My Beloved Queen

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

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."