Disclaimer: The opening five lines are from something I remember reading years ago, that I recently thought deserved a bigger story. As of this writing I have not been able to find this piece, (I think it may have been a poem) but if anyone can identify it and the author for me I so that I could give them credit, I would be so very grateful.

Please, Dread Queen—Save us.

Clever Jack

Silent Knight

Please

Save us.

Thus cried the people of Albion, weak and weary of the chaos that gripped their land tight and unforgiving. When brother turned on sister. When mothers killed their babies and the concept of natural love became a distant memory. When the rivers ran red and the skies wept for what they witnessed. Save us. And they did.

No good had ever come of things that hailed from the void, and Albion knew that. Perhaps they knew it better than anyone. But unlike the plethera of void-born horrors that had laid waste to the land in centuries past, the Court arrived with promises, placations, and impeccable politeness. There was much mourning then. People mourned for their children, for each other, for themselves, and though the tune that the unholy Court plucked from the heartstrings of every Alban was a funeral dirge, it was a pretty one. And they danced.

It was easy to see how beings such as they could bring a people to its knees in search of guidance. Though masked, they were beautiful. Though great and terrifying, they offered something that, in a time of madness, seemed like sanity. The Court had made an attractive offer more so by giving the illusion that they had a choice; no ruler hoping to be respected by his subjects would force himself upon them. They would only take the throne if it was offered. Albion was a stubborn nation and they lasted a little while longer through the senseless violence and unfathomable grief, perhaps in some misguided sense of honor, before they cried out to the masks for salvation. The people of Albion had always been sheep. And they followed.

Young Willow Black would like to tell herself that she had been one of the stubborn ones, that she didn't lend her own voice to the chorus of despair that brought the Court's yoke down on their shoulders. In fact, she thinks she may have been the first, cradling her mother's severed head in her lap in a gore-soaked room that she doesn't go into anymore. "Please, dread Queen… clever Jack… silent Knight… save us!" she had sobbed to the half-woman before her, and the rest of Albion soon joined.

Not many remembered those dark days, not because it was a particularly long time ago (in fact, the Court had taken leadership of Albion going on ten years previously) but because no one seemed to be able to stomach the fact that those things had actually occurred. It was a source of much frustration for the young duchess Black, as she had become quite obsessed with remembering. Not that the things she had seen as a child were the kind one soon forgot, but she found the Court's appearance strangely convenient. A nation lawless and broken, leaderless… the perfect prey for a gang of usurpers masquerading as saviors. Willow also found it strange that no one seemed to remember how Albion had come to be leaderless, and even stranger that no one seemed to remember a time when there was a leader. Some decided that the tragedy of the dark days had blotted out all memory of what came before, while others insisted still that chaos was what had always been before the Court. Even more frustrating was that no written records existed after the mass book burnings organized directly by the Jack of Blades himself. Not even the extensive library accumulated over hundreds of years by the Black family could be saved; the Court had been infuriatingly thorough in its attempts to erase Albion's long history.

After order was restored to the land, Willow, at the tender age of nine had been left orphaned and alone. When the smoke cleared and Albion's memory began to fade, Willow made a silent, secret promise to remember. She promised to remember that Albion had once had a king, and that he was a tall man with a beard and kind eyes who visited often to speak with her parents. She promised to remember that there had once been a magnificent castle of gray stone, with many large windows and towers that touched the clouds, where the ugly black spire now stood. She promised to remember that the Court had demanded Albion's fealty once, twice, and a third time before the year of chaos began, and thrice they had been refused. She swore to remember the floods and the fires that answered.

Every night since, Willow wrote these truths over and over again in a small, leatherbound journal that she kept on her person at all times. It was this journal that the young duchess Black pored over behind an ornate desk in a dark study with the shades drawn when she heard a knock at the door.

Willow gave a belabored sigh as she rubbed her aching temples. "Come in." she said, flatly. The journal was quickly snapped shut and concealed in her coat pocket.

A towering man clad in an elegant black tailcoat entered, shut the large double doors carefully behind him, and gave a curt bow.

"Yes, Gareth, what is it?" Willow said impatiently, without looking up from the papers scattered on her desk.

