xxxviii. the queen and the damned
sinner
// the world crumbles in his hands, and all of heaven looks on—judges the beginning of the end with cool contempt. he has suffered much, but agony is no excuse, and he will bear witness to the cold wrath of justice.
————
Anticipation gathered like rain water. It pooled in every crack and crevice, muddy and dark in color, and as cold as the winter air. Your feet sat in it, and when it froze, you would be fixed to the floor, but the ice would not stop there. No, it would spread like a disease, a sickness crawling with all the finesse of a spider up your legs. It would settle in your blood and bones and flesh; it would make you into stone: a statue in a room forgotten, destined for neglect—for the company of dust and silence alone.
Edite's voice echoed, but its ripples were as large as waves, and despite all your struggling, you would sink all the same. The mountains of Ceorid did not tower above you. They sprawled below, and King Orelus had chained you to them. Down they dragged you—down to the depths of Mehreus's cage, to the ends of a wasteland as vast as the sky. The world was dark, there, and cold as ice, and the only sound was that of your own heartbeat, stuttering in your ears—eroded by the push and pull of the apathetic waves.
What life could you have known?
Perhaps she would have made you a little nightingale, joyful of heart and little chest bursting with the notes of a tune that was yours alone to sing. You would perform your part with earnest delight—the wonderful grace that belonged to sincere contentment—and you would not stumble or falter. A life spent in service to Edite? How good and right; Qodes did not stand for all the gods.
What joy might have been yours?
Orelus had stolen your destiny. He had plucked it out of your fingers, and you had sat and watched him all the while. Quiet. No speaking—no objection or request for pause. He had taken it, and you had not doubted whether it had ever been his to have. Life as a queen of men was your fate—was supposed to be the destiny for which you kept along—yet Ceorid was not at all the place for which you had been made, and to its throne you had been unjustly bound.
Orelus had known the life for which you'd been destined, and still, he'd married you. He'd deceived you—in the temple, in the bed—and he had said nothing. Nothing. How long would he have continued in his deception, pleasantly complacent in the perpetuation of your mistaken fate—eager not to correct you, happier still that you remain his wife and queen, that you bear him children with eyes and faces like his.
Had Father known? Had Mother? Had they seen and not cared? Perhaps they'd considered other worries first against your own, but could they not still have told you? A word in passing. One true, honest warning to strip you of your ignorance? So that you might not be such a fool; so that you might not waste so much energy sewing sense into your fate.
Augur Molevri had tried to warn you. Uncertain, he'd called you. So you were. Uncertain and amorphous. The water of the sea, always pushing and pulling, but now you were frozen, and an artisan with hands calloused from battle had fashioned you into the statue of a queen.
Molevri had fallen into the arms of sleep, and Caretaker Druasis had squeezed another chair into the room. Isil stood behind you, and if not for his hand upon your shoulder, your lungs may have turned to stone. The curls of your hair tickled your cheeks and neck, but you did not try yet to fix them. You could feel Edite's fingers still, running through your locks, smoothing and brushing and mussing all at once.
She knew, and yet, she had done nothing.
Nothing.
Apologies, she'd given, so sweet and flat. A hollow tune, but did you not adore the sound? Edite, O stork of feathers white, sing again. Confer your apologies once more; tell your darling nightingale how awfully you lament her fate.
Augur Molevri shifted, and slowly, you brought your hand back to your lap. He deserved to dream, to bear witness only to warm, wonderful things. He had suffered for condolences alone. Beautiful, fleeting apologies. Was Orelus so monstrous that even gods hesitated to face him? Or did they believe mortals strong enough to defeat him in their stead?
You touched Isil's hand—held his fingers, so warm and firm they were. The only source of heat; the only shape strong and kind enough to remain. What were you to do? What could be done?
"When will Augur Molevri wake?" Your voice was quiet—a soft, fluttering thing, mixing with sand and seafoam—and in your lap sat the mask. You ran your fingers over its surface, touched its cheeks and lips and brow. So like yours and yet not yours; so cool and firm, and yet if you dropped it, it would shatter as easily as glass.
Caretaker Druasis looked over at you. You saw her head move out of the corner of your eye, but your gaze was fixed upon Molevri. Let him dream of clear skies and golden fields. Of butterflies and birds and berries as sweet as honey. Let him have good things, Edite. Let the poor boy smile.
If fate be uncertain, then grant him peace of mind.
