Game of Thrones… With Lesbians :-D

Please enjoy the first chapter of my new book, which doesn’t have a title yet but which my girlfriend jokingly refers to as “Game of Thrones with Lesbians.”  In short, it’s a “high fantasy” with lesbian protagonists.

Here’s the blurb:

Natasia of the House of Dorsa has never needed to take her role as the eldest child of the Emperor Andreth seriously.  As a girl-child, the only expectation placed upon her is to marry and bear the children of whatever man her father chooses for her.  Natasia resents being dismissed, but at least being a princess who will never be anything more than a wife and mother gives her a degree of freedom.  After all, she doesn’t need to learn how to manage an Empire.  And as long as she can delay an inevitable political marriage, she’s free to do more or less whatever she wants…  Or whomever she wants.

But an attempt on Natasia’s life changes everything.  Someone clearly wants to destabilize the Empire, but who?  Could it be the Western Lords, who were in open rebellion against the Emperor only a decade earlier?  Could it be the mysterious Cult of Culo, a banned religious sect everyone assumed was extinct?  Or is it one of the clans on the eastern front, fighting to maintain their independence?

After the near-miss assassination, the Emperor begins to look at Natasia differently:  Nearly losing her, his eldest child and most trustworthy protégé, makes him realize she might be his only real chance to carry on his legacy and the family name.

Natasia will learn to rule, the Emperor decides.  Whether she likes it or not.

And with unknown enemies threatening from every side and potential assassins still on the loose, the Emperor also assigns his daughter a personal bodyguard — Joslyn of Terinto, an ambitious young soldier from the Empire’s vast and untamed desert region.  Constantly under Joslyn’s watchful gaze, Natasia’s days of flaunting the rules and shirking her royal duties come to an abrupt end.

For the first time in her life, Natasia has a chance to be something more than a mere broodmare.  But as her world descends into chaos, will she have what it takes to hold the Empire together?  Or will Natasia be the last Empress of the House of Dorsa?

—

Chapter 1

The dawn light didn’t wake her from slumber; the birds did.  She was accustomed to the morning song of the birds.  In childhood, they woke her nearly every morning with their musical chittering, their high voices like crystal chimes blowing in a gentle wind.  Birdsong would be followed shortly by the matching chatter of her mother, cooing to them as they cooed to her while she sprinkled their breakfast of seeds and grains across the red brick of the inner courtyard.  Tasia, not quite five yet, would go to the window then, standing on tiptoes on her trunk in order to peer through the muslin drapes and into the courtyard below.

Her mother had seemed more angel than human even then, long blue dressing gown hiding her feet so that she didn’t walk across the courtyard so much as she glided, her little white birds with their bright yellow tails following along behind her, singing out their morning joy, waking the royal family one by one.

But the palace birds imported from her mother’s homeland were not the birds that woke Tasia now.  There was nothing magical or musical or joyful about this birdsong; it was the rough

“CAW, CAW!”

of city crows that roused her from sleep, that reminded her she wasn’t at home.

She woke from the dream of her mother with a shallow gasp — disoriented, eyes wide and searching for light in the dark, stuffy room.  She stifled an annoyed groan when she realized where she was, disentangling herself from the heavy bare arm and heavy bare leg draped over her.  She hadn’t meant to fall asleep.  What time was it?

She stood from the bed, nearly tripping on a sheet that had wound itself around her ankle like a constricting snake, then began groping blindly for her discarded clothes.  Moonlight filtered in through the high open window, which meant she had somehow managed to wake herself before dawn.

Well, the city crows had woken her, rather.

Gods be thanked for those damnable birds, she thought, shaking an undergarment loose from another tangled sheet.  She pulled it on hastily even as the man in the bed grunted and seemed to half-wake.

Now:  Where had she dropped that ugly brown shift she’d had her handmaid borrow from the cook’s daughter?

“Tasia?” said the man in the bed groggily.  He lifted himself up on one elbow, combing long brown hair from his face with his other hand.  “Are you leaving?”

“It’s the middle of the night, Markas,” Tasia said.  “Close to dawn, actually — the crows woke me.”

Markas’s brown eyes grew large.  “Did we fall asleep?”

Tasia almost snapped, Of course we did, you idiot!, but managed to contain her irritation.  It wasn’t his fault she had fallen asleep; he always fell asleep after sex, she was used to it.  That was when she generally dressed and slipped out, just as the city guard called out eleven-of-the-clock.  But last night he had begged her to stay with him a while longer, and Tasia, with her thoughts drifting to other topics, other worries, other lands, had foolishly allowed herself to fall into the welcome oblivion of unconsciousness.

“Yes,” Tasia said, pulling on the shift she’d finally found.  “We fell asleep.”

Markas sat up, sheets falling away from his bare chest.  With moonlight glinting off his sun-bronzed skin, sliding across well-defined bulk not possessed by most of the other young noblemen his age, Tasia momentarily remembered why she still found herself in his apartments once or twice per week.

