My Beloved Queen

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

King Orelus met your gaze, and though fatigue hung dark beneath his eyes, the thought what gleamed in his pupils made them bright, and he replied, in a tone that was both even and low, "They won't take it to heart." He nodded again to the chair, then, and continued, firmly, "Sit. The scribe may be a while."

The sour taste stealing into your gums and tongue bled into your lips, but, carefully, you stepped over to the chair Orelus had provided you and lighted upon it. Helesis hesitated to stand at your side, however, and moved only after Isil began to approach. She kept her gaze lowered and her head bowed, and as she walked, she made certain to step along just behind your knight.

She was not wrong to doubt—to fear—but no harm would come to her, least of all that brought down by Orelus's hand. He would lay not a finger upon her—of that, you would make certain.

King Orelus's attention shifted to his desk, and he stepped over to it and began rummaging about for some token or book—the design that had so totally possessed him, that held now the reins of his thoughts and burned so brightly in his eyes. His frown was deepening, but the lines that furrowed his brow were thoughtful and somber, and he stared firmly at the items he'd pulled out.

What secret did he think to find?

Should he discover it? Might you allow him such?

A heaviness was settling in the air, a weight awkward and uncertain, and you shifted in your seat and folded your hands in your lap and did what you could to keep your expression placid and smooth. Might confusion be allowed? Trepidation?

Should a goddess's secret not be kept?

"My lord?" you called softly, and the king glanced up at you, but impatience was bleeding now into his lips, and his narrowing gaze shifted to the door.

"What is it?" he asked, but he spoke roughly—sharply—and the shadows darkening his face hardened his tired eyes. Yet, oddly enough, he heard his own tone—mused over its brusqueness for a moment as short as a breath—and then he paused, ground his teeth and pressed his palm flat against the top of his desk, and inquired, in a tone that was tight but not quite so harsh, "Yes?"

You allowed yourself a frown, but its taste was contemplative, and you met Orelus's gaze and inquired, "What do you think to find?"

Orelus's dark eyes were still firm and sharp, but the light that brightened them was much too eager, much too determined. A thought so bold would turn pale and twisted in the eyes of monsters, and the sight pressed against your skin like bristle—like nettles tipped in a prickling, slow poison—but then there came a sharp knocking on the door, and the guards called out the identity of the visitor.

A smile tugged then at the corners of the king's mouth, and it was such a small, slight twitch, but it had passed, and it had been real.

"Seems we'll know in just a moment," he mused. The satisfaction that colored his tone settled like sandpaper against your ears, and the weight pressing down upon the chamber thickened and soured, but you appeared no further perplexed than you should, and the king turned his attention to the door and called out, louder, "Let him in."

The scribe noted the lullaby—took great care that every vowel and consonant was carefully and accurately dictated—and afterward, being then done with you, the king sent you on your way, but as you departed, he called for a scholar—ordered that one be sent for post-haste.

What would he find? What was there to find?

Perhaps some clue as to Mehreus's whereabouts? But that would be ridiculous. Why might Edite have hidden so important a secret in her lullaby? King Odemis and Queen Qodes would have never allowed it.