My Beloved Queen

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

xxii. the queen and the crown

duty
// the sun climbs with the rising dawn; the moon descends as the night falls. they know their places in the sky, and never have they balked in fear of their duties.

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The moonlight lacked sympathy. It demanded that you close your eyes and rest your head, revel in its quiet joys, and when you hesitated, it moved to pick at your flesh—to prod and jeer and mock your reluctance. It did not care that your heart flinched when the shadows shifted, or that red-blooded terrors reared their ugly heads when your eyes closed.

Terror was foreign to Atia. Even in days of shadow, she was always surrounded by light: Nirmos and his many eyes, scrutinizing the path for her, clearing it of monsters and thorns. Could he spare an eye for you? Could he lend a second of his time—rake the dark shadows of the bed-chamber with his piercing light?

There was a knock on the door. It came without warning—a shatter of glass breaking the heavy silence—and a flinch grabbed hold of your frame. Your eyes fled to the door, and a nightmare pressed at the backs of your teeth. For a moment, you knew not how to swallow it, or if it could indeed be stomached, and in the silence, the shadows leaned forward to loom hatefully along the edges of your vision.

Then came a voice, familiar though muffled, from behind the door.

"Your Majesties, this is Sir Isil." He spoke loudly and quickly, as though the words were already leaping from his lips, and his voice was hurrying to catch up to them. "I'm—I'm so sorry to bother you at this hour, but I heard what happened and I," you heard him pause, and the shadows moved to wrap their fingers around your throat, "I wish to ascertain that you are, indeed, well."

The nightmare blocked your windpipe, and your tongue lay broken and useless in your mouth. But you curled your fingers into the bedsheets, and a sound, weak and quiet, dragged itself past your teeth.

"Come in."

Immediately, the door opened, and Isil's familiar shape stepped into view. Moonlight outlined his frame, and, in the dark, his eyes gleamed like pieces of silver. His stare flitted about the bed-chamber, and his gaze was wide and brimming with concern, with an apology that had already advanced to the tip of his tongue. He was not breathless. No, air was all that filled his lungs; you heard it rush from his lips when his stare found yours, and you saw how the line of his shoulders relaxed as he sighed.

"You're alright," he started, and his voice sounded raw, like someone had tried to skin it, and he paused to swallow, "good. Very good. My—My sincerest apologies for taking so long, Your Majesty. I swear, I shan't ever...."

Then his eyes fled to the side, where the sheets that had once covered King Orelus had been thrown aside, and his voice trailed off. The linens sat as the king had left them, wrinkled and empty, beholden to a memory so fresh that it flared to life when you closed your eyes.

"Where is the king?" Isil's eyes, so wide and bright, narrowed, and his voice deepened. It was still raw, puffy and bleeding, but now darker—angrier.

The shadows grabbed for your tongue, but you managed, for a moment, to evade their grasp.

"He left to secure the castle," you replied, but the words were little more than an echo. Thoughts repeated until you forgot their meaning, until you made them as hollow as a bird's bones.

"He did what?" Isil's expression darkened, and a flame as bright as the sun and as red as blood flashed in his eyes. "An assassin was found here, in this very room," his frown deepened as he spoke, and his nostrils flared, "and his first thought was to abandon you?"