"I'm afraid I know not, Your Majesty," Druasis replied quietly. She was light of tone, but her voice was a low whisper. "He may wake in an hour, or perhaps he'll sleep away the remainder of the day."
What life might you now be living, had your destiny not been stolen?
A sour taste was filling your mouth, and the salt of the water burned your eyes, but the only sound that escaped your lips was a sigh, and you held firmly to Isil's hand. "Is certainty but a dream?" It was a thought, somber and soft, and curling off your tongue in a murmur, but Druasis heard it still. What keen ears she had.
"It can seem so at times, can't it?" the caretaker mused, but a rueful, knowing smile was pulling at her aged lips, and she laced her hands together. "But change is certain, and a cause will never not bear an effect." Her head did not turn, but her eyes shifted to you, and she smiled just a tad softer. "Lyla once told me: allow that which is wild to remain so; certainty can be found in the small things."
You met the woman's stare, gazed upon her somber, wise smile, and for a moment, the chill in the water began to abate, but then came the sound of footsteps. The noise was muffled, but the sound carried still: they were low and heavy and quick, like fury, and your heart reached immediately for your throat, but when your gaze fell to your lap, your hands hesitated.
Orelus had taken your life from you. If he had not cared then, he would not care now.
Should you cry, or smile? Scream at him. Sob and beg for the return of what he had taken. A false king. A false husband.
Wake not, Molevri. Dream a dream too wonderful to abandon. You deserve your rest, dear boy.
The door was thrown open with a slam that could rival thunder, and the crash was so loud, so jarring, that you nearly leaped from your seat. Instead, you turned and grabbed Isil's arm with both hands, and then your gaze flew to the door. Orelus stormed in just as your eyes found him, and though the room was so small he had to bend his head to enter, he was able to cross the entire width of it in just a few quick, heavy steps. In a blink, he was at the bedside, and then he was kneeling and looking Molevri up and down—examining the boy's face and touching his neck and the insides of his wrists. His movements were quick and panicked—not nearly as gentle as Druasis's—but there was care to them still. Even bears had cubs.
His elbow brushed your skirt, but he had not yet noticed you; his attention was fixed firmly upon Molevri, and you still had yet to bear the mask.
"What happened?" The king's eyes were sharp and peering, but not unkind, and the line of his shoulders was rigid. "Who did this?" He glanced at the caretaker, and though his tone was low and brusque, it was no growl—no bite, sharp and snapping. "Will he be alright?"
Caretaker Druasis touched the king's arm, and her press was gentle and comforting. "He'll be fine, Orelus," she murmured, and the king did not blink at the sound of his name. "Don't worry. Molevri's a strong boy."
The king looked back at the augur boy, and his motions began to slow. He set a heavy hand atop Molevri's shoulder; stared firmly at the sleeping boy, as though perhaps a gaze alone might wake him from his slumber; and then gave the augur's arm a comforting squeeze. There was still water in the room—anticipation, cold and creeping—and the air was as thick as storm clouds.
Orelus's sharp, dark eyes were peering still, and though he drew back his hand, his gaze did not shift. "How did this happen?"
You held Isil's arm, and he squeezed your shoulder. Fear was cold, and the chill of the water had not numbed your flesh. He was the bane of the gods. He had called Edite weak, and yet she had done this.
Might it surprise him, or would he feel only fury?
"There was a," Druasis paused, but she stared so kindly upon Orelus, so tenderly, like a mother, and then she continued, calmly, "possession. A god spoke through him."
The air was too thick to breathe. Silence crashed like a stone; Orelus's spine was iron, and the quiet was eerie and cold—unpredictable, and prickling with whiplike electricity. His fingers were curling, and you stared at his knuckles, watched them turn as white as bone and bulge beneath his skin. He could crush skulls; he had crushed skulls and spines and bones in limbs and chests. His fury was cold and biting; as large as a bear and yet more sinister, more careful—more deliberate. He wielded it like a sword, a gleaming blade and razor-edge, and in a blink, it could be upon you. In another, you would be dead.
"What?" Orelus spoke slowly, and now there was a snarl in his voice—a growl, as low and rumbling as thunder—and hate like venom dripped from his teeth. His gaze was moving to Druasis, but she did not flinch beneath his narrowing stare. "Who would dare?"