"You have a caller, my lady."
There was a nervous twinge in the huge man's voice that made Willow's heart sink to her stomach. There was exactly one thing that struck such fear into the old man's heart.

Technically speaking, there were exactly three.

Willow swallowed the lump in her throat before speaking, "Who is it?" she said, disguising her fear with a cool and collected tone. If he was here, he could hear her. She wouldn't let him see that she was afraid.

He didn't speak. Willow looked up to meet Gareth's gaze, and the apologetic look in those dark eyes confirmed her fears. She sucked in one shuddering breath through her teeth before nodding once. "Let him in."
Gareth returned the nod with determination and opened the doors in one grand, sweeping movement. "May I present the right and honorable Jack of Blades, savior of all Albion, and chief advisor to her majesty the Queen of Blades," He recited the announcement calmly without error; the long-time manservant of the Black family knew the risks and rewards associated with handling higher-ups, and the Court should be no different.

The open doors flooded the dark and dusty room with a warm yellow light, and Willow was momentarily blinded. The silhouette of a hooded figure stood against the light in the doorway, where it remained as if waiting for permission to enter.

Willow forced a sickly sweet smile as she stood. "Jack, what a pleasant surprise," she said in a tone which made it obvious that the surprise was not at all pleasant, "Gareth, kindly open the shades, would you?"

"Yes, mistress." Said the butler. The heavy violet drapes were promptly drawn open, allowing the afternoon sunlight to illuminate their visitor. Though she did nothing to show it, Willow was still startled by the chills his presence sent down her spine. The Jack looked like a man, tall and slender, clad in sanguine robes beneath plates of wickedly edged armor made of some unknown black metal. The mask was the worst; a pale yellowish-white, it looked like it could have been made of polished bone. Intricate designs in dark, dull reds, violets, and yellows that reminded one of blood and fire licked around its edges like a flame. The vile thing concealed everything but his eyes, horrid, inhuman eyes that were red where they should be white with piercing irises the color of burning sulpher.

Willow looked directly into them as she removed a thin cigar from an ornately carved box on her desk and placed it between her teeth. "What can I help you with?" she said.

Jack's voice was thin and low, but it scraped at Willow's ears like sandpaper. "It has come to her Majesty's attention that certain outlaw bands on the coast have come into possession of an unusually large shipment of supplies, food, blankets and the like."

Willow felt her chest tighten. These "outlaw bands" he referred to were in actuality bands of refugees fleeing the harsh conditions in Bowerstone's slums, and the unusually large shipment of supplies had been delivered to them at the expense of her own coffers. Such activity was, of course, considered high treason by her Majesty, but Willow was certain she had taken all necessary precautions to ensure that the queen's lackeys couldn't possibly know she was involved. She pretended to consider Jack's words as she strode to the study's large fireplace, dipped a taper into its hot coals, and went about trying to light her cigar. "This sounds like an issue for the Sentinals." The Sentinals were the Court's own police force, composed of the children born with hardy constitutions stolen right from the midwife's door. They were as cruel as their masters, detached from the rest of Albion and deprived of their humanity. "What's it got to do with me?"

Willow's frustration was growing steadily by the minute, partially because of her burning hatred for Jack as well as her cigar's stubborn refusal to light no matter how many times she tried. She bent down to relight the taper, but a sharp snap from a gloved hand behind her produced a spark at the end of the cigar, and it flared to life. Straigtening up to look at the fireplace's mantel, Willow inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly through clenched teeth. Jack knew that she could have done the exact same thing herself, and he relished in taunting her with it.

Acts of Will were considered high treason by her Majesty.

"On this particular occasion," Jack continued, crossing his arms behind his back in a gesture of disdain, "When her Majesty's Sentinals apprehended these criminals, they were armed."

Willow closed her eyes and sighed as quietly as she could, cursing herself for her own foolishness. How could she have forgotten that the refugees had asked for weapons to defend themselves against the various and sundry horrors that lurked in the fringes of Albion's coastline? And that, in an act of pure stupidity, she had sent them Black company swords? Willow knew that the Court had been growing suspicious of her for a time, but until now they had had no hard evidence that she regularly and routinely broke their laws.

"You have yet to make your point." She said, as indifferently as she could.

