My Beloved Queen

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

She stared at him, and her eyes like glass—transparent and clear, as clear as he'd ever seen them. He could peer past all the fabric and paint she wore, stare down, deep down, into places he knew as well as his own. Hesitation was pulling at her flesh, but her cause was firm, and her will and spine were set, but he was at her side. He would always be here.

"It would do no harm to try," she thought aloud. Her fingers found his, and she squeezed his hand. "One assassin is one too many."

Certainly, but why would an assassin hinder the advent of others? He'd failed his task; why would he not desire reinforcements?

King Orelus was their target, and they could have him any way they pleased. No one would bemoan his passing, save for perhaps the temple caretaker and augur. Most certainly the latter. Augur Molevri talked so kindly of his tyrant king, looked up at him in awe, as though Orelus was a man worth becoming. It was infuriating, but mostly pitiful—too awful to incite much more than the most lukewarm frustration. What lies had King Orelus told to make himself seem so grand and good? Perhaps the very same that had secured him his throne.

"What is it you think to do?" Isil leaned toward her. He spied no other wandering eyes, so he brought his lips to her ear and continued, firmly, "He'll never be our ally."

"Never is a strong word," the queen murmured, "and ally a malleable one." A sigh, long and soft, curled off her tongue, and determination hardened her gaze. "The assassin thinks his cause just enough to kill for. Why?" She drew the line of her mouth into a firm line, and then she looked away from Isil, to a space he could not see. "Who does he believe should rule in King Orelus's stead?"

Isil snorted. "The bar isn't all that high."

"Still," the queen continued, frowning, "Ceorid's civil war ended but four years ago." Her brow was furrowed, and thoughts ran as quick as a current across her face. "There are many who remember it still, so who would want to return to war? Why?"

Why, indeed.

"Perhaps a man with ties to the throne." A frown pulled now at Isil's mouth, and he tightened his grip upon the queen's hand. "A stronger claim, even, than Orelus."

The queen shook her head, and she began, her tone low with confusion, "But King Voth's sons were all killed."

"And their sons fought and died alongside their fathers," he finished. A bitter taste had seeped into Isil's mouth, and the line of his lips was grim and gray. "I see." Isil hummed, but the sound was flat. "You don't suppose Orelus would have killed a child?"

The queen paused, and when her eyes found his, concern as dark as night colored her stare. She was frowning, and her gaze began to narrow, but whatever it was she hoped to find, it certainly wasn't emblazoned across his forehead.

"I don't," she began, but her voice failed her, and so she paused and tried again. "I don't know." She pressed her hand to her stomach, but her fingers were curling, and her gaze fell to the floor. "I should hope not, but I fear..."

Isil placed his hand carefully atop hers, and then he tried gently to uncurl her fingers. "Put nothing past him, [Name]." She was soft, suddenly, and so he spoke as quietly as he could—lightly, for a tone any harsher might shatter her.

She stared at the floor, and her eyes gleamed like wet coins, but her cheeks were dry. Perhaps he'd spoken too unkindly; perhaps he should have held his tongue. Orelus deserved all the ugly, harsh claims made against him, but some horrors were too awful to imagine. His hands had touched her—would continue to hold her. Better it was not to think what else they had done, but Isil's hands were no better.

Fingers wet with blood still warm, and burning palms and heaving lungs, but he'd never tired. Energy, frantic and hot, had always raced like fire in his veins. He could stand before an army of men; he could split open their abdomens and watch their entrails spill in tangled, fleshy tendrils to the mud, and he would hardly flinch.

A champion, they'd called him, but they had misspoken. He was a horror. He was a killer.

He was a curse.

"Last night, I asked him if he loved Edite." [Name] was speaking. Her voice was tight and low and quiet, and she fell into a whisper as soft as a curl of wind. "Do you know what he said?"

He leaned closer, and suddenly, he wanted only to embrace her. "What?"

"He said the gods do not love us," she murmured. "I didn't believe him." She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, they were wet, but her cheeks remained still awfully dry. "He hates them so; he speaks cruelly for the sake of it."

"He can't hate them any worse than I." He tried for amusement, attempted it as best he could, and, for a moment, her frown trembled.

She breathed, and then she began to walk, but her gait was tentative and slow. "Caretaker Druasis said, when he was but a child, Qodes tried to have him killed."

Surprise graced Isil's chest, and it lingered like a bad, prickling thought. The gods had tried to kill a child? "A shame she failed."

The queen didn't laugh.

She was staring ahead, and her gaze had fixed upon something Isil couldn't see. "How does one make a monster?"

Perhaps the gods knew. Mehreus must; he knew all. Yet he'd never have the chance to tell. How bright of the gods. What would man do if he knew how to turn his sons into beasts?

Isil squeezed her hand, but they were slipping back into the open, and reluctantly, he let her go. "Perhaps it's best not to wonder," he began quietly. "Let us deal first with the ones we have."