xliv. the queen and the cynic
objector
// a horse is a horse. nothing more, nothing less. there is no further essence to inquire after—no other purpose or truth served. the words strung now together are that and nothing more, for only fools read meaning into mud.
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The king walked quickly, and you struggled to match his pace. He was nearly running, nearly tugging you along like a thoughtless doll, and you stumbled over your skirt and feet and perhaps even the air itself. His grips was firm, iron-clad, nearly, and he allowed you no slack—kept you along right at his side like a good pet.
"My lord!" Surprise stole the words from your tongue, and they left in a gasp of air so rushed and unfinished that you said again, but firmer, "My lord, a moment, please."
But King Orelus did not hear you, or did not care, and he stopped only once he'd reached wherever it was he'd intended to bring you. The guards dipped their heads to their king and queen and moved, with alacrity, to open the door, and the king turned then and said to a servant, in a tone that was low and firm and by all means an order, "Fetch us a scribe."
The servant set off immediately, and afterward, King Orelus tugged you into the room, procured for you a chair, and gestured for you to sit, but hesitation bound your limbs, and instead, you remained standing. Isil had followed you, had kept along right at your heels, and he did not hesitate to venture into the study after you. The knight's eyes were narrowed, and a glower marred his handsome face and pulled his lips into a frown so sour that it stole into his cheeks, but just as the king's stare was shifting to the knight, Helesis followed in, breathing hard. She stood near Isil, glanced first at the king and then to you, but her blue-jewel eyes were wide and her brow knit, and she pulled her lips into a line that was wary and feeble.
An awful hum had stolen into the hollows of your skull—the drumming of your own heart, beating desperately in your chest—but you stomached a breath and pressed down against the uncertainty picking its careful way up your spine.
There sat a desk at one end of the chamber, and near it stood a rack of swords, polished and neatly kept, but their hilts were inset with jewels, and onto the scabbard of one a gleaming coat of arms had been engraved: a falcon, with its beak open and dark wings spread, and its wicked talons curled firm about the necks of a two-headed snake.
Swords should be buried with their masters.
The lullaby and its sweet tune sat still on your tongue, but there was little warmth to the king's study, and the taste in your mouth began, ever slowly, to sour. What might he hope to discover in the lyrics of an old lullaby? A little gift, perhaps—a small secret, slipped into the folds of Edite's lullaby. Edite, so motherly and kind, who'd invited a little mortal girl into her lap, who'd held that child and murmured to her a comfort to stay her through the night.
Edite, who'd meant for her little songbird to be given to her brother, who'd done nothing when the ignorant little nightingale had set off for a kingdom she had never been meant to rule.
"My lord," you began quietly, and at the sound of your voice, Orelus's gaze shifted to you, but the frown he bore was firm, and the design gleaming in the depths of his dark eyes dug unkindly into the flesh of your stomach, "Might I inquire as to Your Majesty's cause for bringing us here so...abruptly?" You turned to the king, and though a great deal of space separated him from Isil, you carefully—and discreetly—moved to stand before the king. Uncertainty made to press at your tongue—suspicion, and the voice what bore it sounded not unlike Isil's—but you kept your tone smooth and even and added, somewhat curtly, "I had not the time to say my goodbyes to neither Caretaker Druasis nor Augur Molevri."
King Orelus met your gaze, and though fatigue hung dark beneath his eyes, the thought what gleamed in his pupils made them bright, and he replied, in a tone that was both even and low, "They won't take it to heart." He nodded again to the chair, then, and continued, firmly, "Sit. The scribe may be a while."
The sour taste stealing into your gums and tongue bled into your lips, but, carefully, you stepped over to the chair Orelus had provided you and lighted upon it. Helesis hesitated to stand at your side, however, and moved only after Isil began to approach. She kept her gaze lowered and her head bowed, and as she walked, she made certain to step along just behind your knight.
She was not wrong to doubt—to fear—but no harm would come to her, least of all that brought down by Orelus's hand. He would lay not a finger upon her—of that, you would make certain.
