xx. the king and the augur
general
// firm are his iron bones. they make him tall and proud, and they cage a black, charred heart. a heart that knew too much of blood and flames; a heart that learned too quickly the feeling of fire.
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The knight of Alaimore was honest in his hate. He wore it openly, foolishly, as though it were some badge of honor, some flag waved to rally troops bred of similar spite. It was refreshing, his odd candor—a change of pace as unexpected as it was dangerous, for the night had proven the man's hatred, though honest, to be untamed, and wild creatures could not be permitted to wander the halls of Ceorid's castle, especially not those born of such a treacherous and vitriolic nature.
The memory of the knight's scathing glare still lingered in Orelus's flesh—the heat of the man's narrowed eyes, his unveiled contempt, bearing down upon the king's skull like the blade of a great sword. Distance had not lessened the blow, and now that the knight was before him, Orelus could spy in hideous detail the cold ire gleaming in the man's stony eyes.
His hatred was like a shadow—a crooked, pointed darkness that sharpened the edges of his young face and thinned the line of his lips; a dog, growling at the thief who had dared to tread upon his master's land. But this land was not his lord's, and the king of Ceorid was no thief.
All he had acquired had been hard-earned, and now, just as he was beginning to enjoy the fruits of his labor, a vile mutt had come barking at his heels.
"I'm not keen to waste time—mine, or yours—so I'll cut right to the chase," Orelus started, his eyes narrowed. He watched Sir Isil carefully and scrutinized the position of the man's hands and the movement of his gaze. The knight's sword and daggers had been forfeited, but a man's bare hands were just as dangerous as his blade. "Clearly, you harbor little affection for me. I wager, even, that you very well despise me—abhor the very earth upon which you stand."
Sir Isil's eyes narrowed, and the flames of his rage flickered. Orelus had seen such enmity before; he recognized the shape of it—its vengeful gleam and cruel point—but familiarity did not engender sympathy. Rather, it spoke of suspicion, of guards and brandished swords and the safety of distance, but enemies were best kept at arm's length. There, their designs were in the plainest view, and retribution was not so difficult to deliver.
"Frankly, I could've stood to ignore this vitriol, but even I cannot feign blindness when you wear your enmity as plainly as the day," Orelus continued. His voice was low and biting, and a familiar harshness was creeping into his tone—growling in the back of his throat. "I do not enjoy the warning of a blade at my neck, Sir Isil, least of all when I am within the confines of my own home."
The line of the knight's mouth tightened, but his glower did not fade and in the candlelight, his doggish anger gleamed like wolf teeth.
"I am not King Johan; you have no oath to me, nor I to you," Orelus stepped closer to the man, and when he next spoke, his voice was quiet, and warning colored his tone, "so either you learn to curb your spite, or you leave."
Out of the corner of his eye, Orelus saw the knight's right hand move. The man was curling his fingers into the shape of a fist.
No—he wasn't that foolish, was he?
Had Orelus's eyes deceived him? Had he spied stupidity and misinterpreted bravery?
"Do you understand?" Orelus watched the man, scrutinized him with eyes as pointed as his sword, and for a moment, the frown that pulled at his lips deepened.
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.
His stare fell to the boy who stood at the statue's base. The boy's back was to the king, and his attention was so focused upon his current task that he did not acknowledge the man's presence, or perhaps even register it.
"Molevri." Orelus called the boy's name abruptly, but the sharpness that had earlier hardened his tone had faded.
Still, the boy jumped at the sound of his name, and when his body whirled to face the king of Ceorid, his hazel eyes were as wide as frightened deer's. But then recognition washed over him, and warmth returned to his pupils.
"Orelus." Relief was clear in his tone, and as the king approached him, Orelus could spy the beginnings of a small smile spreading tentatively across the boy's face. He had something in his hands—a feather from some small bird—and he played with it as he spoke. "You—you startled me."
A frown pulled at the line of Orelus's mouth. "You've gotten easier to spook," he replied shortly, his dark stare narrowing in suspicious concern, "I was hardly quiet."
