My Beloved Queen

CHAPTER FORTY

xl. the king and the caretaker

keeper
// a strange beast, that which gives without expectation of return. love for the sake of it, for the good of that which shall be always adored.

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The queen had left, but her warmth remained—a pleasant ghost, tied to a space much smaller than Orelus's memories. The bedchamber had always been tight, but now it was like a chest, and wood and fabric spilled over its tall edges. A chair in place of a stool; a new bed, and fresher paint, but the window panes were the same, and if he peered out them, the view they'd offer might be familiar enough to call strange.

Molevri slept, and the silence watched.

Edite, too, knew cruelty—knew how to take and twist man's flesh, to force mortals to bow to her whims. What a crafty, clever goddess she was. Slip into the boy's mind; his flesh and bone would dull the press of her divinity. There had been nothing. No pinch—no press or poke or prod. She could have done whatever she'd pleased—said all that she desired and more—and Orelus would have been none the wiser.

For what cause had she hollowed out Molevri's skull? To make bear his king's crime? To turn the queen against her husband?

How petty of Edite—how unsurprisingly trifling. She could not stop the king of Ceorid, and so instead, she made to undermine what little he possessed.

If Edite descended again, he'd kill her.

"Orelus?" The caretaker's voice was quiet, soft as fleece, but the silence lifted its head like a dog, and its yellow eyes fled to the creaking door.

Orelus did not turn to spy the old woman, but he glanced to the side, at the window and the pieces of sky beyond. A hum rumbled in the depths of his chest, and the sound was almost soft. Perhaps his memories had dulled it; perhaps the ghost of the queen's touch had warmed his throat.

The caretaker walked slowly, and he glimpsed the fingers of her hand just as her palm lighted upon his arm. "Do you plan to keep watch all night, dear?" she inquired. The curl of a smile softened her quiet tone, and her grin was as light as air and gentle as a whisper.

Molevri's breaths came even and quiet, and his flank rose and fell without issue. The temple was supposed to allay his nightmares. Such was Edite's blessing: no augur should suffer terror when swaddled in her embrace, but exceptions were like wolves, and they gnawed at the chinks in her stumbling faculties. Credit should be given where it was due, and Molevri had once known worse nights, but was this much better?

Edite kept her temple only at the behest, and need, of its only augur and caretaker, but how much good did it truly work? The queen offered her time and care to it, but would she adore it still, now? After she had borne witness to the unkindness the gods could propagate against the weak?

"Do you suppose I should?" The fear was cold and dark, and the silence curled back its upper lip. Might Edite descend again in the night? Would she dare?

He demanded nothing from her, and he expected only what she had always sworn to give: asylum for the weary, and were the caretaker and augur not exhausted? The gods had stolen so much time and joy from them both. Druasis had given it up willingly—or so she claimed—but Molevri had had no time to make such sacrifices, and still, he suffered.

The gods found their augurs in the womb, and witches plucked ignorant young.

"My sentiments should have no bearing on yours, dearheart." The caretaker squeezed his arm, and then, slowly, she moved to sit beside him. "Molevri's wellbeing does not depend upon you alone."