My Beloved Queen

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"Goodbye." You watched Olten depart but then, once his back was to you, your eyes fled to Rulen. The boy's head had turned; his wide-eyed stare had settled on the stablemaster—observed the ginger-haired man with a certain thoughtfulness.

A certain hesitance.

"Rulen?" Your hand had fallen from the boy's shoulder, but touched you it again gently—briefly—to garner his attention. "Is there something wrong?"

The thoughtful look clouding Rulen's eyes was suddenly burned away—chased off by the sound of his name—and he blinked, gave his head a little shake, and then turned to you. "Huh? Oh—no." Rulen shifted in his seat upon an overturned pail, and he moved his crudely fashioned walking stick so that it fell across his lap. And then he corrected himself. "No, Your Highness."

You regarded the boy carefully—eyed how his hesitance was almost curious. Unsure. Confused. And then your gaze fell to the walking stick sitting in his lap, and a small smile rose to your lips.

"Did you make that?" you asked softly. You nodded at the staff in his hands, and he quickly glanced down at it—like he hadn't known he'd even been holding it. "Your walking stick, I mean. It's very nice."

The hesitance in Rulen's eyes vanished, and another smile spread across his lips. It was golden—proud and satisfied. But now because of something he had done—something he had made.

He fingered the staff in his lap—ran his hand across the carved wood—and then raised his eyes and met your gaze. "Yeah!" His voice was bright and cheerful and full of a delighted sort of glee, and his smile widened—stretched from one ear to the other. "Yeah—I did. Do you like it? Sir Hilift and Master Naegen helped me. They're—they're really good at carving and stuff."

Confusion rose in your chest—pressed against the backs of your eyes. It threatened to settle in the planes of your face, but you pushed it back—kept it out of the curve of your lips.

When had Isil been apprenticed to a woodworker? He'd always been a swordsman—a fighter, just like his father. And a very good one—a very talented one. He was unparalleled—undefeated, though rare it was that he was challenged.

He was the best; he was the greatest swordsman to have ever lived.

And his talent exceeded all those but the gods themselves.

But wood carving? When had he ever desired to be a woodcarver? You tried to remember—to recall a memory of Isil before he was a swordsman. Before he didn't fit nicely into the shoes of his father. But he'd always fit nicely—snugly. A perfect son; a perfect successor.

Perfect, just like his sword fighting skill.

And then the memories came. They were hazy and faded—delicate, like worn fabric. Thin, transparent fabric that dripped like water from your hands. You remembered a shape—a block of wood crudely carved into a figure that resembled the shape of a horse. You remembered tools, packed away into a little chest and hidden—tucked behind a pillow. And then disappearing—being taken somewhere.

Away.

Where had they gone?

"Y-Your Highness? Princess [Name]?" Rulen was talking—calling your name. He sounded concerned—concerned and curious.

You closed your eyes, and something bitter and resentful spread across your tongue. You'd daydreamed again—lost yourself in your thoughts. You shouldn't have; you knew you shouldn't have and yet you had.