"The steel bears the trademarks of your smiths, Lady Black."

Willow took another long drag on her cigar and allowed herself a moment to think. "So you've descended your ivory tower and knocked on my door to tell me that bandits are raiding my shipments?" she turned to face him, a mask of stalwart indifference hiding her increasing panic, "Tell me at least one thing I don't already know. I'm starting to think you just enjoy my company."
His fiery eyes narrowed. "If I made a housecall for every time you committed treason in the eyes of Her Majesty, my lady, you'd feel compelled to arrange a room for me."
Willow sauntered, catlike, towards Jack until her face was mere inches from his mask, and gave a dramatic pout. "Treason is such a harsh word."

"With harsher penalties." He replied, voice dripping with venom.

Sneering, she let a billow of blue smoke escape from between her lips, tendrils of the stuff crawling across Jack's mask like hazy serpents. He didn't even blink. "I'm not scared of you." Said Willow, low and threatening. That wasn't the first lie she had told him, and she doubted it would be the last.

"You should be." He replied, in a tone that was suited more to giving friendly advice than administering a threat. When Willow didn't answer, he turned on his heel and headed for the study door. Gareth moved to escort him out, but, at the last moment, Jack stopped. "Anyway, you needn't be concerned about the outlaws on the coast."

Willow felt her chest tighten. She found herself very concerned. "Oh? Why is that?" she asked boredly, turning from him to face her desk, planting both hands on its smooth, worn surface. There was a soapstone bust of the Queen of Blades on its corner, facing the outside. Delicate patterns, like Jack's, only daintier, curled and arched like spider legs around the edges of her stony mask. Perhaps the sculptor had chosen soapstone because it matched the glossy luster on the perfect ringlets of her long silver hair; the bust was a flawless likeness. That made Willow hate it even more.

"The criminals managed to flee with their lives, but Her Majesty's Sentinals are in pursuit as we speak."

Willow let out the breath she didn't know she'd been holding. They were alive, at least.

"I am confident they will be apprehended shortly, and as a gesture of Her Majesty's kindness, we will have your weapons returned to you as soon as possible." He said. This time, his tone was threatening. "Good day, my lady."

With that, Jack of Blades disappeared in a bright corona of pale blue light that sung faintly as it dissipated.

Willow, still staring at the Dread Queen's bust, felt Gareth's eyes on her back. She was silent for a long moment, nursing what was left of her cigar.

"My lady?" he ventured, apprehensively.

Willow stood up straight. "Gareth, pack me a bag of traveling clothes and ready the carriage. Outfit yourself accordingly."

Gareth smiled broadly, excited at the prospect of adventure. "Yes, my lady." He said eagerly, and turned to leave. Willow remembered something that had slipped her mind, and stopped him.

"Oh, and my scythe as well." She gestured absently to the weapon, mounted above her mantelpiece. It was a long, wickedly curved blade of gleaming steel set into an ornately carved staff of hollow iron, wrapped in coils of copper wire. It was excellent for conducting electricity.

"Yes, my lady." The tall man had no problem reaching up to carefully remove the scythe from its mount.

"Sharpen it, if you find the time."

"Yes, my lady."

Gareth closed the doors behind him, and she was alone. Alone with the crackling of the fire and the Queen, staring up at her with blank, stone eyes. Willow hated her. She hated what she had done to the people of Albion. She hated what she had done to their long, proud history. She hated her voice, sickly-sweet and condescending, dripping with honey and venom. She hated her so much that blue sparks of magical electricity crackled and hissed between her fingertips, and she had to clench her fists to keep it from arcing and catching fire to the drapes. Willow was tired of standing by and watching her people suffer in the name of keeping face with the Court, and decided that this was absolutely the final straw. She recalled that she had met a child among the group of refugees that now fled for their lives. Only one, a little boy with big eyes and sandy hair.

Willow decided that one was entirely too many children to leave to the mercy of the Sentinals, and pulled on her good boots.

She had almost gotten to the door when she remembered the still-burning stub of cigar between her teeth. Willow walked all the way back to her desk just so she could put out the smoldering remains in the eye of that vile bust, and flicked what was left into the fire.

Save us, they cried. And she would.