“There’s no point in you leaving now,” he said.  “If it’s almost dawn, the cart merchants will be setting up outside anyway.  They’ll see you.  You should stay.”

Tasia shook her head immediately.  “It’s not that close to dawn.  The moon is still out.  I have time.”

He reached for her wrist, but she took a quick step backwards.

“Stay,” Markas implored.

“No,” she said curtly.  “We’ve talked about this before.  It is risky enough for me to be doing this as it is.  You know what would happen if my father found us out.”

“I’m not afraid of your father,” Markas said, but his eyes gave him away.

She let out a half-laugh, not bothering to humor him with a response.  “Until we meet again,” she said, bending forward to kiss him on his brow.

She slipped her shoes on, pulled the navy blue cloak with the heavy hood around herself, and picked up the basket of bread she’d left next to the door — her usual prop for these visits.  Anyone on the street who saw a hunched and hooded girl with a basket of bread would just assume she was a baker’s girl, finishing a late night delivery to the Ambassador Quarter.

Late night delivery, maybe, but pre-dawn delivery…?  No one with respectable business would be leaving the quarter at this hour.

Tasia continued to chastise herself as she hastened down the back stairs from Markas’s apartments, fabricating an excuse in her head in case she had the misfortune to arrive at the palace during the changing of the guard.

Which was why she didn’t see the shadow slip onto the street a few paces behind her as she hurried up the hill that paralleled the Royal Canal.

She had an arrangement with the guardsmen of Sunfall Gate, the palace gate most commoners referred to as Westgate — two silver pennies for each man on guard that night, one penny on her way out, the second penny on her way back in.  She’d bought their silence, it was true, and as her father was wont to say, Loyalty paid for is no loyalty at all.  Which was why she’d also taken care to learn each of their names, their wives’ names, their children’s names.  She’d trade bawdy jokes with them, share any leftover pastries from her baker’s girl’s basket.

The night guard of Westgate were her friends, inasmuch as a princess can make friends with common soldiers.  But the morning guard — that was a different story.  The morning guard belonged to her father, not Tasia.  And so she walked as fast as she could without running, panting and perspiring up the hill, determined to make the gate before the guard changed.

She was so focused on making the hill’s crest that the first touch of the hand behind her did nothing to dilute her focus.  It wasn’t until the same hand tightened around the arm that held held her bread basket that Tasia noticed it at all.

The man acted too quickly for Tasia to call for help.  In one swift sweep of his arm, he swung her towards him with such force that Tasia lost her balance, feet tangling together beneath her.  On instinct, she opened her mouth to scream, but he slapped his other hand against her mouth.

“I will make it hurt more if you scream,” he said, yellowed teeth mere inches from Tasia’s face.  He was taller than her, but not by much, with black hair cut  in a severe ring around his head, shaved to his scalp below the black fringe.  He wore heavy grey robes, too, grey and plain and cinched at his waist with a white rope.

He’s a Wise Man, Tasia thought incredulously.

But that made no sense.  She knew every Wise Man on this side of the city, and she’d never seen this man’s face before.

He pulled an iron knife from somewhere within his robes, its blade as black as his hair.

Not just any Wise Man.  A Wise Man who intended to kill her.

Something about the realization brought the world into focus for her.  Regaining her balance, Tasia struck out with one foot, hard and low against his shin.

The first kick in a fight should always be low.  She’d learned that from the night guardsmen’s bragging, boisterous tales of their barroom brawls and misadventures.

The Wise Man’s grip on her arm loosened — not much, but just enough in his surprise that Tasia took a half-step backwards and drove her knee upward, hard and swift.  She’d aimed for his groin but missed somehow, and felt her knee crack against the bottom of his ribcage.  It was good enough — he let go, and Tasia sprinted up the hill, knowing if she could just out-pace him by a hundred yards, she’d be able to call out for help, and her friends of the Westgate guard would recognize her voice in the night.

But she could not out-pace him.  He was on her again in an instant, before she’d managed to evade him by so much as a yard.  This time he grabbed the back of the cloak, yanking hard so that the leather tie in the front dug into her throat.

“You’re only making it harder on yourself, Princess,” he said as she stumbled backward into him.  He threw her roughly to the ground, her chin hitting the cobblestones before the rest of her.

He planted a knee in her back, pinning her as a cat might pin a mouse it toys with before eating it.  He leaned in to roll Tasia over, but she was ready for him, grabbing the wrist that held the knife, trying to wrest it from his hand.

“No!” she screamed at him, unable to find any other words.  “No, no, no!”

The Wise Man tried to extract his wrist, but she had the wrist with both hands now, refusing to let go.  He used his free hand to slap her hard against the face — once, then twice.

“No!” Tasia yelled again, still stubborn and fighting despite the pain blossoming in her chin, her cheeks, the scraped palms and bruised knees where she’d hit the pavement.  But he was far stronger than she, far heavier, and she knew she would lose this battle.

And that was the worst part about it — knowing that she would lose before the end actually came.

Read Chapter 2