xxxvii. the knight and the soothsayer
fate
// destiny stands forever triumphant, the judge and maker—the cause and its end. there is no room for error and no time for hesitation. there is only that which must be, that which cannot not exist.
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The augur boy had crumbled like sand—like a corpse, suddenly empty and dead—but there he was, on the floor, writhing and twitching. Edite had spoken through him; she'd turned all of his body into an instrument, but the augur was not made of metal or wood. He had flesh and blood and brains. What would happen to all of that? What was happening to it, to him?
Gods. Edite, why?
Isil's hands were raised, but they had no place to settle, so he touched the queen's shoulder and waist. Fire was spreading up his fingers, and an itch had settled in his palms, but his attention was twisted, and he did not dare let the queen go.
Edite had freed the queen's hair, and now it fell in childish locks about her face—wild and careless, unfettered by time or duty. She was not a queen at all; she was a girl frozen by horror, made helpless by the very goddess she adored.
The echoes lingered: Edite's voice, surging above the augur boy's—speaking through him and over him and twisting his tongue as though it was her own.
There came a sound from behind, and Isil turned his head. The caretaker was approaching; the old woman's gaze was set high, and her eyes settled first upon Isil. Her eyebrows were raised, and concern darkened her face, but confusion was what lined her lips, and when she spoke, her tone was gentle and inquisitorial.
"What seems to be the matter?" she asked, and Isil glanced immediately at the queen, but [Name]'s gaze was fixed upon the augur boy.
Isil leaned toward her, and despite the burning in his hands, he squeezed her shoulder and murmured softly into her ear, "[Name]."
The queen started and turned, and though there was a tremble in her arms, when her eyes found the caretaker's face, she set her jaw. "Caretaker Druasis." Her tongue did not shiver, and she swallowed a short, shaky breath of air and ushered the caretaker over. "Over here, quickly. Molevri is... He's not well."
Immediately, the caretaker's eyes widened, and she hurried to them. Isil stepped back to allow her space, but he kept a careful watch and did not move his hand from the queen's shoulder. The augur boy's seizures had all but diminished, and once he'd completely stilled, the caretaker knelt down beside him and touched his face and throat and wrists. The old woman's hands were gentle, but her motions were awfully practiced, and after a few minutes of examination, she glanced back at Isil and the queen.
"He must be brought to a bed," she said, and her tone was gentle but firm—practiced, like her hands. There was no surprise in her eyes, no shock or horror at the aftermath laid bare before her.
How often had this happened?
Isil stepped forward, and as he knelt down to pick up the boy, Caretaker Druasis added, quickly, "Careful with his head."
For a moment, Isil paused, and then, with great, delicate care, he hooked one arm beneath the boy's knees and wound the other about the augur's upper back, and when he brought Molevri to his chest, the boy's head lolled almost like that of a corpse. Molevri was light—awfully so. He was a dead weight, a sack of feathers tied up in a burial shroud, and the slow rise and fall of his chest was nothing but a trick of the eye.
Edite had stolen all the substance in Molevri—had carved it all out so that she might fit temporarily within the bounds of his skin.
Isil's fingers curled, and his grip on the boy tightened. He cradled the augur to his chest and stood, and the caretaker led them through a back door, the same one through which she and Molevri had often disappeared in search of incense or offerings. Age hung in the air—the smell of old wood and the weight of undisturbed dust—and the scent was as somber as it was heavy. They passed doors with tarnished knobs, and near the bottom of one such door, Isil glimpsed the fingers of a faded blue handprint. It was a tiny, dark thing—a child's handprint, with fingers splayed.
The caretaker brought them finally into a small room where the top of Isil's head nearly brushed the ceiling, and she guided Isil to a small, thin bed that had been pushed up against the far wall. There was hardly room in the chamber for two persons, let alone five, and in order to get to the bed, he had to step carefully around an old wooden chair that had been set near the only window in the room. There was no dust in the chamber, but only the bedsheets showed any sign of having been recently changed.
Gently, Isil set Molevri down upon the bed, and then he stepped back, toward the window and the lonely wooden chair. The queen was beside him, and the caretaker covered Molevri with an old woolen blanket and brushed back his hair. There was a chill in the room, a cold rising from some memory, some forgotten shadow staining the old floor, but Isil did not shudder. His spine was stone, and his mouth tasted of ash. Molevri was still and calm, and no pain or agony twisted his expression, but peace shared awful similarity to death, and for a moment, the boy's face was almost that of a friend.
