My Beloved Queen

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

xlviii. the queen and the elder

penitent
// hark! listen: nearer draws the day of reckoning. seek, and spy. have, and hold. the path now chosen cannot be rebuked. the duty once shirked will not be forgiven.

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Seconds alone had passed, and yet, here and now, they dragged. Panic had unraveled them, had undone all the pretty weaving which kept them bound up tight and firm, and now, at your feet, they spilled into a tangled mess of festering flesh and yellow fat.

A name had fallen from Aelathai's lips—a whisper, forced past his shivering teeth and scattering across the stone, but its sound was pale and feeble and muffled, like the beat of his heart. Where was the caretaker? What was keeping her?

Aelathai's head rested in your lap, and his skin was like ice, but you had nothing to cover him, so you turned to Isil and demanded, quickly, "Your cloak—give him your cloak."

The knight did as you'd urged. His cloak was stark against the assassin's pallid, waxy skin; a blanket of thick, dark color, strewn across a sack of bones. The sight was familiar, and the memory twisted your stomach and dug its thick, heavy fingers into the flesh of your lungs.

He was no friend, but neither was he a complete stranger. Incomplete, perhaps, in shape and name, aborted like a machine, or a tool half-formed. He lay like a corpse, and perhaps he was. Mangled by decay; rotting alive. He had been beaten and bruised, and blood caked his hair like dried mud. Brown and cracking, flaking off on your fingers.

The moment sat, curdling like milk in the sun, but then, suddenly, the door to the dungeons opened, and Caretaker Druasis hurried inside.

"Let me see him." Her tone was firm, firmer than you had ever heard it, and Isil moved to make room for her. She knelt beside the Aelathai, touched his brow and removed the cloak Isil had given him, and after examining the assassin—his bruises and cuts and wounds—she inquired as to how he had become so unwell, and you told her all you knew.

Her wizened face darkened, and the line of her mouth thinned, but she listened without speaking, and when spied his wound, she did not wince. She furrowed her brow and tended to the assassin's flesh. The wounds which were fresh, she cleaned with a wet rag, and to those which were old, she applied ointments, but come the end of her treatment, she was shaking her head, and a prayer curled off her lips.

"He will live if he must," she murmured, her voice low and quiet, and her frown heavy. A thought swirled in her eyes, and though she peered down at Aelathai, she did seem to spy him, "But if he mustn't, may Velena be swift."

The air was cold, and the weight upon your chest heavy, but when you bowed your head, no chill brushed your neck. Must it be so? Might you fight elsewise, regardless? But you could pry free from Velena's claws no ghost, nor spare a body the fate of Aeriz's wolves.

But if Aelathai lived, the weight of his soul would be yours to bear.

The caretaker departed. Her spine was stiff, and her demeanor heavy, but you remained with Aelathai, and Isil kept to your side. At your behest, the guards brought in a blanket upon which the assassin could rest, and a bundle for his head. More cloth was he given, to keep him warm, and Isil's cloak was returned. Then, and only then, did you rise to your feet and take your leave.

Let Aelathai live, and let his knowledge be yours to learn.

The name he'd whispered climbed slowly up the curve of your tongue, but it hesitated just behind your teeth, and there it remained, tapping at your gums and the insides of your cheeks, and sinking ever deeper into the flesh of your mouth. How heavy, this name. As heavy as a king's.

"Let us pray he lives." The thought left your lips in a murmur, but Isil heard it. He kept close to your side, but though he'd been quiet, a frown soured his expression, and your words did not lessen its weight.

"Death may be a kinder fate," he muttered.

Your lungs faltered, but you forced yourself to breathe.

The sky was pale and gray. Clouds as thick as wool had come to cover it, but their shadows were blue and softened by daylight. Winter marched steadily on, as harsh as it was cold, but spring would come to soften it again, as it had before.

If Orelus was a false king, then what might that make his queen?

You walked without cause, and perhaps the temple was your destination, but you had to pass the courtyard to reach it, and there, just as before, you spied King Orelus. The king's back was to you. He stood facing the tree and its little bench, both burdened with snow as pale as bone, and the line of the king's shoulders was firm and his head high, but though neither you nor Isil made any steps toward the king, Orelus shifted his weight and slowly crossed his arms over his chest.

"Does he live?" he called. He did not turn his head, but save for you and your knight, servants alone wandered near.

Your heart did not falter, and slowly—and with great care—you took one step toward the king and then another. His footprints had flattened the snow, but you chose to walk alongside them, instead, and stopped only once you were at the king's side.

The little tree and its slender branches had done what they could to protect the bench, but snow had still found its seat, and the blanket was thick and white.

"His fate is...uncertain, my lord," you replied, your voice soft. The fallen snow glittered like dust. "Caretaker Druasis did what she could."

King Orelus hummed, but the sound was low and flat, and he continued to peer at the bench and tree, his expression unchanged. His eyes were dark, and their press unkind, but the irritation which sharpened their edge was cold and bitter.

You folded your hands in front of yourself and lifted your head, and began, slowly, "He managed a name before falling ill." Your breath collected in front of you: a gossamer cloud, dissipating like smoke into the air. "But his speech was slurred—I could recognize it not."

The king shifted his weight and narrowed his eyes. "Then how might a name have been heard?" His dark eyes slid to you, and his frown deepened. "Perhaps he was speaking gibberish."

You inclined your head ever so slightly, and a frown pressed at your mask, but your lips did not curl. "Perhaps." You met the king's stare without faltering. "We may know for certain if he wakes." Slowly, silence rose, cold and firm, and as pale as the snow, but you did not shy from its touch, and you continued, as sure as stone, "And if he does, then I will see to it personally that he regains his health."

The silence pressed, but its spine was not stiff, so you reached out a gentle hand and set it upon Orelus's arm. He did not shirk your touch, though neither did he lean into it, and a moment later, the king's gaze returned to the bench and tree. In this garden, he was a giant, but the sky rose still above him, and he could never hope to command its storms.

"If he is not well by spring, put him in the care of someone you trust," Orelus advised after a pause. His voice was still low and firm, but the thought was not pointed, and he let his hands fall to his sides. His breath, too, collected just beneath his nose, like fog. "We are to leave come the first thaw."

You nearly frowned but caught yourself, and but a breath later, you managed a nod. Was the fate of his kingdom second to his curse? Or perhaps they were one in the same.

"As you wish, my lord," you murmured. The words were soft, and their sound as silvery as your breath. You bowed your head. "I must take my leave, now, if you'll excuse me."

Orelus hummed again, but the sound was not as flat as it had been before. The fallen snow crunched beneath the soles of your shoes, and you left as you had come: quiet and careful. The king did not turn to watch you go, but his attention was heavy, and when you glanced back at him, he was bending down to brush the snow off the bench beneath the little tree.