Of Thorns and Beauty by Elle Madison
Chapter Thirty-Two
The fresh air and time with Sarah and Gideon have served the purpose of calming me down somewhat. That, and the reminder that I have at least done a single decent thing in my life.
The horse is safe, and she is safe, and it's more than I can say for most of the people that I care about, certainly more than I can say for myself. But it's something.
I'm not ready to go back to my rooms yet, so Khijhana and I find ourselves once again in the study. It is vacant, as usual, and the king's words from my first week here come back to me.
Despite my efforts, the people are definitely still avoiding me. It's clear this room has seen plenty of use, and with the newfound knowledge that they have been here for seventeen years, I am sure they are all familiar enough with the castle to feel perfectly at home utilizing its many spaces.
Whether it's personal or it's about their secrets, it's clear that I am the reason for the emptiness in this wing of the castle.
I sigh, pausing near the piano, running my fingers gently over the keys.
None of it matters. It feels as if I spend half of my life reminding myself how little anything here should affect me lately.
I am still pacing the room, trying to thaw from my venture outside, when footsteps sound from the entryway. I freeze in my tracks, but don't bother to turn around. They are familiar enough to me by now, having heard them outside my room every night for weeks.
Khijhana casts the king an irritable look, and I am absurdly grateful for her support. He says nothing, neither to her, nor to me. He only walks in his usual cadence, confident steps that border on arrogance.
He has never had to doubt whether he is wanted in a room, has never had to mitigate himself for the sake of others.
I still refuse to face him, but I hear the sound of chair legs scraping against the stone floor. From the distance, I can surmise that he is sitting at the table where we played chess before.
Finally, his voice rings out behind me. It’s deep and, for a change, contains the emotion he so rarely infuses into it.
"I thought we might play another game."
I spin around before I can cover the resigned expression on my face.
"Don't we play plenty of games already?" I ask him flatly.
He studies me for a moment, taking in more of me than I want him to see, as usual.
"A different sort, then." He gestures to the chessboard.
I think about the man I saw at the festival and the way the time is slipping through my fingers so precariously, and I want to say that it's for all of those reasons that I agree.
But I know what a liar I am.
Because mostly, I just want to know him better, to explore the inner workings of his mind. So, I take my seat across from him. Once again, he flips the coin.
"I'll take your head this time," I say with the barest tilt of my lips.
He doesn't respond verbally but proceeds to flip the coin and show me the wolf's head. His move, then. I feel a satisfied smile tug at my lips, and he narrows his eyes.
"If I didn't know any better, I would swear you were playing to lose."
A small, sad laugh escapes my lips.
He doesn't know how right he is. How it feels as if I have spent my entire life with little choice but to play to lose. How there is no real winning here. No real winning for me anywhere.
But he's also wrong, because in our last game, he beat me fair and square, which is something that few men can boast. So, I say nothing.
We take our turns in a tangible sort of silence, the kind that feels louder than conversation would. The kind that says more than words do.
It isn’t until we are at least twenty minutes into the game that I hear his voice again.
"There is a sickness in the castle." The silence shatters into a thousand scattered pieces. He has broken it to tell me something I already know, and that isn't like him. So, I wait him out.
He makes a move, and I counter. Back and forth we go until he speaks again.
"It isn't new. But it is getting worse.”
I turn his words over in my head, flip them around, and study them for the answers I have wanted so desperately.
“What do you mean, worse?” I press.
Einar rubs his temples, pretending to study his knight even though we both know full well that he only has one viable move if he wants to protect his king.
“It’s progressing, and they are...suffering,” he says reluctantly as he forms a castle.
It isn’t just his move that makes the pieces he’s given me and the ones I’ve observed click together in my mind. His people haven't left this castle in seventeen years.
I wasn't allowed to bring anyone with me, and I have encountered so few of the staff or courtiers except from a distance, across a vast dining table. None of their families visit. They are closed off behind their gloves and veils in their own private wing of Alfhild.
"That's why they wear the masks?" I phrase it as a question, but it isn't, not really. It's the only thing that makes any sort of sense. He meets my eyes, nodding.
"And yet you seem concerned neither for my safety, nor your own." I gesture between our clearly unmasked faces.
"You are not at risk," he says firmly. His pupils don't change in size, and his gaze does not waver.
The truth, then.
In a much quieter voice, he answers the second part of my question. "And neither am I."
Guilt overtakes his features, and I wonder at that statement. He doesn't appear to be lying, but there was a small note of falsehood as well. And then, there's his disproportionate remorse.
Did he cause this sickness somehow?
I open my mouth to ask him, when a flurry of footsteps interrupts what I was about to say.
Sigrid sweeps into the study without preamble. I reluctantly pull my attention from the king to the woman who is shuffling much faster than usual to reach me.