The line of Druasis's mouth was firm and tight, and she frowned at the king. "I do not know," she replied. Her tone was honest and even and as calm as a placid pool. Too calm. Did she not fear him? "I came later, well after the god had departed."
"Who did see, then?" Orelus was rising to his feet, and Druasis's hand was slipping from his arm, but the only shadow that crossed her face was that of concern. The king's eyes were sharpening, hardening, and his tone was cold—ice on his steel tongue. "Did anyone?"
Speak, but your heart was in your throat, and your mouth tasted of sand. What might he do, if he knew his deception was no longer secret? Would it upset him? Would he care at all?
The mask. Take the mask.
Druasis's gaze was shifting, and there was a rushing sound in your ears. The water was moving, the water was roaring. It was alive. It was a serpent, with eyes of cold, unfeeling white.
"I was there, my lord." With an awkward, almost jerking motion, you released your grip upon Isil's arm, and then, carefully and delicately, you set your hands in your lap. You spoke softly, lightly, but you could force out no more air around your heart, nor cajole your frozen tongue to mold a heavier sound.
Orelus's gaze flew to you, and for a fleeting moment, surprise widened his sharp eyes, but then they narrowed again, and his frown deepened. He was firm, almost rigid, but his nostrils were flaring, and his teeth were sharp.
"What god dared possess Molevri?" he demanded lowly. He gaze was a glare, harsh and unforgiving, and your mouth ran suddenly dry.
"Edite, my lord," you replied quietly, carefully. A sound too loud would shake the room, would wake Molevri, who deserved to sleep, to remain wonderfully deaf to the world.
Let him have his dream.
"Edite?" Orelus echoed. His frown was a grimace, and then a snarl, and now there shone a light in his eyes—a sharp, cruel flicker: the gleam of a sword unsheathed.
The water roared, and your pulse thrummed in your skull, but you swallowed thickly and reached out a hand. Your fingers found Orelus's arm, and you touched his wrist and eyed him softly—carefully. Your chest was tight, too tight, and yet, you had to still breathe, to speak and swallow.
"Yes, my lord," you nodded your head, and then you added, carefully, "she...spoke to me."
Orelus stilled. Silently, he watched you; his gaze was sharpening, but the fury—the shadows, so twisted and cold—began to recede, and then he said, firmly and lowly, "I think it best we continue this conversation in private."
He placed his other hand atop yours, and then his gaze shifted to Druasis, but the caretaker was already standing, and she nodded at the king. A frown was pulling at her lips, and concern darkened her stare, but she left without complaint. Isil, however, remained, and Orelus's gaze shifted slowly to him.
Before the king could speak, you patted Isil's fingers and said, your tone even, "Wait for us with the caretaker. If I need of you, I shall call."
Isil inhaled sharply, but he squeezed your shoulder and, reluctantly, stepped back and dipped his head. Then, with another sharp, pointed glance in Orelus's direction, he left. He took his time, but the room was not made for a lingering departure, and in another moment, only you, Orelus, and Molevri remained. The boy slept peacefully, and what a wonder it would be to join him, but you were all too awake.
You took back your hand, and without once looking away from you, Orelus settled into Druasis's chair. His stare was heavy and firm, and his eyes so dark they swallowed his pupils, but their weight seemed only to grow, to stretch and fester and unwind.
"What did she tell you?" He was quieter, now. Quiet but still firm, still cold, and yet his scrutiny burned. He was the chill that scorched like fire, the ice that tore through skin and muscle with all the rapacity of flame.
Nothing that was untrue.
Slowly, you breathed, and in the exhale, you gathered the bitterness in your chest and set it briefly aside. He wished to talk of gods now, did he? To clear his name? To remove the blame for the wrong done against you?
"She...apologized," you began carefully. Your tone was calm and even, but you could not take the weight from it or soften its edges. You had not the strength. "She said she'd fashioned quite the fate for me," you stared at him, "but it had been stolen."
Orelus had leaned forward in his seat, and now his forearms rested upon his legs. His face was stone, and his eyes were dark and bottomless—endless as the sea and turned black by storm. He did not flinch beneath your stare, nor did he falter at your tone; he met your gaze with apathy, a sureness that was so aloof it was cruel.
The stillness in the air had fingers of bone. They sat about your throat, threatened to press but then thought not to, and yet they need not choke you. There were already stones in your throat, heavy, scorching coals sending burning smoke into your eyes, but tears were fruitless here.
