The queen crossed the threshold into the hall and was immediately ambushed by a frantic Keleah.
“Your Majesty!” she started. “Will you be wanting your bath…”
Jularra flung her hand up in dismissal. Greetings rang out from various corners of the hall while Jularra continued her march to the solar. Her target was her cherished Engritorian rum, and not the common stuff served generally in the great hall.
“Not now!” she snapped at Keleah.
She shoved the door to the solar open. Keleah stopped at the entrance and let her arms fall to her side as the door’s gust of air smacked her face.
Where’s my chalice?
A quick glance caught her favorite chalice next to a candelabra. She headed straight for it, grabbing the decanter mid-stride. She tipped the decanter and poured. Some splashed out.
“Shit!”
After slamming the decanter down, she jerked the chalice up to her lips and drank so quickly she almost choked. It burned going down, and she couldn’t distinguish between the burn and her impatient anticipation of being drunk soon.
She emptied the cup. She poured a second, and emptied that too. She poured a third. She went in for a sip, the tip of the cup touching her bottom lip. But she stopped there. The cup trembled as her chest began to rise and fall. She brought the chalice down to the table, and as she released it, she closed her eyes.
She kept them closed as she forced more deep breaths through her nose. The muscles in her jaws rippled as her teeth ground together. The veins around her temple throbbed. The mere two cups of alcohol were not enough to affect her lucidity, or to curb the beginnings of her wrath.
Did I really just hear that?
Jularra slung her chalice across the room, shaking violently. The momentum of her slap swung her around, and she marched immediately towards the door and back out into the great hall.
Keleah shot up off the bench outside the solar. She opened her mouth to address the queen, but closed it again after seeing her face and instead darted off down a service stairwell nearby.
The queen scanned the room. The guests stood with mouths agape, mystified as to what was happening. Jularra ignored them all and stomped over to a display of weapons used by her ancestors, recent and distant.
A studded club caught her eye. She snatched it off the recessed ledge in the wall and returned to her original path. Just as she was about to enter the corridor, she stopped and listened. Behind a drawn curtain, she could hear the poorly muffled panting that she had first heard on her way into the hall. It hadn't registered until she had reached the quiet of the solar, and her rum.
She threw the curtain back, and saw Flemmal’s naked cheeks scooping and thrusting himself into yet another servant from behind. This girl appeared to be a less willing participant than Keleah had been. The maid fell to her knees, scrambled to cover herself with her strewn clothes, and spun around on the ground to face Jularra. Her eyes were broken from tears and pain.
By the time Flemmal reacted to Jularra slinging the curtain back, she had already slammed the club into his hip. He let out a yelp as Jularra grabbed him by the hair.
“Come with me,” she ordered firmly.
Her clamped fist around a tangle of his hair meant that he had to stoop slightly. The fingernails from her other hand stabbed into his neck as she led him to the center table. As she dragged him along, Jularra scanned the room for Keleah. Given Keleah’s and Flemmal’s previous liaison, Jularra couldn’t help but think of her loyal servant’s feelings. But she was nowhere to be seen.
As Jularra pulled Flemmal along the floor, the images of Vilfarin’s recent attack at the firepit flashed into her mind. Vilfarin’s attempted violation was still a deep mental wound that infuriated Jularra further, and did no favors for Flemmal.
“I have told you,” Jularra's every word punched with emphasis, “to stop fucking my servants! What do you not understand about that? What will it take? Or are you hoping to work your way up to the queen?”
Flemmal squirmed, though from reflex rather than rebelliousness. His bare bottom half reflected various shades of firelight while his tunic and jacket flailed and flapped loosely. His trousers tangled around his ankles and caused him to stumble.
“These are not the halls of Lairota, I am not Bolblissa, or any other madam, and this is not a brothel!”
Jularra reached the table and shoved Flemmal forward before releasing him. “I’ve had enough of your depravity.”
Lord Robain had remained in Morganon for the night, and stood with a group of nobles nearby.
“My lady,” he asked, concerned. “What is happen—”
“I’ve given him too many chances to stop his sickening behavior." Jularra slid her dagger out of its sheath and raised her eyes to Robain. "He hasn’t, so I will stop him.”
Jularra leaned in towards Robain, giving only a moment for a reply, but none came. She spun and sliced down the length of Flemmal’s closest leg. He shrieked and grabbed for his thigh, shoving the queen away from him.
“Hold him down!” Jularra shouted at a trio of nearby guards.
After their quick sprint to the table, Flemmal was restrained, his screams subsiding. But his eyes caught the queen stepping back to him.
“No, no!” he begged.
Jularra sliced down the length of his other leg. Flemmal screamed out in a fresh wave of torment and terror.
“What?” Jularra inquired, her soft question mocking him. “Would this be more tolerable if you could look at my breasts? The female body is obviously your life’s largest obsession.”
Careless in her fury, blind rage dictating her actions before she could register what she was doing, she threw off her cloak, then pulled her leathers over her head. Next,
