My Beloved Queen

CHAPTER TWENTY

There was no place in these halls for a powerful, spiteful ass; Ceorid had long since suffered its fill of such fools.

The knight's gaze darkened, and a wicked, metallic gleam flickered in his sharp pupils. His jaw tightened and his nostrils flared, but then, just as Orelus's thumb brushed up against the hilt of his blade, a thought, as quick and as bright as lightning, flashed across the knight's face.

"Indeed, I do," when he spoke, his voice was tight, and his response fell reluctantly from his frowning lips, but his fingers uncurled themselves from their angry fists, and his sharp stare shifted downward, "Your...Majesty."

Surprise, pointed and biting, dug into the base of Orelus's neck, and his eyes narrowed.

Perhaps the knight truly was more brave than idiotic, or perhaps even fools were capable of moments of clarity.

"I'm glad we could come to an understanding," Orelus replied. No smile curled his lips, but a lightness had seeped into his tone. "This talk was more productive than I had hoped." The quicker the dog learned the nature of his novel circumstances, the better—for him, and for his master. "But it has, still, cost me precious time.

"Goodbye, Sir Isil," the king began, and then, in a manner reminiscent of the statements of other noblemen, he added, dryly, "If we must talk again, I hope the matter of discussion is more...amicable."

Without another word, nor a glance back at King Johan's bravest knight, the king of Ceorid turned and began walking first to the door and then—once he was free of the room and the threat of trivial discussion—down the hall. He moved quickly, and perhaps, if he were younger, he would've started running. He had lost enough time—wasted it on a foolish dog the king of Alaimore had called a knight—but he needed to know; he had to make certain that these fruits were still all they appeared.

Too often had he been fooled by deceitful fantasies—dreams as ephemeral as the morning fog. They had tasted of honey, but their sweetness had been false, and the iron tang of blood had quickly drowned their sugary bodies.

Mothers stolen by cruel, wicked gods. Fathers and brothers gutted by cold, unfeeling blades.

He had held them in his hands, but like water, they had slipped between his fingers, and when he'd tried to grab them—to make them stay—he had found that his palms were empty. They had already disappeared—vanished in the heat of a goddess's cruel light.

The scent of incense was bitter, and its taste weighed heavy upon Orelus's tongue, but again, he stomached its uncomfortable pressure and pushed open the door to the castle temple. Wedding decorations still dressed its walls, and the table upon which the ceremonial crowns had laid had yet to be put away. Yet, despite the warmth lingering in such festivities, an uncomfortable chill had begun to seep into the air, here. It dripped from the stone walls and tarnished braziers—the cracking floors and paltry offerings. It came from the goddess's statue, from her cold, scrutinizing eyes and severe expression. She saw all: weddings and births, and victories and treaties; destructions and defeats, and killings and curses.

She watched the world and judged as gods and goddesses do, but the thought of action had always escaped her careful eyes. She had seen a general plot to poison his king, but had she stayed his hand? Had she forced her acolytes to take pause when they'd planned a child's murder?

How great was the goddess who could see but lacked the hands with which to act? How mighty was her power? How beneficial was her favor?

The scent of incense dug like needles into Orelus's eyes, and he tore his gaze away from the goddess of wisdom's harsh stone face. Inquiries made to the gods were foolish; their power was useful only in so much as it served his designs.