The king's stare flitted to your hair, and his cold eyes narrowed. "Why is your hair down?" It was another demand, an inquiry so sharp and pointed it may have dug like a dagger into your stomach, but you expected no less.
Monsters had no shame. They did not know the word.
Anger was warming your chest and hardening your tongue, and its taste was so bitter and acrid that you wanted nothing more than to spit it out, so you breathed, in and then out, and then you began, in a voice that was careful and tight, "It was Edite's choice, my lord, not mine own."
Orelus clenched his jaw, and the muscles at his temples flexed beneath the pressure, but then he glanced away from you, to Molevri, still soundly asleep upon the bed. Slowly, as though moving through mud, the king brought his hand to his chin and stroked his beard, and his frown, so hard and tight it was, soured.
"She said your fate had been stolen, did she?" His voice was still low, was still a growl that rumbled in the back of his throat, but the harshness of it was abating, and now its tone was sour and gray.
You gave him a slow, slight nod. "She did." You laced your fingers together to hide their trembling. A shiver was crawling down your spine, and its touch was icy and spider-like.
Briefly, Orelus closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose, and when he opened his eyes again, his gaze was fixed upon you, and frustration gleamed in his boundless pupils. "Come here." He beckoned you nearer with a quick motioning of his fingers, and then he sat back in his chair.
With delicate care, you stood and brought your chair closer, but hesitance slowed your movements, and when your knee brushed the king's, you nearly paused. He watched you for a moment, but his gaze was falling again to the augur boy, and a look that was somber and bitter crossed his face.
When you sat again, a sigh, heavy and low, fell from Orelus's lips, and he rubbed at his eyes. He lowered his hand, but now his fingers were reaching, and when they found yours, you nearly drew away. The king gazed at your hand, at the way in which it fit in his own, and then he squinted and rubbed your knuckles with his thumb. His skin was rough, but his touch was gentle, and when he ran his other hand down his face he stopped at his mouth—let it sit there, all thoughtful and wondering, like a scholar's.
"Did she describe this stolen destiny?" His tone was still firm, demanding, but in a manner most quiet. He spoke as he did in the bed-chamber: a murmur, gentle and low, but to call it kind was to afford him credit undeserved.
You watched him caress your fingers, and then your gaze rose to his face, but he was not looking at you. He stared at your hand, scrutinized it as though he might find some secret in your flesh, some other design to make his own.
"No," you replied, and it was not a complete lie. A frown lined your lips, and you continued, in a tone that was gentle but firm, "But," you paused to swallow a breath, "even if she had, I think it only fair that the thief be allowed to explain his end."
There it was: a thought, almost true, but made even and soft. The words could have made it an accusation, but your voice was much too careful, and your tone gentle and cool. The anger was stern, but Edite's apologies were not empty: there was peace in them, calm that might keep the mind steady, that might help fill your lungs.
Orelus's thumb stilled, and a thought sharp and dark and thorny flashed in his eyes, but he squeezed your fingers and let his hand fall from his face. "She said nothing of the curse that hounds this 'thief,' did she?" He glanced at your face, but your silence was answer enough, and a short, flat hum rumbled in his chest. "I thought not." He released your hand and leaned back in his seat, and then he folded his arms across his breast and frowned. "I know not the intricacies of whatever fate Edite had planned for you. All I was ever made privy to—all I ever cared to know—was that you were to be given to Edite's unfortunate brother."
The air in your lungs was cold, startlingly so, and your surprise moved too quickly for you to catch it. "Mehreus?" You tried to smooth out your tone, but your tongue was trembling. "The gods arranged for me to—to wed Mehreus?"
A life, bound to a god?
Then who might Didi have wed?
Orelus's glare soured to a glower. "The gods know little of marriage," he replied shortly, and his tone was so sharp and biting and quick that it sunk like an arrow in your chest, "and they possess even less respect for it."
Your frown deepened, but you should not mind his words. He despised them. He was their monster; of course, he would be cruel and unkind whenever the chance arose. How odd, that he and an assassin might share something so ugly in common.
"It was my fate to shoulder." Disbelief was rising to your lips—despair and anguish, but he would not understand. If he had not cared to try then, why would he now? "My right to know it." A question was rising to your lips, but he might think it an accusation, so you paused to stifle it and asked instead, in a tone that was somber and pale with incredulity, "My lord, why would you bother yourself with me?"
