My Beloved Queen

CHAPTER TEN

x. the princess and the stable boy

peasant
// the hands have eyes; the hands have ears. they watch from the background; they listen from the safety of their innocuous breeding. the hands serve; the hands wait. and one day, they will act.

————

Being a noblewoman meant engaging in conversation with persons whom you'd rather never see—whom you wished didn't exist. Being a noblewoman meant smiling politely at a man whose very voice and mannerisms were like daggers—pointed knives, dripping with the slick poison of arrogance and pride.

Being a noblewoman meant suspicion and hesitance; it meant turning to watch Ambassador Nivai walk away from you—to observe him and all he said with guarded, smiling eyes. It didn't matter if you didn't like him. It didn't matter if you wished to never know him—to be as ignorant of his existence as you had been four weeks ago.

It didn't matter if he was arrogant and unkind—if he was the sort of man who saw respect only in degrees of might; the sort of man who spoke softly only to persons in possession of the power to punish him for utilizing any other tone of voice.

He was your guest, and you were blessed to have him—blessed to know that he wouldn't be joining you for supper.

But you shouldn't think that—you shouldn't have been delighted to discover his plans to enjoy his supper in the solitude of his room. You should've felt as your mother would have: disgruntled and critical, but only dignifiedly so—nobly so. Polite in your unhappiness, though impolite it was for your foreign guest to spurn you in such a manner.

Your mother wouldn't have been elated, as you had been—she won't be elated, not when you divulge to her Nivai's designs. She will be upset, and rightfully so; Nivai's decision to forego a supper spent in the company of your family will only further her irritation.

Irritation with King Orelus, for arriving earlier than expected. Irritation with you, for failing to impress the king as you should have—for failing to give him a reason to prolong his visit.

You should've attempted to persuade him to stay—to defer his visit to the Hosha Empire for just a moment or two more. Even if you didn't want him to stay; even if the sight of him—of his large, bearish figure and dark, unfeeling eyes—sent a cold chill down your spine. A chill that felt like fingers—thin, spindly fingers with long, yellowing nails and papery skin.

Like fear—like cold, nauseating terror.

But you were a noblewoman—a princess with a reputation to care for—and feelings were transient—ephemeral.

Character was what endured.

It didn't matter if you feared him—if the thought of marrying him twisted your stomach and wrapped thick, choking fingers around your throat. It didn't matter what he had done—the stories you had heard.

Of his conquest.

Of a king more monster than man, who squashed even the slightest hints of defiance under his iron heel—who slaughtered men and women and even children without so much as a bat of the eye.

A man without a conscience.

A man without a god.

But you might've looked desperate if you'd tried to sway him—too eager to win his favor, however critical it was. Desperation was not attractive—not in a wife, a queen—but neither was arrogance, and the path that ran between them—the path that you and many a woman before you had strived to toe—was thin and ever-changing. Ever-shifting.