Friday Flash: Control

Her guts cramped at the sight of the Imperial Linguist entering the throne room, but on the surface, she was as serene as a frozen lake.

"Speak," she commanded, after his elaborate bow.

"Her Royal Highness, Princess of the twelve suns, daughter of The Magnificent One, has spoken her first word."

Every muscle clenched in her torso, hidden beneath layers of steel and silk. "What was it?"

"Her Royal Highness has said 'No', Magnificent One."

A thousand fears dissolved. She permitted the slightest smile to flicker across her face. "Excellent. Enter it into the Imperial record."

She watched him bow and walk backwards until he was at the doors, savouring the bliss of knowing her daughter wouldn't suffer pain and privation. Her daughter's first word had not condemned her, as her own had.

She lifted her right index finger and the Lord High Steward came forwards.

"Report."

"I have received word from those sent to investigate the claims made against the Sorrelin homeworld. It's been confirmed that they have been speaking in their native tongue. May I ask for your judgement?"

The Empress looked past him to the mural that covered the far wall. From here, it looked like a beautiful landscape, so realistic it looked like a view out of an immense window. It was made up of several billion dots of paint, each tiny and perfectly placed to create the whole. A dot for every soul in the Empire.

The memory of the artist returned. He spent years of his life in the throne room, silently painting every day. She had watched his hair grey, heard his mutterings as his mind started to wander, trying desperately to escape the weight of his life's work. It was a kindness to execute him, she told herself. He was half mad by the time he'd finished. Even now, after so many years of gazing at that painting, she still marvelled at his genius. A death warrant, painted in billions of beautiful dots. No man that could conceive such an idea and execute it so perfectly could possibly be allowed to live.

"Every Sorrelin native over the age of forty is to be publicly executed," she said. "Leave five regiments there. If anyone complains, or speaks in their native tongue again, have them killed."

As he bowed, her eyes flicked back to the mural. If her Empire were this painting, she was erasing a few dots from one tiny corner, nothing that would spoil the composition.

Hunger crept into the edge of her awareness. She needed distraction.

"The only other item for your attention, Magnificent One, is the matter of the Chamberlain's son."

That crushed her hunger. "Present the evidence."

"Our investigation has confirmed his guilt." He took a note from his aide and then, after a brief pause to politely convey his reluctance, he presented it to her. She broke the wax seal and opened it, recognising the elegant calligraphy immediately.

Magnificent One

Frozen on her throne of ice

Hides flames in her breast

It took all of her self control to keep herself outwardly still. She folded it closed, laid it onto her lap, pressing it with her fingers. "Bring him here now."

Having anticipated this, the guards had brought up from the cell and cleaned him. No amount of scrubbing hid the gaunt pallor of his face. His eyes still blazed though, he looked directly at her.

She couldn't remember the last time she had looked into a man's eyes. Not even the concubine that sired her daughter had had the courage to do that.

"If you were not the only son of a trusted and faithful servant, you would be dead by now," she said. "But as a kindness to him, I give you the opportunity to beg for forgiveness. If your words please me, I may spare you."

"Magnificent One," he began, his voice still as warm and deep as she remembered. "I cannot beg for forgiveness when I have committed no crime."

There was a collective, theatrical gasp from the courtiers. She pressed her fingers so hard into the note it crinkled beneath them.

"Are you so keen to die? You dare write a poem about me, when you know that both the form and the subject are forbidden, and then you dare to deny it?"

"I don't deny it," he replied, still looking at her, into her. "I disagree that it's a crime."

The head of her guard stepped towards him, sword half drawn.

She kept herself still, her heart thrashing inside her. How did he write those words? How did he know? She forced herself to look for the answers in his eyes, saw nothing but love there. She felt him willing her to go against the laws her grandmother had made, to ignore the danger of unregulated art, to forgive him for creating a touch paper out of words.

He knew her. Like no other soul, no other dot in the painting of her Empire.

"Execute him."

He crumpled, blanching. As they dragged him away, she fell back on the lessons that had been forced upon her all her life, lessons designed to correct her flaw, revealed by the first word she had ever spoken.

The Imperial Linguist entered moments later, holding the Imperial record open at the page for her to sign, as her mother had signed hers before. A servant presented a pen and knelt, the Linguist rested the huge tome on his shoulders.

She read her daughter's entry with satisfaction, signed it. 'No'. An excellent start. She would be known for her strength of character. Her eyes flicked up to the entry above. It took less than a second to read her own name and her first word. The word that had branded her as weak-willed, greedy, that had forced her to execute her own desires, endure constant hunger, all to prove she had risen above her true self, revealed so young.

"More."