King Orelus's attention shifted to his desk, and he stepped over to it and began rummaging about for some token or book—the design that had so totally possessed him, that held now the reins of his thoughts and burned so brightly in his eyes. His frown was deepening, but the lines that furrowed his brow were thoughtful and somber, and he stared firmly at the items he'd pulled out.
What secret did he think to find?
Should he discover it? Might you allow him such?
A heaviness was settling in the air, a weight awkward and uncertain, and you shifted in your seat and folded your hands in your lap and did what you could to keep your expression placid and smooth. Might confusion be allowed? Trepidation?
Should a goddess's secret not be kept?
"My lord?" you called softly, and the king glanced up at you, but impatience was bleeding now into his lips, and his narrowing gaze shifted to the door.
"What is it?" he asked, but he spoke roughly—sharply—and the shadows darkening his face hardened his tired eyes. Yet, oddly enough, he heard his own tone—mused over its brusqueness for a moment as short as a breath—and then he paused, ground his teeth and pressed his palm flat against the top of his desk, and inquired, in a tone that was tight but not quite so harsh, "Yes?"
You allowed yourself a frown, but its taste was contemplative, and you met Orelus's gaze and inquired, "What do you think to find?"
Orelus's dark eyes were still firm and sharp, but the light that brightened them was much too eager, much too determined. A thought so bold would turn pale and twisted in the eyes of monsters, and the sight pressed against your skin like bristle—like nettles tipped in a prickling, slow poison—but then there came a sharp knocking on the door, and the guards called out the identity of the visitor.
A smile tugged then at the corners of the king's mouth, and it was such a small, slight twitch, but it had passed, and it had been real.
"Seems we'll know in just a moment," he mused. The satisfaction that colored his tone settled like sandpaper against your ears, and the weight pressing down upon the chamber thickened and soured, but you appeared no further perplexed than you should, and the king turned his attention to the door and called out, louder, "Let him in."
The scribe noted the lullaby—took great care that every vowel and consonant was carefully and accurately dictated—and afterward, being then done with you, the king sent you on your way, but as you departed, he called for a scholar—ordered that one be sent for post-haste.
What would he find? What was there to find?
Perhaps some clue as to Mehreus's whereabouts? But that would be ridiculous. Why might Edite have hidden so important a secret in her lullaby? King Odemis and Queen Qodes would have never allowed it.
Would Edite have told them? Would she have had any cause to? She was a goddess in her own right, and Mehreus her brother.
And you should have been his wife.
The day crept along, but Isil's attention did not waver, and you felt the thoughts that pressed at his skull—saw them twist and turn about in the depths of his eyes. His frown was firm and troubled, but you were not alone, so you kept along until you could afford to turn to him, to grab his hand and sit with him in quiet and unfurl the uncertainties weighing down upon your chest.
Your duties for the day reached their eventual end, and you sent Helesis on her way, but Isil remained, and in the safety of a quiet corner in the castle, you sat with him. He wore his gloves, though he should have no cause to, and so you removed them and held his bare hand.
"What do you suppose he'll find?" It was your voice what broke the silence. A soft, gentle question, curling off your tongue and settling like dust in the air. Your gaze rose to Isil's face, but he was watching your fingers, and his troubled frown was bitter and hard.
He breathed in through his nose, breathed so deep that his shoulders rose, and then he exhaled and narrowed his eyes. "I haven't the faintest idea," he admitted. His voice rumbled in his chest, and discontent and suspicion colored his tone a dark, reddish color. "But I don't like it." He took your hand in his, rubbed his thumb over your knuckles, and slowly shook his head.
"It's something to do with Mehreus," he continued, and his voice was now little more than a mutter. "It must be." He stroked his chin and squinted, but his frown did not buckle. "But it's a simple lullaby. What's there to find in it?"
