xlii. the knight and the believer
gift
// the gods are a love rebuked. a sight familiar shirked—made strange and unknown—but turn from them all he may, their gift bears down upon him still, for when he gazes upon his hands, he faces the very wickedness they designed.
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The knight rose with the sun, while the castle was still quiet and sluggish, but he spared a moment to press a kiss to his queen's lips. Orelus had been much too perturbed to sleep, but the winter was cold, and who else might help warm the darling queen's bed?
The morning passed like a dream, and Isil returned—but in the eyes of all others arrived—early to his queen's chambers. He waited as he always did, first in the quiet, but the sound of a familiar set of footsteps eventually dampened the silence. Helesis arrived almost as she always did, but now she slowed at the sight of him—he heard the change, the slight hesitation in her step—and then, once she reached the door the queen's chambers, almost paused. Her attention was of the thin, careful sort, like a spider web—a constant pressure, but visible only in a certain light, a certain angle or time—and that time was brief and angle small. Yet now Isil felt it, and without turning his head, he glanced down at her.
Her face was angled to the door, but she watched him out of the corner of her eye, and though her hand was outstretched, ice had crept into her fingers. They hung in the air, still as stone just above the door handle, but ever more curious was the light in her eyes: how bright and warm and familiar it was, and yet tentative. Her stare was moving; it fled down him, and its pace was slow and careful—appreciative, or perhaps simply curious.
"Is something the matter?" he inquired, and his tone was neither loud nor harsh, but Helesis jumped as though he'd shouted. The line of her spine went as rigid as a board, and a flush erupted like fire across her face.
"Not—Not at all." She hastened to shake her head, and the embarrassment that colored her cheeks and brightened her eyes burned scarlet. Her tongue tripped over her own teeth, and her voice started and stopped and started again, but her thoughts were smoldering, and he watched them flake and burn. "Pardon me, I—I—"
Concern pulled at his lips, and while she stumbled and stuttered and descended quicker and quicker into an ever-deepening hole, he leaned very slowly and carefully past her and then opened the door to the queen's chambers. His arm brushed hers, and the lady-in-waiting immediately stilled; her mouth snapped shut and her sharp blue eyes grew terribly wide, but without speaking, Isil merely nodded to the room and then, when she still paused, he eyed her pointedly.
A color not unlike shame darkened Helesis's face, and she cast her gaze to the floor, drew her arms tightly to herself and offered Isil a quick and quiet, "Thank you," before disappearing into the queen's chambers. He let the door fall shut behind her, and silence descended once more upon the hall, but it lasted no longer than it ever did.
The queen appeared, noble and sure, and though she could spare him little more than a glance and a nod, there was still warmth to the motions—the pleasant, lingering sort. He dipped his head in return, and the queen looked away from him and began, lightly, "Why don't we spare Augur Molevri a visit, hmn? He may fare better this morning."
Lady Helesis nodded her head, and politely agreed, saying, "He may indeed, Your Majesty."
Doubt weighed down upon Isil's tongue, but the queen's tone was so light, so hopeful, and so he bit his tongue and said nothing. Perhaps the boy did fare better. Wounds might heal, but some festered—some fell to rot and pus, and turned flesh red and yellow and green.
The queen led them, but she paused for a moment as they passed the garden. A fine blanket of snow had settled neatly atop the trees and stones, glittering and pale. The queen had called it pretty, and so it was, but solemn, too—empty. Dust ground from bones, and scattered across the earth by Aeriz's cold, frostbitten hands. Soon would follow the wolves in their thick winter coats, and once they found flesh upon which to feast, mournful Velenna would descend, cloaked in shadow and feather, and guide the weary soul to his final rest.
A man stood in the garden—King Orelus, still and quiet, and made stark by all the bright, white nothing around him. His back was to them, and his head was bowed. He was alone. He was unaware.
An itch, slow and hot, crawled up Isil's arm, and Khimos's glare sat heavy at the base of his neck. Death knew itself in the flesh of wolves and ravens, but war was a bear, and fury a dog. What would be lost with the death of a tyrant? What all was there to gain?
Stand now, boy.
Isil took a small, firm step forward, but then his gaze fled to his queen. She was turning; she was moving, and yet slowly, or perhaps she merely seemed to move at a snail's pace. All that stood around him hesitated. All save him held their breath.
The tyrant had not yet an heir.
He clenched his teeth and steeled his bones, and then he turned. The queen was saying something, something soft and light.
"Let's not bother him," she murmured, and her calm, careful stare fled briefly to Helesis and then to Isil, yet before they could depart, a voice, deep and harsh, called out to them.
"Who goes there?" The king spoke roughly, and his gaze fixed itself firmly upon the queen—found her so quickly it must've been drawn there by a string. Fatigue lined the tyrant's face, and his eyes were dark and tired, but exhaustion made him no less awful, and though his tone was curious and somewhat confused, fatigue made him harsh. "Why've you come through here?"
The queen paused at the sound of Orelus's voice, and despite his tone, she inclined her head and replied, smoothly, "Forgive me, my lord—I didn't mean to disturb you. I was only hoping to see how Augur Molevri fared, and thought I might pass by." She watched the monster, and though her face did not change, Isil thought he spied pity flash briefly in her eyes. But perhaps it was not a thought, for then, but a moment later, the queen inquired, in a tone much kinder than Orelus deserved, "Would you care to join me?"
Her invitation was hardly unexpected, but Orelus paused regardless, and Isil narrowed his eyes at the monster. The tyrant stared at the queen, and for a moment his dark gaze became unfocused and soft, but then he rubbed at his eyes and shook his head.
The king of Ceorid muttered something under his breath, but to the queen, he said, gruffly, "Sure."
