My Beloved Queen

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

xxii. the queen and the servant

majordomo
// gray eyes offer shade for unwanted thoughts, and polite smiles keep peering stares far from tender hearts. intelligence is a double-edged sword, and bright eyes can prove as dangerous as arrowheads.

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The servants of the castle of Ceorid bowed their heads to you when you arrived, and when the chief among them approached you, he did so most carefully. His subordinates watched him step forward, their mouths so firmly shut that the clatter of a pin could've summoned lightning.

"Greetings, Your Majesty." The majordomo spoke politely, and though the lightness of his tone softened the edges of his words, no warmth dripped from his tongue. A flat, gray sort of light brightened the man's eyes, and the color sank like lead into the line of his thin lips. "Vezerin, of the House of Wenlith, at your service."

Little gleamed in the man's stare. His eyes were a pale, dusty green, dull and flat—a line inked on a stretch of vellum—and the skin of his face was pale, but not for fear. His pin-prick pupils were much too gray for terror.

The mask rested comfortably against your cheeks, and when Vezerin's eyes settled upon you, your expression did not shift beneath his polite, gray stare. Helesis had done as she said she would, and now, all you could do was wait—wait and hope that a tyrant would look fondly upon your desire for an audience.

You could wait. You could take your worries, bundle them up and set them aside. Place them where you could not see them—where they could gather dust and cobwebs.

There was a castle now to care for, novel noble families to greet and befriend. Shadowy daggers and strange assassins could wait.

In the corner of your eye, you saw Helesis shift, and her gaze moved to you, but instead of nodding to her, you spoke.

"A pleasure to meet you, Vezerin." You pulled your lips into the shape of a smile, and though the curve was slight, the taste of careful delight was already pooling in your mouth. Your eyes moved briefly from the man's face to glance at the faces of the servants gathered behind him, and when your gaze returned to the majordomo, you continued lightly, "I must say, though I've not been present long, I am nonetheless very much impressed: this castle has been well cared for."

The line of the man's mouth softened for a moment at your words, but the gray light in his eyes did not falter. No sly brightness flickered in the shadows of his pin-prick pupils, and if surprise flashed across his face, it was much too pale to be discerned.

"You flatter me, Your Majesty." Fragments of youth clung to the man's cheeks, but you could spy no joyful brightness in his stare. The outline of his pupils was too sharp, and the gray light drew harshly at the sage-green color of his eyes.

"Praise must be offered when it is due." A memory pressed at the base of your skull, and though the line of your mouth did not waver, a sour taste was bleeding into your tongue. "Though, I am a tad concerned by the current state of the castle temple." Cold, prickling fingers curled about your heart, and though a light frown was all that settled upon your lips, a sharp edge had invaded your tone. "Might you care to explain how it came to fall into such disrepair?"

"The king ordered it to be so," Vezerin replied without pause. His tone was succinct and clear, and despite the sharpness of your tongue, neither his stare nor his voice faltered. "I would not otherwise allow for such neglect."

Confusion pooled in the back of your mind, and the cold fingers in your chest felt it settle. They grabbed for it, attempted to sharpen it with something icy and bitter, but it was much too light—much too new. A king, ordering that a temple be allowed to fall into ruin—requiring such flagrant disregard?