The boy's smile flickered, and he swallowed and replied, "I—I suppose I...have." Something dark gleamed briefly in the boy's young eyes, and a grimace swallowed his smile.
Dread, deeper and cooler than the impatience pooling in Orelus's chest, rose to dig into the back of his skull. The nightmares—the apocalyptic visions—they must be worsening. He could see it in Molevri's face—in his hollow cheeks and darkling eyes. They had once been so bright—so full of life and vigor, like their brother's—but the witch had squandered his youth, and now the gods were draining what remained.
How petty of the gods—how utterly predictable.
Frustration blossomed in Orelus's chest, but it came with fear, small and yellow in color. Its taste was a familiar—a bitter tang welling in his mouth—but Orelus was quick to swallow it. He bowed no longer to fear, especially not that born of the gods' designs.
"The mirror—where is it?" A softness had invaded Orelus's low tone, and the dread that had invaded his mouth shifted into a kinder shape when it left his tongue.
The shadow that had crossed the boy's face did not return, but fear, like a cool fire, flickered briefly in his eyes. "I put it away." Molevri paused, and then he added, his voice quiet, like a whisper, "It has eyes; I've felt them...watching me."
The frown pulling at Orelus's lips deepened, but impatience was biting at his concern, and he began, his voice smooth and light, "Can you bear its gaze, for just a moment?" He paused and his hand moved to finger the grip of his sword. "I need to be made...certain of something."
Something dark and reluctance fled across Molevri's face, but then a thought, hopeful and bright, gleamed in his eyes. "Then...the queen." The boy swallowed, and the disbelief that had colored his tone began to shift. "The woman with the silver tongue—she's real." The boy's voice grew louder—lighter—and something like hope warmed his pale cheeks. "I thought I'd recognized her but...but I was worried it was just another dream."
Amusement warmed Orelus's chest, and a small smile pressed at his lips. "I promised I would find her, didn't I?" But then impatience dug again into his spine, and he leaned toward the boy. "Now, the mirror, Molevri?"
The darker color of hesitation peeked out from behind the delightful light that brightened the boy's face, but he tightened his grip upon the feather in his hand and nodded his head. "Gi—Give me a moment."
Orelus watched the boy turn and disappear behind a door just off to the side of the great statue, and in his absence, the goddess's stare grew heavy.
He heard the flutter of wings; he saw a flash of feathers, perching upon dusty wooden beams. And in the back of his head, he felt her pull. A tug, like the push of a wave, grabbing at his skull. A breath of wind dusting the shell of his ear.
It is a dangerous path, this one you now walk.
Her voice was smooth—a respite in the storm. A warm bed for the broken body, but her lies did not deceive Orelus. He knew the hideous truth that lay beneath her kind disguise.
Abandon it now, lest it leave you stranded in the midst of an unsympathetic sea.
A bird twittered, but its call was not joyful. Orelus could feel its stare. It dug into the back of its head like the knight's, but its gaze was not quite so pointed. The air had grown colder, and though the door had not been opened, a sharp breeze now wound its way down the length of the room.
The frustration that had taken root in Orelus's chest flared forth once more, and a glower rose to his lips. His anger was pointed and focused; he'd had so long to refine it, to mold it into a shape worth fearing.
"Save your breath." He forced the words out between his teeth, and when he lifted his gaze, he set it upon the goddess's stone face. The eyes had not moved; she was not within the marble. "I do not flinch at empty threats."
You are sailing for a cliff, cousin. Look, and you shall see it.
His lips curled back from his teeth, and his eyes narrowed until they were dark slits. "You are not welcome in my presence. Leave this place, or I'll pay your threats in kind."
The breeze strengthened, and the bird's chirping grew louder—harsher. It was no songbird; it was a crow. A death omen, screeching at him.
The boy suffers for your choices. Have you no love for him?
The anger was hot, like a fire—a sun burning in his chest—but its flame would not swallow him. What was there left to devour?
"Get out."
A pause; the wind held its breath, and when it exhaled, she was gone.
