My Beloved Queen

CHAPTER ELEVEN

xi. the princess and the penitent

felon
// humanity is his disease. it has given him a shovel, and with it he dug himself a hole. the bottom he found on his own, but without another, the top was forever out of reach.

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The stable boy and his master made for a rather pleasant audience. They were silent and attentive; respectful, though perhaps only out of fear. Out of a desire to serve—to please you so that their lives might continue undisturbed.

And how terribly you could disturb them.

The stable master—Olten Naegan, if you remembered correctly—eventually did excuse himself. Work—or perhaps his supper—was in need of completion, and though he did so terribly wish to remain in your company, he was also so awfully busy that it simply wasn't feasible.

His only hope was that you, his dearest and loveliest princess, would understand his troubles.

Should you?

You could say no; you could take offense—act appalled at the thought of another pursuit taking precedence over you. You could use your power—your clot as a princess of Alaimore—to keep him with you—to punish him for wanting to leave your company.

Use him as your scapegoat—your whipping boy. Because you could; because here you had authority—faculty. No one would care—not your parents. Not the people who mattered—who had the power to stop you.

He was just a servant.

Just a man.

Adalleth had been just a servant, too.

"Of course." You nodded your head—offered the ginger-haired man a small, comforting smile. "How selfish of me—to keep you from your duties." You shifted a little in your seat upon the crude wooden stool Rulen had fetched for you. The rough wood pressed up uncomfortably against your tailbone, but you did well to hide your frown. "Go ahead—go. You're excused."

The relief that washed over Olten's face was palpable and nearly insulting, but still, you smiled—simpered at him sweetly. Warmly.

"Thank you, Your Highness." Olten bowed his head and began to turn away, but then he looked back—shot the dark-haired boy sitting in front of you a wary, hesitant glance.

Rulen didn't catch the look; he was too enthralled in waiting for you to continue your storytelling that he hardly paid his cautious master any mind. But you saw the look—recognized the wariness shining in the man's eyes. Children were but necessary poisons—liabilities that one had no choice but to account for. But they were valuable, too. Valuable liabilities, if such a thing could exist.

Your face was turned to the stablemaster, and before his worries could manifest themselves into action, you leaned forward to place a hand on Rulen's shoulder. Your touch was light, but you could still feel the shape of the boy's arm—the odd narrowness of his immature shoulder.

"I have some more tales I'd like to tell," you started smoothly. You offered Olten a polite, encouraging smile and then glanced briefly at the boy seated before you. "They're perfect for an audience of one, unless you require Rulen for some task of sorts."

The stablemaster's dark eyes widened just a fraction, and then he hastily shook his head. "No—no of course not, Your Highness." His reply was quick—vehement. Fearful of running his princess's patience thin—of offending her. "I simply wanted to—to—to wish you a pleasant evening, that is all." His eyes moved quickly—from you to Rulen and back again—and then he swallowed and bowed his head. "G-Goodbye."