My Beloved Queen

CHAPTER TWENTY

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.