The anger burned, but its heat could do little to warm him. The gods called this love?
"Will he be alright?" The queen's voice was soft and tentative—a careful breath of air, as though a thought alone might further crush the augur boy. Her face was again smooth, but there was a roughness to the edges of her mask, and a slight tremble still shook her fingers.
An embrace would be right and good, but Isil had to settle for a hand upon her back, instead. Her hair brushed his fingers, but perhaps it was better that the leather of his gloves denied him the sensation. She was bare; Edite had stripped her to her bones, but she was not alone.
The caretaker smoothed down Molevri's hair with a gentle, careful hand, and then she returned to her full height and stepped back. "He'll live," she sighed. The shadows of her face were soft, but a somber, knowing frown pulled at her lips, and she folded her hands. "His spirit is strong. Even a god's will would struggle to erode it."
The queen watched the caretaker, and Isil moved his touch to her elbow. "Has...this happened before?"
"To Molevri?" Caretaker Druasis's gaze fled to the queen, and a color that was nearly as gray as fatigue lined her eyes. "No, Your Majesty. This, for him, is painfully new." The old woman looked past them, to the little window and its sill. "But I have witnessed gods in the flesh of other augurs." Briefly, she closed her eyes, and the line of her mouth thinned. "Not often, of course. The pure will of a god is detrimental to the body and mind, no matter how fettered or contained.
"But sometimes, when visions were not enough, or an augur's voice alone was too feeble, they would steel their will, and the light of a god would flood them." The caretaker's stare returned to the queen, and the shape of her old eyes was kind. "I take it Your Majesty has not witnessed a demonstration of this power before, yes?"
The queen tried to smile, but the curl was waxy and pale. "Not till today."
Druasis's gaze softened, and she touched the queen's arm and then glanced at Isil. "Sir Isil, might you fetch us that chair there?"
Isil gave the queen's arm a reassuring squeeze, and then he turned and did as the caretaker requested. Wordlessly, he set the chair down at the augur boy's bedside, and he watched as Druasis gently guided the queen to sit.
"It's a rare sight, Your Majesty, that I swear," Druasis murmured. Her tone was low, comforting, and she offered the queen a light, soft smile. "This first time may very well be your last." The caretaker gave the queen's hand a soft pat, and then she glanced up, to Helesis, who watched them so quietly from the doorway Isil had almost forgotten she was there. "Lady Helesis, will you kindly send a servant to tell Orelus that Molevri has fainted?" The line of Druasis's mouth became firm again, and though her tone was still overtly gentle, a stern warning now underlined it, "Do not say more than that. I will take care to inform the king of the details."
Helesis glanced at the queen and then her gaze fled to Isil, and her clear stare was uncertain and clouded, but Isil offered her a short, firm nod, and almost immediately, the ice that had fixed her legs and arms and neck melted. Helesis dipped her head and turned on her heel, and she quickly disappeared back the way they had come.
She was a nimble woman, almost frighteningly so, but perhaps her alacrity was what had garnered her a position as a lady-in-waiting.
Molevri shifted, but the motion was but a rustle in his sleep, and now the rise and fall of his chest was even and soft. The queen leaned forward and rested a gentle hand upon Molevri's leg, and her touch was motherly and comforting, though perhaps she meant to soothe not only the boy.
Isil moved to stand behind her, and the queen glanced up at the sound. Her face was not smooth, and thoughts crumpled her expression and pulled at her lips and eyes and brow, but Isil could only rest his hand on her shoulder and squeeze. She touched his fingers and knuckles, and her narrowing, gleaming stare fell back to the augur boy. Thoughts were swarming in her skull; he heard them—a buzz beneath all the quiet, all the old, somber memories hanging in the cold air.
Perhaps they had once had a chance to know a life together. Perhaps Adalleth had been meant to survive, but Isil's own foolishness had robbed a good man of his life and gifted a monster more room to breathe.
Was all that had passed truly lost? Was there not time to salvage something, to right at least one wrong? He had the sword no longer, but in his hands, might any tool do? He was no hero, no champion or savior, but perhaps a monster could only be slain by the hands of its ilk.
The anger burned, and yet the cold did not shift or falter at its touch. The smell of the old wood was in his nose and chest, but the knife in his hands was meant for carving trees, and there was no destruction in his cutting.
The gods wanted tools, but he was not yet hollow. He had flesh and blood and brains, and if the gods would not right their own wrongs, then he would pick up their slack.