My Beloved Queen

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

xxii. the queen and the augur

boy
// a face so fair and young should not be the home of such a strange and lonely gaze. and yet it has fallen upon her. in his dreams, he has heard her voice. she calls to him; she tells him of her destiny.

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Silence was quick to follow your declaration. It was a prickling, stubborn thing, and it refused to leave with the luncheon, determining instead to tail you to the temple, its curling fingers poised like knives at the throats of your companions.

Underneath the quiet's cloying grip lingered a pale, sour thing—a creature with sharp teeth and bony fingers. The beast arose from Helesis; you could see it burning in the shadows of her sharp pupils, drawing the color from her blue-jewel eyes. Her stare had fallen to quick, uncertain flickers—glances that flitted left and right and back again and lingered none too long upon any one subject—and she moved warily, as though every action risked setting off the teeth of a terrible trap.

Her caution prompted a narrow, dark-colored suspicion to settle in your chest, and the closer you drew to the temple, the more careful your gaze became. The building was as you remembered: small and neglected, stained with rain and choked by vines and weeds. The sight was a sharp, pointed thing, and you felt it press into the soft flesh of your heart, burying itself in the confines of your chest.

No guards stood at the temple entrance, and as you drew close, Isil moved to open the door. You were the first to enter, and in the corner of your eye, you saw Helesis pause at the threshold before following after you. Isil entered last, and the door fell shut behind him with a low thud. Hollow echoes followed—ghosts of a hard, firm sound, drifting amidst particles of dust and fading memories.

The wedding decorations had been removed, and now the columns rose naked from the cracking marble floors. The barrenness was a wound, a festering gash, bleeding dust and cobwebs into the glaring emptiness. There was nothing—no faithful, no decorations, no offerings; no creature or person or thing to soak up the neglect or to soften the echoes of your footsteps. There was only the likeness of Edite, watching quietly as silver flakes of dust curled around the barren columns of her temple, and the figure that had been kneeling at her feet but was now rising, now turning to look at you.

It was an elder woman—a temple caretaker, according to her attire. The years of her life were written plainly across her face: you could see them in the wrinkles of her brow, in the lines of her eyes and lips. Her hair was the color of snow—pale, with threads of gray and silver—and her eyes were as dark as night, but a delighted warmth glimmered in them, and when you drew near, she greeted you kindly.

"Your Majesty." The woman's voice was low and sweet, and the tremble of age softened her tone. "What a lovely surprise." Slowly, she bowed to you, and when she straightened back to her full height, her dark eyes rose to meet yours. "I am Druasis, the caretaker of this temple. Have you come bearing gifts for the gods?"

Sincerity brightened the caretaker's tone, and you offered her a small smile, but the dark-colored suspicion in your chest was tapping sharply at your spine. This elderly woman was the only caretaker in the entire castle? She, alone, was tasked with its upkeep—was allowed to come and go as she pleased?

"Greetings, Caretaker," you began, your voice light. You felt Isil move to stand just behind you, but the elderly woman's gaze did not shift to him. She glanced instead to your left, where Helesis stood, quiet and watchful.

"I would be most glad to make offerings to the gods, but I'm afraid I've come with empty hands," you continued carefully. As you spoke, the woman's gaze returned to you, but now a curious frown pulled at the corners of her lips.