedroom to find the king contemplating a vial. She knew instinctively that it was poison. She yelled at him. Called him a fool. Told him to get over Evelyn, that she was his wife_._ He looked at her in hatred and began to cry - one tear from one eye - as he stared at her. And the way he looked at her . . . she knew he was realizing he didn't love her anymore.

She remembered how she lunged across the room and smacked the poison from his grasp. It fell on the carpet with a soft thud and rolled away without spilling. They stared each other.

"You," she hissed through her fangs, "are a weak fool. A pathetic excuse for a king. Perhaps I should let you drink. The kingdom should be rid of you!" She turned with a sweep of her skirts but halted again when he whispered, "Perhaps I should be rid of you."

Donica slowly turned on her heel, her head to the side as her green eyes narrowed on him. "_What_did you say to me?"

"You heard me." His voice was gravelly and deep.

Before she had time to react, he lurched up from the desk and was upon her. Her stifled scream cut through the room as he slammed her to the bed. His paws closed on her throat and squeezed. And squeezed. Spots danced before her eyes and she reached blindly, helplessly. Her foot began to jerk as his strong, careful fingers sealed off air. Drool slipped from the corner of her mouth. He looked down at her, and his gray eyes blazed hatred. Sudden tears blinded her. So it was true: he didn't love her anymore.

Her fumbling paw found a heavy candleholder on the bedside table. She brought it across his head with a nasty crack. "Ah!" He dropped to his knees and clutched his head, the blood slipping between his fingers to stain the carpet in dark blotches.

Breasts heaving, Donica panted as she pulled herself up. She could still feel the press of his fingers. Her throat felt crumpled and bruised and every breath was agony. She massaged it, trying to smooth the pain away.

He glared at her in a daze. Blood was slipping down his face in a dark web. "I'll kill you!" he whispered, and she couldn't believe it when he lunged again.

This time he was so dazed that he missed her and hit the coverlet. She scrambled out of the way, her skirts flying everywhere, her heart thudding in her ears. He meant it. He was going to kill her if she didn't get out of the room!

She dragged herself off the bed, but he caught her sleeve and yanked. She was jerked back, and her gown tore. One of her large white breasts sprang free, jiggling and rigid with a pink nipple. He was growling and furious behind her, snatching with big paws at her dress as he reached from the bed. His fingers found the laces on her back and yanked, snapping her stays against her ribs. Pain tore up her battered throat when she screamed.

She broke free and tried to close her torn front as she ran for the door. "Guards! H-Help me!" He managed to grab her skirts before she got two feet. He dragged her down on the bed, slammed her on her back, and straddled her. She twisted and fought. So he slapped her. Her fang cut her lip and she tasted blood. She cursed him. He slapped her again, harder. She struggled, hating herself when tears started to her eyes.

"Guards! Please!" she whimpered. "Hel - ah!"

His rings cut her face when he gave her the back of his paw. "Shut up," he growled. "Shut up!" He hit her. Again and again. Blood flew from her mouth. She hated the sound of her own muffled cries and swung her fists in a sudden rage. He slammed her flailing wrists to the bed, and the motion made her exposed breast jiggle. He swallowed breathlessly, then leaned down and sucked her nipple.

"N-No," she whimpered.

He slapped her again, and the scream choked in her mouth. "I hate you - ah!" He reached under her skirts and yanked her bloomers down, tearing them and trapping her tail against her leg. She swung wildly. He caught her wrists in one fist and pinned them. Her exposed breast flapped everywhere as she twisted and squirmed. He was unbuttoning his breeches.

"Bastard," she sobbed. "No - B-Bastian, please --"

He silenced her with another slap, and his hard penis tore with a sudden thrust not in her sex - but in her anus. Her broken scream ripped through the room. He rode her hard and fast, making her breasts flap, grunting and gasping on top of her, until she felt the blood oozing under her tail. She arched her back and squirmed to get away. He bit her neck and growled, tearing up helpless gasps from her. He bit again into her soft breast, then tore her gown to expose the other one and suckled violently.

"B-Bastian, s-stop!"

Slap.

She whimpered and cried, choking and sobbing as he rode her viciously hard and deep.

Bastian slapped and raped Donica for an hour. And no one came.

Present-day Donica was still irate that no one had come to stop the king's assault. But it didn't matter. The next day, she went to Redwick and didn't come back for a month. In her absence, Bastian died of poison, and those guards who failed to come to her rescue were blamed for his demise. They were quietly executed as having conspired against the throne, and all was hidden from the general public - and from Etienne, a mere boy of ten at the time.

If there was anyone Donica did not want to hurt with the knowledge of Bastian's weakness, it was Etienne. But now the boy knew everything - or thought he knew. He hadn't any idea what his father _truly_was. Perhaps she should finally tell him. Perhaps she should have told him all along. Then he would marry Corene and would finally take his place as king of Varimore.

Perhaps. There was really no telling with that boy. Donica supposed he had inherited too much of his mother's whining and thrashing and utter selfishness. Much like Evelyn, Etienne cared too much for his own personal happiness. There was no such thing when running a kingdom. But Donica understood. She had been young and foolish once. She, too, had thought she could have both the love of her king and effectively rule the kingdom. But oh. How wrong was she.