You mirrored the man's frown and leaned forward to find his eyes. "It wouldn't necessarily be beyond the gods to hide something in a lullaby," you murmured. "Toreus did once conceal gold in bundles of wheat."
Isil's gaze shifted to meet yours, and a softness stole into his eyes, but a wariness still sharpened their shape, and he clenched his jaw. "What might Edite have hidden, then?"
You furrowed your brow, but though no words came to your tongue, Isil read you as well as a book.
"I know you swore to help him," he began slowly, and his tone was firm but gentle, "but I've this sneaking suspicion that Orelus hasn't been entirely...forthright in regards to his plans." He squeezed your hand and brought his face closer to yours. "He is keeping something from us—from you. For what other cause does he continue to purport secrecy?"
The sour taste in your mouth sunk its fangs into your cheeks, and the uncertainty that you had attempted so purposefully to squash snuck again into your chest. "No cause comes to mind, at the moment," you began after a pause, but the words were hesitant to escape your lips, and Isil was quick.
He turned to face you and grabbed both your hands in his, and then he started, in a tone that was low but earnest, "Why must you continue to aid him, then?" He brought a hand to your face and cupped your cheek most gingerly, and the tenderness that brightened his kind, familiar eyes was firm. "You owe him nothing."
You met Isil's gaze, and the uncertainty began to curl its long, spindly fingers about your heart, but Molevri's face sat there in your mind, and you touched the back of Isil's hand.
"If I might insure Molevri's life—" you began, but, immediately, frustration flashed in Isil's eyes, and he grabbed your shoulders.
"But what if Orelus is lying, [Name]?" he interrupted. His tone was hot and sharp, and his grasp tight, but concern alone darkened his gaze, and distress soured his frown. "What if he seeks not at all to cure whatever curse plagues him? What if he's merely using the boy to—to fool you?"
The frown that pulled at your lips grew firm, and you shook your head and replied, somberly, "Orelus would never—not where Molevri's concerned."
Doubt pressed at Isil's distress. You watched it settle in the lines of his face—pull at the line of his mouth and steal into the flesh of his limbs.
"How can you be so sure?" he pressed.
Your eyes shifted, and for a moment, you stared past Isil. You saw Molevri lying there, weak and sick and looking all but dead, and then came Orelus, the cruel, monstrous tyrant of Ceorid, wrenching open the door—marching across the room with all the power and fury of a thunderstorm—but then, at Molevri's bedside, he fell to his knees, and the roar that was his anger faltered and nearly died. And when you'd departed, he'd remained there at the boy's side. He'd sat so quietly, waited so earnestly for some sign—some proof that the boy would again wake. The king had not slept. You'd seen him—as had Isil—standing all alone in the garden, watching the tree and perhaps recalling, for a moment, memories kinder than the moment he now lived.
King Orelus was cruel and unkind, and yet, you hesitated to hate him—hesitated to call that which you felt hate. Fear, he instilled in leaps and bounds—terror, even, for one of his hands could, if he so chose, snap your throat, or crush your skull—and every now and again, when for a moment you thought to spy the memory of a man in him, you knew pity. Your heart harbored no love for him, better it was that it had come across a notion so beautiful as apathy, but no manner of indifference could blind you to the care with which he treated Molevri and Druasis. He loved them, and if monsters could not love, then he felt something in regard to them, at the very least—something what might be called love.
"He loves Molevri, Isil," you murmured, and now, slowly, your gaze shifted to the knight, "loves him as though he were his own son."
Isil met your stare, but his frown faltered, and his grasp began to wane. Slowly, his hands shifted to hold your arms, and then he cast his gaze to your lap, shook his head, and sighed.
"He's hiding something," he muttered under his breath, but you heard him, and you reached out a hand to touch his cheek. "I know he is."
You brought your arms around Isil, held him close and tight, and he pulled you even nearer.
"I don't doubt your instincts," you murmured softly, and Isil curled his fingers into the fabric of your clothes and breathed deep, "but for Molevri, I am willing to take the risk."