Then he stepped over to them, or perhaps lumbered, and now the four of them continued toward the temple. Yet Isil's blood was rife with needles, and dogs of fire gnawed at his lungs and heart. The king walked at the queen's side, and she kept politely distant, but even when well-rested, the king knew not how to keep to himself.
Do what is right. He seeks Mehreus's knowledge, boy. What might he want?
Something awful. Something terrible. It must be. It simply must.
"Are you alright, my lord?" She placed a gentle, tentative hand upon the king's arm, and despite his sluggishness, the tyrant was quick to cover her fingers with his own. "I...noticed that you did not come to bed last night."
No, the king hadn't, and how fair and respectable such a decision had proven itself to be. Perhaps one of the tyrant's finest.
A night spent in her embrace; a piece of calm, but could it not have been more? Might it have been a week, or a month, or an entire life?
He had failed to kill Orelus once. Would he do so again?
Be our sword, boy.
"Did you, perchance, sleep not at all?" the queen continued lightly, and her tone was soft with concern, but it was of the polite sort. She had fared just fine in the king's absence—of that, Isil had made certain.
Orelus squeezed her hand, but no smile graced his lips—perhaps he knew not how to grin—and he said, quietly, though sternly, "I'm fine." He looked as though he might say nothing more, but then he turned his head to look at the queen, and a thought passed like a shadow over his face. "I...did not mean to deny you company. Time must've," he paused, furrowed his brow and frowned, "it must've escaped me."
The queen hummed and made to take back her hand, but Orelus's grip was firm, and she was quick to relent. She walked so carefully near the tyrant—moved as though the very ground beneath her was made of glass. It was not right.
Do not deny your nature.
"So it did," she agreed, and her tone was smooth and even and clear, but Orelus's eyes were narrowing, and his jaw was set. "Time is a fickle thing."
"I'll make right on it," he continued, and his voice was so firm and somber that his words sounded almost like an oath. Such a tone did not belong on a monster's lips, and yet it fell off the king's tongue as easily as it might from any honest man's.
The queen blinked, and surprise brightened her eyes. "Oh." She looked at the king, and he met her gaze without faltering. "Alright."
The itch was in his chest and feet—in the very tips of his fingers. It reached for the hilt of his sword, begged for the weight of steel—for the feel of a blade.
How awful was the death of a tyrant? But that was a foolish question: a tyrant's death was never awful. There could be only joy. An immediate rush, like water bursting free of a dam.
What would follow? Another clamor for the throne? War? Death? Aeriz's loathsome wolves standing tall atop Ceorid's mountain peaks, their thick coats outlined by a midnight sun. Ravens would perch upon their shoulders, and together they would leer down at the kingdom of Ceorid, but they would find no people.
Isil held his breath. His chest was hot, and his blood boiled, but the air was made of ice, and if he watched his queen—if he could but remember where he was—perhaps he might breathe. He was not fury. He was not hate.
Do not deny us.
They entered the temple, and the roar in his ears seemed now to echo off the walls. Edite stood tall and proud, and she stared down at him without sympathy, without pity or care.
Be as you were made. Do as you are commanded.
Not today. Not yet.
What was the death of a man to a god?
The caretaker greeted them with a smile, but her gaze lingered upon Isil, and the look in her eyes was much too knowing. What did it matter if he knew mercy: Orelus hardly deserved it. The tyrant had earned death, and that, Isil could promise, but not quite yet.
The knight breathed, and the noise in his head wavered. Like a wave, it abated—pulled back from his skull and bones—but the tide would wash in again, and he had not his queen's calm.
Would he ever?
"I've had him keep to his bed," the caretaker was saying. She spoke evenly, and her tone was low and soft. Orelus and the queen followed immediately after her, and behind them walked Helesis and Isil. "He awoke this morning with little more than a slight headache, but in the matter of possessions, one can never be too careful."
No, certainly not. How does a man recover from having his entire skull hollowed out to fit the will of a god?
The caretaker opened the door to allow them in, and the queen and Orelus entered the hallway without issue, but just as Isil stepped aside to allow Helesis to cross the threshold, the king of Ceorid glanced back at them, narrowed his eyes, and said, in a tone that was so sharp and rough it sounded nearly like a bark, "He doesn't need a greeting party."
Helesis went completely still, but Isil's spine turned to bristles, and without thinking, he placed a hand upon the lady-in-waiting's shoulder. His eyes met Orelus's, and despite the king's fatigue, he met Isil's glare without faltering. The tyrant's eyes were dark, dark and cold, and what a delight it would be to rip them right out of his skull, but just as Isil was moving to push Helesis aside, the queen spoke.
"Might they not stay, my lord?" Her tone was soft and calm, and again, Isil spied her gentle hand moving to graze the king's broad shoulder. "Molevri knows them well. He won't mind them." Orelus's glare fell to her, but she did not wither beneath his stare and instead listed her head to the side and continued, gently, "It may even be a comfort to him to know how well, and greatly, he is cared for."
Orelus's frown was firm, but slowly—perhaps out of fatigue—his dark stare began to soften, and he relented, his tone low, "Fine." His gaze fled back to Isil, and his glare sharpened to a nasty, cruel point. "Stay near the door. I don't want you suffocating him."
A thought rose to Isil's lips, but then came the queen's gaze, warm and pleading, and so he clenched his jaw and sunk his teeth into the flesh of his tongue. For a moment, he thought he tasted metal, but no pain followed.
What might a tyrant want with Mehreus?
Nothing good. Nothing right.
Stiffly, he nodded his head, but the caretaker watched him, and she knew—she must. But she, too, said nothing.
A day would come when assassins did not slink in the shadows of Ceorid's great mountains, and the queen's safety was as certain as stone. Then, and only then, might the tyrant king of Ceorid meet justice.