137

How long? How deep? Malina thought to herself, not for the first time. How long had the support for her throne been chipped away at? How many people's loyalty was simply a well concealed act? Her network of spies had said nothing of this, not even the slightest hint. Gotochol? Perhaps as deep as the head of that network, It has to be.

Not everyone had been privy to this interpretation of the prophecies, this conspiracy. She had noted the absence of the captain of her ship when she was hauled onto the deck in the fading light of the early evening. It gave her comfort that not all loyalties had been false. Too many were though, too many by far.

Hands on her shoulders, not those of Teiuc for they lacked his roughness, spun her around and began leading her from the upper deck. She could hear Teiuc's voice and that of the other generals as they spoke amongst themselves. Malina watched her feet as they stepped on the rough wood of the ship. A light grey wood, weathered by the salt of the sea and finally grained stood out in contrast with the dirt of her feet. Even at this, her lowest point the dirt on her body still fascinated her, it created a mental dissonance with her past that she had yet to deal with. The incarceration was different, usurpation was always a possibility that was planned and watched for. Something she had never truly taken seriously, yet the importance of being prepared for it had been force on Malina from an early age. But dirt? Finger nails and feet in such a state? Nothing her prepared her for that. Focusing on the dirt helped, it gave her mind something else to consider, and a place to focus her attention. Hardening herself and her outward appearance was made easier when she was able to focus on something other then misery.