My Beloved Queen

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

The queen led them, but she paused for a moment as they passed the garden. A fine blanket of snow had settled neatly atop the trees and stones, glittering and pale. The queen had called it pretty, and so it was, but solemn, too—empty. Dust ground from bones, and scattered across the earth by Aeriz's cold, frostbitten hands. Soon would follow the wolves in their thick winter coats, and once they found flesh upon which to feast, mournful Velenna would descend, cloaked in shadow and feather, and guide the weary soul to his final rest.

A man stood in the garden—King Orelus, still and quiet, and made stark by all the bright, white nothing around him. His back was to them, and his head was bowed. He was alone. He was unaware.

An itch, slow and hot, crawled up Isil's arm, and Khimos's glare sat heavy at the base of his neck. Death knew itself in the flesh of wolves and ravens, but war was a bear, and fury a dog. What would be lost with the death of a tyrant? What all was there to gain?

Stand now, boy.

Isil took a small, firm step forward, but then his gaze fled to his queen. She was turning; she was moving, and yet slowly, or perhaps she merely seemed to move at a snail's pace. All that stood around him hesitated. All save him held their breath.

The tyrant had not yet an heir.

He clenched his teeth and steeled his bones, and then he turned. The queen was saying something, something soft and light.

"Let's not bother him," she murmured, and her calm, careful stare fled briefly to Helesis and then to Isil, yet before they could depart, a voice, deep and harsh, called out to them.

"Who goes there?" The king spoke roughly, and his gaze fixed itself firmly upon the queen—found her so quickly it must've been drawn there by a string. Fatigue lined the tyrant's face, and his eyes were dark and tired, but exhaustion made him no less awful, and though his tone was curious and somewhat confused, fatigue made him harsh. "Why've you come through here?"

The queen paused at the sound of Orelus's voice, and despite his tone, she inclined her head and replied, smoothly, "Forgive me, my lord—I didn't mean to disturb you. I was only hoping to see how Augur Molevri fared, and thought I might pass by." She watched the monster, and though her face did not change, Isil thought he spied pity flash briefly in her eyes. But perhaps it was not a thought, for then, but a moment later, the queen inquired, in a tone much kinder than Orelus deserved, "Would you care to join me?"

Her invitation was hardly unexpected, but Orelus paused regardless, and Isil narrowed his eyes at the monster. The tyrant stared at the queen, and for a moment his dark gaze became unfocused and soft, but then he rubbed at his eyes and shook his head.

The king of Ceorid muttered something under his breath, but to the queen, he said, gruffly, "Sure."

Then he stepped over to them, or perhaps lumbered, and now the four of them continued toward the temple. Yet Isil's blood was rife with needles, and dogs of fire gnawed at his lungs and heart. The king walked at the queen's side, and she kept politely distant, but even when well-rested, the king knew not how to keep to himself.

Do what is right. He seeks Mehreus's knowledge, boy. What might he want?

Something awful. Something terrible. It must be. It simply must.

"Are you alright, my lord?" She placed a gentle, tentative hand upon the king's arm, and despite his sluggishness, the tyrant was quick to cover her fingers with his own. "I...noticed that you did not come to bed last night."