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Their game needs to come to an end soon, and the abandoned ruins of the old throne room will be as good a stage for their climactic act as any other.
There they are, the Lady and the Guardian. No, Lady and Betrayer. The guardian aspect of her role is just part of the ruse.
“I know why you are here,” the Lady proclaims. She holds the sword out like an accusing finger. “I know the bargain you made.”
The Betrayer trembles. She braces herself on her lowered knee. Her gaze falls to the floor—no not quite to the floor, to the lady’s full skirts and the ground beyond. Her hands clutch together. This is not the time to show weakness. The bargain bound her to act, to take back what originally belonged to her kingdom, in order to reclaim her own birthright.
“Surely, you cannot doubt my own devotion, milady.” The lie slips out her mouth. The untruth does not render them special. The lies come out more easily than her own name these days. Almost every word that falls through her mouth is deceit, and almost every gesture.
Almost. The kisses were real—became real—as was the way her hands tangled in the Lady’s hair. It would be a shame if they never had the chance to—
Earlier in that evening, weren’t they smiling together? The Betrayer at the Lady’s right hand, making merry with the other maidens who guarded her? There had been a feast that night? Why? Because a delegation had arrived that morning, and the court took any excuse to host a feast. Parties were a display of power, as much as the sword pointing at her throat, perhaps more so, for all the subtle manipulation that could happen as everyone appeared to share the same merriment.
The problem is, the Betrayer wishes she could believe in those moments.
In better world, the Lady would not need to die. It a better world, their positions would reverse, the Betrayer at the center of the gathering and the Lady at her right side as the faithful maiden. The Lady in her bed as the faithful lover.
“The state of the world what it is, I must doubt everyone, even my maidens. At least once a year, if not more often.” The Lady’s inviting lips turn upward in a smirk. That’s a joke, if one that’s almost entirely a brittle kernel of truth. “That the fact is regrettable does not make it less true.” The words are exactly how she should answer such an accusation, especially with witnesses around.
There should be witnesses to the Lady’s accusation: the town, the palace, the judiciary, or at least the other maidens sworn to serve the Lady. The Lady would stand stronger were the truth brought to light. The Betrayer knows this, the Betrayer knows the Lady knows this, and yet the Lady came here alone, made her accusation alone.
Why?
The Betrayer dares look up, from skirt to bodice to bare shoulders and outstretched sword arm. The Lady’s hand trembles too.
Because she is unsure. Because those stolen kisses were never lies. Because this isn’t a game of mere politics and intrigue. It should be, but it’s not. It’s also deeply, deeply personal.
“When did you find out?”
“My maidens undergo years of training in order to serve. Your disguise was very good, but you don’t make the proper forms when you curtsy. Tell me, was it all a lie?”
The Betrayer looks up at the Lady. What she would give to have that mouth on hers, for just one more night. To take that full dress the Lady wears and rip it away. “The kisses were true.”
The sword falls from the Lady’s hand. Not falls—the lady shifts her grip. The sword is thrown from the Lady’s hand. The twin moons’ light glints along the blade’s edge.
Truth and lies forgotten, the Betrayer sees her chances. She takes hold of the Lady’s discarded sword, and lunges forward. Let her obligation be fulfilled. Let her kingdom’s rightful bounty be restored.
Please forgive me, Lady. The Betrayer fears she says that out loud.
The Lady turns, her arms spread like she waits for the final blow or for the Betrayer to collapse into her arms and fall to her knees in front of her. Did the Lady know when she dropped the sword, that the game between them would end here, in this way?
In another life, the Betrayer does what is necessary and follows through with her strike without mercy. The Lady falls and so does her kingdom. The Betrayer claims what is rightfully hers. No, not another life. This life. It is imperative that she follow through on this obligation, but perhaps it can wait for another night.
Another night, the Betrayer tells herself, and lets the sword fall from her hand. It clatters to the ground a second time. Fallen, like her resolve for a moment. The Lady’s arms wrap around her, and the kisses that fall on the Betrayer's lips are carnal, a statement of ownership and an command for fealty.
The Lady breaks away. She presses down on the Betrayer’s shoulders, those nails do not quite sink into the skin, but they threaten.
“Kneel for me.”
The Betrayer falls to her knees again—both knees this time—and complies. The Lady’s right hand tilts the Betrayer’s chin upwards. Her gaze catches on the Lady’s own resolute eyes. There’s a small nod, and the smallest gesture of her left hand on her skirt. The hem barely rises from the floor. The invitation comes through clear enough.
The Lady gambles, the Betrayer realizes. Is this one act of trust enough to bring the Betrayer to her side, to turn her from an infiltrator to a true-sworn maiden, or does she seal her own demise by giving in to the desire that flares between them?
“Prove to me your devotion.”
A true maiden would refuse. They both know this well. The bond between a lady and her maidens should remain chaste and courtly, the best to avoid compromises. The Betrayer sees it in how the Lady shows affection to the other maidens. A pat on the shoulder. A light kiss on the cheek. Nothing at all like the burning kisses the Lady gives when it’s only them.
She remembers asking one of the others once and the stares she received as an answer. That is not proper behavior but a tawdry tale.
“It would be improper of a true maiden,” the Betrayer says.
A true infiltrator would exploit the offered weakness. A true infiltrator draw the dagger from her belt and bring the keen blade to the Lady’s vulnerable back. There would be no emotional weight to the gesture at all, just the inevitable obligation. There would be no regret for the opportunity lost. No desire except to do what was necessary.
The Lady’s nails dig into her chin. “But, as we’ve established, you have not been a true maiden.” There’s that wry smile again. “Yet. Now show me what is true.”
Lies come too easily to the Betrayer these days with her multiple roles. She pretended to be the one, and she’s no longer as much the other as she needs to be.
What is true? Her obligations should be her only truth tonight, but the Lady’s eyes draw her in. The Betrayer’s whole body grows warm, even with the cold night air passing in through the broken windows. The truth is, the Betrayer is down on her knees, and the Lady is offering her a taste of what she desires.
The Betrayer allows herself to accept the invitation and leans inward, no dagger in hand, to draw the Lady’s skirt up further. Her mind repeats the same fevered refrain—there’s still time, there’s still time, there’s still time. Time to get drunk on devotion tonight and follow through on sober betrayal tomorrow. Time for feelings to bloom like blue roses and then sweep away like fallen petals. Time, perhaps, to wait for an impossible third option to make itself known.
If the Lady gambles, the Betrayer does too.