My Beloved Queen

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

"Is that so?" The smile that sat upon your mask softened, and though the chill in the air now swatted at your heart, lead had sunk into the bones of your legs, and your feet sat like weights against the ground.

The king of Ceorid's stare fled to Helesis and then to Isil, but he afforded them both little mind before glancing to the bench. "Might I join you?" He looked back to you, and his tone was much too firm for the inquiry to have ever truly been such. His sharp, curious gaze pressed at your mask, but its material was strong—strong enough to withstand the weight of all of Ceorid's great, snow-peaked mountains.

There were pins in your lungs. Tiny, sharp pins, but your smile did not budge, and, after little more than perhaps a second of thought, you forced yourself to nod. "Of course, my king."

With delicate care, you shifted to allow the king a seat upon the bench, and he settled quietly down beside you. He took up nearly the entire stretch of stone, and though you were able to remain comfortably perched upon what space remained, the king's thigh was left to press up against your own, and the warmth of his skin bled through fabric and pooled, unprompted, in your flesh.

Your lungs hesitated, and the breath in your chest sat as still as stone, but King Orelus's gaze was shifting to the little tree, and his large hand rose to stroke his beard. A frown was pressing at his lips, and silence, thick and heavy, began to settle upon your shoulders and chest. The trees shook their leaves, and the wilting flowers continued to watch, but their curiosity was the vile and darkling sort.

"You've quite the garden, my lord," you began quietly, and the smile that sat still upon the lips of your mask softened and sweetened your tone. "I imagine, come spring, it's beauty shall outshine even the loveliest gems."

Orelus's dark eyes fled to you, and for a moment, his hand stilled. "I deserve no praise; King Voth orchestrated its construction," he began slowly. His tone was low, and his voice was rough, but the frown that pulled at his lips was softening, and the shape of his pupils was neither sharp nor piercing. "I merely care for it."

A frown pressed at your mask, but only the ends of it decorated your lips, and you replied, your tone still light, though perhaps a touch firm, "The work of a guardian is still deserving of applause." With deliberate care, you smoothed down the wrinkles in your skirt before resting your hands in your lap. Orelus's eyes followed the motion, and you felt his leg shift against your own. "King Voth, I'm sure, would be quite glad to find his gift so well-preserved." Your gaze fell briefly to your hands, and when you looked back to the king, his dark stare met yours without flinching. "Did you know him?"

Orelus's hand fell from his face, and then he leaned forward to rest his forearms atop his thighs, but his gaze never faltered, and the frown that sat upon his lips deepened. "I did," he replied lowly, reluctantly. "He and the queen were quite fond of one another."

Curiosity leaped at your tongue, and for a moment, the sickness in your stomach faltered. "You were close to the queen?" you inquired lightly.

"To a degree." Orelus's gaze fell to your lap, and then, in a motion that was oddly careful, he reached over and took one of your hands in his. His touch was rough, and his palm dwarfed your own, but against the chill, the warmth of his skin was almost pleasant. "She was a kind woman. Two years, she cared for me, though she needn't have." He squeezed your hand, but then his eyes grew suddenly hard, and a heavy, sharp sigh escaped his frowning lips. "She deserved a better end than she was dealt, and the same holds true for her youngest son."

"Her youngest?" you echoed softly. Discomfort pressed still at your chest, but you did not attempt to draw back your arm. Your hand remained limp in the king of Ceorid's grip—an animal playing dead, but its neck was already in the bear's jaws. "Do you mean Ziaris, my lord?"