My Beloved Queen

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

xlv. the king and the diplomat

merchant
// wonder, but never ask. hear, and yet seldom speak. there is much to see, and more still to have. a heart once burned grows twice bitter, but perhaps there is hope to be found amidst the pain.

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Satisfaction was a kind, sure thing: a bit of flame, comforting and pleasant, warming the throat and chest, and King Orelus tended it well. Edite's little hint had afforded him a starting point, and from there, the scholars would poke and pry and search. No more shooting in the dark—trying in vain to set some mark on an empty, blank map. No, there was something, now: a sea, and the Maker's Claws—the mountain range to the north, where the peaks wore caps of white year-round, and Aeriz's wolves retreated to come spring. The waters beyond those mountains were now frozen, and this deep into winter, the ice would be now so thick the weight of ten armies would not crack it—swords and horses and all—but spring would come, and he could afford to mull away another measly month or two.

The assassin had still to be dealt with. An execution would be fit—deserved, even—but his queen had argued on behalf of the man, deemed him deserving of mercy, though hopelessly naïve such a notion was. Yet she had determined it right, and it was her lullaby which now afforded Orelus a path to the Serpent's prison—a hopeful point of origin, and it was indeed considerable, perhaps even miraculous. Divinely-given, and painfully honest, being that she was Edite's precious silver-tongued songbird.

A pity: Edite had not her brother's foresight, and her gift knew little of the ways of men.

There came a knock upon the door, and though Orelus supposed already the identity of the visitor, he glanced up from the tentative map the scholars had delivered to him and called, "Who is it?"

"Ambassador Nivai Deddmun, Your Majesty," replied the guard.

Orelus frowned at the map. Several leagues from the shore, the sea became a mist of uncertainty—a shadowy world wherein beasts and monsters lurked, and from those waters, no ship nor sailor had ever returned.

Perhaps Deddmun would know different.

"Let him in," Orelus called, but he kept his gaze fixed firmly upon the map, and the frown that pulled at his lips was contemplative in shape. The sea was uncertain, but men who had traversed her knew the flow of her currents and could spy, in the push and pull of her waves, the warnings of a coming storm.

In stepped Deddmun, who bowed immediately to his king, albeit stiffly. A frown soured the man's expression, but a smile would've been a surprise, and when Deddmun rose again to his full height, he greeted his king with as much courtesy as he could gather. "Your Majesty." The ambassador's gaze fell then to King Orelus's desk, and, though impossible it seemed, his frown soured. "I should like to remind you, my king: my days as a merchant are far, far behind me, and I should like them to remain so."

Orelus peered down at the map, but his frown was firm, and out of the corner of his eye, he watched the old ambassador. "Is your memory failing, Deddmun?" he inquired lowly. He had time—time enough until the thaw—but he had no cause to allow the ambassador any further grace than that which had been already given.

"No, Your Majesty," Deddmun replied slowly. The older man's tone was tightening, and as he spoke, he shifted his weight and brought his hands behind his back—folded them there, out of sight. "My mind is still quite sharp. I assure you."

Orelus glanced up at the ambassador, then, and the frown souring the line of his mouth deepened. "Then let us be quick." He had no cause to humor the man, but perhaps alacrity might prove itself a grace. "During your time at the docks, do you recall any tales regarding the sea beyond the northern mountains? Any persons claiming to have sailed there and returned?"