There was a polite knock on the door as Donica spread a bit of parchment on the desk. She dipped her quill in the inkwell and nodded for Primus to open the door. "That will be Corene," she said.

Primus moved from his silent post behind the queen's chair and pulled the double doors open, splitting the carved face of the roaring lion to reveal the princess and her handmaiden.

Corene stood in the hall, white fur shimmering in the low lamplight, clad in a pale green gown. The skirts were not ballooning but smooth and collected on the floor to hide her heeled slippers. Around her shoulders a traveling cloak was wrapped, and her white mane was pulled back in a simple and elegant bun. No jewelry sparkled on her person and she was barely wearing makeup. Donica snorted: the girl was as plain as if she were mourning!

Corene's arm was bandaged from their sparring session, and as if ashamed of the injury, she half-hid it in her cloak. Donica had given her a nasty slice from wrist to elbow. It hadn't been deep but just deep enough that Corene would not forget who she was dealing with. Donica was no fool. She knew the princess could turn on her at the drop of a hat. The easiest way to keep her in line was through Etienne and a healthy dose of fear. So long as Corene believed Etienne would marry her, she would stay in her place.

One step behind Corene stood Flavia. The little slave was naked, clutching Corene's luggage, head down. Her long black mane was, as ever, pulled behind her shoulders in a single thick plait.

Donica smiled as she looked at the slave. How cute. Did Corene really think she was taking Flavia along? She paused over the parchment, quill in paw, watching with green eyes bright as acid as Corene humbly stepped into the room.

"Your majesty," Corene said to the carpet. "I am ready to depart for Howlester. As you desire."

"You are. Flavia is not." Donica dropped her eyes to the parchment and wrote in cursive: My Dearest Louis. She didn't have to look to know the slave's head almost snapped up, or that Flavia caught herself just in time and kept her head down.

Corene, however, lifted her face in amazement and stared at Donica. Donica knew why the princess was so flabbergasted: Corene and Flavia had not been apart in all the years they had been together. Corene had never suffered another handmaid, and the very idea of doing so was probably horrifying.

Corene swallowed hard, refusing to look at Flavia, suddenly determined to pretend it didn't matter. "As you wish, my lady," she said, calm and polite. If not cold.

"Of course, I wish," Donica returned. She smiled mockingly at Corene's cold dignity. "Come now, child. What sort of fool do you take me for? There is no certainty that you will return from Howlester. I know you. And I know how deeply you love our prince. If he refused to return here and submit to your engagement, you would flee in despair. Flee with your expensive jewelry - which I know is in that bag," she said, nodding at the bag in Flavia's small grasp (the slave tensed guiltily), "and perhaps live in exile in Mocuria." Donica blinked at Corene, waiting for the inevitable protest.

"Your grace . . . I would never --"

The queen hissed and Corene fell silent. Donica studied her. Her face was strained and miserable, her eyes red from crying - if not for Etienne then from her injury. Or perhaps both. Donica looked at her parchment again and thought, Good. The more sad and pathetic Corene was, the easier their plan would unfold.

"You will journey to Howlester, as planned," Donica said, dipping her quill again. "You will make nice with the Kingsleys - be sweet and fresh and pretty. Cry and blubber over Evelyn. Tell them I cut your arm. Make them sympathize with you. Tell Etienne what it was like to watch his mother die. And tell him the king gave you the tarts." She looked at Corene again and waited for another protest.

Corene blinked out a tear, swallowed hard, and was silent.

Donica looked away irritably. "Why do you cry, child?"

"I'm afraid. What if this doesn't work? What if Etienne doesn't come home --!"

"You will not face blame if it comes to that. Unfortunately for Etienne, he has inherited a great deal of his mother's foolishness and pride. I do not expect you to convince Etienne. I expect you to convince Charles and Richard. They will talk to Etienne, and they will convince him to come home." Donica looked at her parchment and scribbled the date. She could hear Corene sniffing quietly as she wept.

"But with all due respect, they probably hate you, your majesty. Why would they convince Etienne to return?"

Donica smiled. "Why, to depose_me, of course. And to protect sweet, innocent Princess Corene from my _wicked claws. You and Charles are old acquaintances, my dear. I dare say you remember him?"

"I do," Corene whispered.

Donica's smile widened to reveal her fangs. "He will remember you as a girl, the sweet giggling thing whose ear he tickled at court. Appeal to that. To the duke's credit, he plays the game rather well. It is because of Charles that Etienne was acknowledged as prince of Varimore. It is because of Charles that I was convinced to betroth the two of you." Donica dropped her eyes to her parchment and pretended to contemplate it as she let her words sink in.

Corene took a shaking breath, as if gathering her nerve. "I am ready, your grace."

Donica lifted her face and smiled. "Then go forth, child."

Corene curtsied deeply and turned from the room. She had reached the door when Donica called her. She turned to the face the desk again. "Yes, your majesty?"

"Fail to return here," Donica said sweetly, "and I will have Flavia's head in a jar."