Orelus sat up a tad straighter, and the line of his shoulders stiffened, but he paused before speaking. "I have need of the Serpent's knowledge," he glanced at Molevri, and for a moment, the shape of his dark eyes almost softened, "and you have the power to summon him."
The breath in your lungs stilled, and you leaned back in your seat, but you could not escape Orelus's gaze. "Mehreus was deliberately placed beneath the sea, my lord." Your brow furrowed, and Orelus's stare shifted to you, you did not try to soften your frown. "Is it wise to strive against the will of the gods?"
Slowly, Orelus uncrossed his arms and leaned toward you. The motion was deliberate and smooth, and you were reminded suddenly of the size of him. He was a mountain, a giant of a man; the room grew smaller around him—folded in on itself until there was space only for him.
"You were born to bring him above the waters." He stared into your eyes and leered down at you like a bear on its hind legs, yet you did not crumble. "What will, in that, is shirked?"
What, indeed.
"May I ask why my lord seeks Mehreus's knowledge?" you inquired. You made your tone light and curious—firm but always gently so—but reluctance still curbed your tongue and hardened your heart.
Mehreus knew much. Too much. What might a monster do, if he possessed all that which resided within a god's mind?
Orelus did not falter, and he rested his forearms upon his thighs. "He knows the cure to the curse that plagues me," he replied evenly. His eyes slid to Molevri, and you followed his gaze. "It is a cruel beast. It will not kill me," Molevri shifted again in his sleep, and Orelus paused; when he continued, his voice was nearly a murmur, and you felt his stare settle briefly upon your face, "but it instead seeks to destroy all I hold dear."
Molevri's expression was smooth and clear, and as peaceful as you had ever seen it. Nightmares plagued him, and Edite herself had, if but for a moment, taken from him his faculties. Unfounded suffering was deserved by no one.
Orelus looked upon him with such care, such affection, like a father's, and the sight was so odd upon his harsh, stony face, but perhaps there was a man in him. Some memory of a poor, unfortunate boy, abandoned by his mother and betrayed by the very people he had been raised to trust.
King Orelus of Ceorid deserved no pity, but Molevri?
For a moment, you glimpsed Didi's face, and the fingers around your throat squeezed without mercy. Let them both be well. Let them both be happy.
Your hand found Molevri's arm, and you gave his wrist a gentle, comforting squeeze. He was so thin—so awfully frail.
"The boy should not suffer for the faults of his betters," you whispered. Concern rose again, but its color was somber and anguished. You would never know the joys of your fate, but perhaps there could be delight in offering what was left of it to those in need of peace. "I know not how I may help, but what I can offer, I shall."
The line of Orelus's mouth softened somewhat, and the edge of his stare dulled, but his gaze was still firm, and when he placed his hand on your knee, the weight of his touch was as heavy as lead. His palm was warm, and yet there was no comfort in the heat. No apology. It was simple, stern satisfaction alone, and perhaps even if it had not been, you would have still turned from it.
You shifted in your seat, and then you fixed the king of Ceorid with a look that was firm and sober. "Lives should be saved in pairs," you added evenly. Orelus furrowed his brow but did not speak, and so you continued, stern but not unkind, "I ask, then, that while I do all I can to ensure the end to the boy's suffering, that my lord might extend a similar courtesy to the assassin."
Orelus's eyes were narrowing, but before he could open his mouth, you added, in a gentle, pressing tone, "The assassin has a few secrets still, and did my lord not say that dead men do not talk?"
A hum, long and low, rumbled in the king of Ceorid's chest, and he watched you, but the only light that burned in his eyes was one of annoyance—a frustrated sort of dissatisfaction. He kept his hand upon your knee, and his thumb rubbed circles into the fabric of your skirt.
"We shall see," he replied finally. Then, after another pause, as thoughtful as the last, he leaned forward and pressed a slow, and almost tender kiss to your lips, but the taste it left on your tongue was bitter, and when he drew back, he did so only to press his forehead against your own. A murmur was falling from his lips, and his tone was as sincere as a promise: "You are still my wife."
One of his hands had moved to cover both of your own, but the other remained upon your knee, and you watched them and felt them. He offered such gentle, tender apathy, and your heart could not help but echo it.
How odd was the reverse of the love. How strange to hold, to cradle to your breast and watch suckle.
How kind.
"So I am," you whispered.