My Beloved Queen

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

xlvii. the king and the keeper

mother
// the maker of all things—giver and sustainer. the mother of the end; she who gave, so he might have a thing to take.

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The sky was pale, but the fire in the hearth chased off the chill seeping from the castle's walls, and King Orelus leaned into the pleasant heat—rested in it a while. Word would be coming, soon. He had only to wait, and had he not experience enough?

The ice would soon thaw, and Admiral Elvorth's messenger would arrive with news concerning ships and crew. A mortal fleet could stand no chance against the might of a god, armed even with the finest sailors and soldiers. It would crumble like dirt beneath an iron heel, and the gaping maw man named a sea would swallow its ships whole, but if they ferried an offering—if they disguised their intentions in the silk and silver wrappings of a beloved gift, perhaps that god could be made a fool. Perhaps that prisoner in serpent scales might be rendered for a moment blind and deaf to the danger about him, and Orelus could pluck from that foolish god's own flesh a scale of glimmering truth. A moment—he needed only a moment.

And he would have it.

A knock at the door of his chambers rattled his thoughts, and irritation, cold and dark, pulled the king's lips into the shape of a disgruntled frown. "Not now," he bit out firmly, and then he made to finish polishing the hilt of the sword he'd briefly set aside, but the knock came again, sharper this time. He closed his eyes a moment, and then, in a voice nearly as low as a growl, he called, "Yes?"

"Caretaker Druasis wishes to speak with Your Majesty," the guard replied.

Orelus paused, and his eyes began to widen, but the frown pressing at his lips deepened now, and he set down his polishing cloth, grabbed his sword's sheath, and began to rise from his chair. "She may." His grip upon the sword's hilt began to tighten, and his eyes narrowed, but his heart remained steady.

Why had she ventured from the temple? Had something happened? Why hadn't she sent a servant?

The door opened, and in stepped the caretaker. Her brow was knit, and a frown pressed at her lips, but she dipped her head to her king, and then, in that familiar, rich tone of hers, she greeted him, saying, "Good afternoon, Your Majesty."

The silence had been resting, but now the fur along its spine began to stand, and it opened one of its sulfur yellow eyes and flared its pointed nostrils.

"Caretaker." He nodded in return, but then his feet were moving, and in one quick motion, he sheathed his sword and grabbed the old woman gently by the arms. "Why've you come here? Is something the matter?" He was so close; he waited now only for the thaw. Might the gods attempt to cripple him now, in this pause? "Lev—how does he fair?"

The king's voice remained low, but his tone was firm, and he peered deeply into the caretaker's eyes—stared as though he might take her thoughts and read them as plain as a picture.

The caretaker furrowed her brow and placed a hand upon Orelus's chest, but the warmth of her touch was slow to steal into his lungs. "He's fine, dearheart," she assured him, but though her tone was gentle and tender, her frown remained firm, and the weight of her stare pressed just a touch heavier. "All is well."

The silence lashed its tail and huffed, and Orelus allowed himself a slow, deep breath, but no ease spilled into his muscles, softened or relaxed them, and he remained stiff, ready, at a word—nay, a glance—to move, to defend all that was his by virtue of his merit.