My Beloved Queen

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

xxxvi. the queen and the disciple

believer
// she stands at the edge of a dreary coast, and the water laps like a dog at her feet. she was told to love the sea, and verily did she turn to it, but now she hesitates, and the wind holds its breath.

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Worry was a heavy, obstinate thing, but curiosity was picking at your skull, and determination sunk into the ridge of your spine. The slime of the dungeons lingered in your flesh, and the guards eyed you curiously as you left, but your gait was quick, and thoughts swarmed like bees in your head.

The assassin was hateful, but his anger would not silence him. He had much to say, much to live for. The gleam of it all had shown in his eyes, wild and bloodshot and feverishly bright, but he would waste away in the dungeons; he would die as he was before ever having the chance to redeem himself in the eyes of Ceorid's king, and perhaps he might have liked to die for the will of what he believed to be his true king, but what glory was there in death? He could live—all could thrive, but he'd cut himself so short.

Who was this true heir of the throne? A liar. He must be lying, masquerading as some long-lost legitimate son of the House of Rohemest. All of that clan had perished. If any son remained, he was a bastard and had no further claim than Orelus.

Yet if he was not a liar, if he was all he claimed to be, and Orelus had indeed killed King Seren, then the heir would be right to charge forward. Right and cruel. More death, but was it not a necessary evil? Orelus's fist was iron, and faith faltered.

How awful would it be, to allow the true king to reclaim his crown?

There was no justice to be found in war. Death was a glutton, and though it had gorged itself upon army after army, it lifted now its misshapen head and leered down at the kingdom of Ceorid.

"Do you suppose he was telling the truth?" The inquiry fell quietly from your lips, and you looked to Isil, but his gaze was cast down, to his hand. "Isil?"

He stared at his fingers, and slowly he curled and flexed them. A tightness, pale and firm, thinned his lips, and a look that was dark and horrified drew the color from his eyes. Carefully, you reached out to touch him, and when your fingers brushed his arm, he blinked and woke from his daze, and then he looked at you.

"Yes, my queen?" His face was clear, but the horror lingered there in his pupils. He had grown fangs in that cell; he had borne down upon Aelathai with all the ferocity of a wolf, but so he had been taught. He was a knight, and he had killed, but he was a friend, too, and the hands that brought cold fury down upon a man's head were the very same that kept you gently afloat.

He was a good man.

You frowned at him, and the concern in your chest rose to color your eyes, but now was not the time, so you squeezed his arm gently and then repeated, kindly, "I asked if you thought the assassin sincere."

Isil's gaze narrowed, and he frowned as though he tasted something sour. "He's an insulting, graceless ass," he started sharply, but then he paused, and as he furrowed his brow his frown deepened, "but I...do think he believed all he told you."

You hummed and looked away, but your hands did not move from Isil's arm. "I think so as well." The fabric of his coat was rough and warm, and with reluctance, you pulled away. The memory returned: Isil, furious and vengeful, ready and willing to send a man half-dead to his maker. "When we visit again, please be kinder to him. He looks but a step removed from death."