He felt it in the back of his head: a sudden lapse of pressure and warmth as sticky as blood. The scent of incense still dug at his chest, but there was no screeching in his ears—no wind, tugging at his cloak or pulling at his hair, and when he turned to look behind himself, all his eyes found sitting upon the cracking floor was a feather, long and white.
The snarl that pulled at his lips settled into the shape of a glower, but he did not move to grab the plume. Better it stay as it was left, so its memory might sooner vanish from his mind.
"Orelus?" Molevri's soft voice pulled Orelus free of anger's tight hold, and his eyes fled to the boy. Molevri watched him with eyes bright with curiosity, and he continued, his voice light, "Is something the matter?"
Without hesitating, Orelus shook his head, but a bitter aftertaste lingered on his tongue. "No. I was thinking, is all."
"Oh, alright." Molevri's stare dimmed, and his eyes fell to the bundle he carried in his arms. "Well, I—I have the mirror, as you requested."
A desire leaped into Orelus's throat, and anticipation prompted him to step forward. "Good—good." His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and his stare fixed itself upon the mirror, covered though it was by thick fabric. "Look into it. See what fates it has to offer."
A frown pressed at Molevri's lips, and reluctance devoured the color in his eyes, but he brought back the dark covering obscuring the mirror's surface and turned his stare upon its silver face. For a moment, he was silent, and his eyes were narrowed, but then, after a breath, a milky sheen bled into the dark shadows of his pupils, and his gaze slowly widened.
Impatience forced Orelus's tongue to move, and he parted his lips. "What do you see?"
Molevri opened his mouth, and when he spoke, he did so slowly—hesitantly. "A man—a king. He...he looks like you." At first, the boy's voice was soft, but as he continued to stare into the mirror, it grew slowly stronger—firmer. "He sits upon a throne, and the woman with the silver tongue—she is beside him. There is a child—a boy. No—two boys. A girl?" Molevri paused and confusion bled into his tone. "She's—she's looking at me. She...knows something."
Alarm ran red hot through Orelus's veins, and swiftly, he moved to wrench the mirror free of Molevri's grip. "Stop it—that's enough."
Molevri's eyelids fluttered, and the milky sheen that had covered his pupils began to fade. "But...she wanted to show it to me." The words fell in the murmur of a quiet afterthought, and the boy furrowed his brows. Confusion darkened his eyes—surprise at being so forcibly removed from the mirror's vision—but after a moment, he recalled the place in which he stood.
Swiftly, Orelus threw the sheet back over the mirror's silver face, and then he cleared his throat. "Thank you, Molevri." Satisfaction smoothed his tone, and his gaze softened. "I must be going, now; don't stay up too late."
The boy shook his head and blinked his eyes again, and then a smile, soft and tentative, curled his lips. "I—I'll think about it," he replied, his voice quiet, but then a thought darkened his countenance, and his grin faded, "but...Orelus...the visions."
Concern brushed up against Orelus's chest, and he set the mirror down upon the table. "They've gotten worse, haven't they?"
Molevri nodded, and a shudder ran down his spine. "I—I've seen Mother...and—and Vaelen." The boy hesitated, and his voice quivered. "Their faces they're...they're twisted. They cry out to me; they're—they're always in agony, Orelus, and I...I don't know why." Molevri's gaze had fled to the side while he'd spoken, but now he lifted it to meet Orelus's stare. His eyes were wide and glistening—pleading, as though Orelus knew how to aid him. "I...I want to help them."
Something cold dug into the base of Orelus's spine, and for a moment, he thought he heard the flutter of wings, but it was only the wooden beams, creaking in the wind.
"They're long passed, Molevri." Orelus moved closer to the boy, and place a hand upon his shoulder. His tone was not soft—there was no softening such a truth—but his stare was not unkind, and though his voice was low, it was not warningly so. "Take no heed of the gods' and their fear-mongering; nothing more can be done for the dead." Orelus's gaze fled briefly to the statue of Edite, and a frown tugged at the line of his mouth. "You must save your concern for the living."