When she draws closer, I notice the large ivory envelope in her hand.
My heart races.
I know who it's from before I catch sight of the address. But I stall anyway.
"I thought the post did not run often here?" I strive and fail for nonchalance in my voice.
Sigrid steps beside me, and I wonder what is in my tone or my expression that causes her to place her free hand on my arm with concern.
"It is not, but this letter is from private courier."
She doesn't have to tell me how expensive something like that would be, how extravagant, how very rare it would be to pay for such a service without an urgent need.
But she does not know the unnecessary excess with which Madame fills her life. The king’s lips begin to form a question of his own.
It's a question I don't wish to answer, so I reach out with fingers that have gone numb from lack of blood flow, fingers that feel nearly as leaden as my insides, and somehow manage to grasp the envelope.
I don't look down. I can't bear the sight of her seal, a conch shell pressed into crimson wax that drips around the edges like rivulets of blood.
I think I mutter an excuse to the king before I clamber up from the small table, heading straight for the room I was so desperate to escape only hours ago. It's not subtle, but it's all I can manage. I shut the door behind me and tear open the cursed envelope, heart thumping out an accusation with each thunderous beat.
To my most valuable daughter, she has begun her letter. Not cherished. Not loved. Valuable. Given no less and no more weight than one of the many priceless, pretty things she has draping every surface of the château.
I trust everything is going well, though, I confess, I had expected to hear from you by now.
I know how you still mourn your sister, especially this time of year. It pains me to think that if you go too long without checking in, something may befall one of the other two before you have the chance to see them again. These times are so uncertain, as we both know.
My fingers tremble so violently, the letter falls to the floor and I scramble to pick it up so I can finish reading whatever vile things she has written for me.
Of course, they are perfectly fine at the moment. And I am sure with as resourceful as you have always been, you will find a way to ensure they stay that way.
See you soon,
Mother
Footsteps sound behind the panel to the passageway, and I throw the letter into the fire on instinct. It gives me no satisfaction to watch it burn, though, not when I know nothing can rid me of that woman as easily as I destroy her letter.
I think of what my sisters wrote to me, of how her anxiety had begun to heighten even weeks ago.
I squeeze my eyes shut just as the passageway creaks open. I want to acknowledge the king's presence, to pull myself together before he sees me this way, but all I can see are golden curls soaked in a pool of blood.
Solid, steady hands cover my own, but even the king's significant warmth is not enough to chase away the chill that I can feel deep in my bones.
I force myself to breathe, in and out again, while my brain races through a thousand possibilities. Like the fact that she has set me up for failure and how she will enjoy punishing me for it.
Like how every lesson in my life up to this point has taught me not to let my emotions get the better of me, yet here I am.
"Zaina." The king uses my name so rarely, it pulls me out of my stupor.
I open my eyes, and he is so much closer than I thought. His eyes are peering down at me with none of his usual guardedness, only a look of real concern.
"What is it? Have you received bad news from home?" His voice is so soft, it threatens to break me.
I open my mouth, then close it again. I'm not sure what the right answer is. I'm not even sure what the truth is. All I know is that I'm so cold, and he is so warm, and his lips are inches from my own, and I never seem to know what's going to happen next in my life or when the next tragedy is going to strike.
I don't think. I close the space between us, pressing my lips against his. And for all the times he has rejected me in small or large ways, I don't worry about that this time.
Nor should I. He wraps his massive arms around me and pulls me closer, opening his mouth to deepen the kiss. I take his invitation, running my hands along the broad chest I’ve wanted to feel under my fingertips since that first day I saw him.
And for all that I have teased him about this thing on his face, his beard is rough against my skin, contrasting with his soft lips, and it is perfectly him. Perfectly us, I amend.
Isn't that all we are? Rough edges around smaller, softer pieces of ourselves?
He picks me up, and I wrap my legs around him while he walks us backward until he is seated in the middle of my enormous carved bed. His hands go for the buttons at the back of my dress, and I lean into him to allow him more room to maneuver.
All I want in this moment is my skin against his skin, to leach away some of the heat he carries around with him when every part of me feels so very cold.
He unfastens one button and then the next, and I am coming undone as surely as my dress, each ragged breath coming faster, mingling with his in the tiny pockets of space between our frenzied kisses.
His mouth moves down to my chin, and then my neck, and I arch my back to allow him easier access. An animalistic sound I never thought to hear from my own lips escapes me as his tongue flits across the side of my neck.
Then I see it, out of the corner of my eye, the envelope I forgot to toss into the fire along with the letter it contained. The blood-red conch shell — a promise from across the continent. And I remember what happens to the people who get close to me.
I scramble back from him, too off guard to hide my carefully honed agility. His arms stay frozen in the air for a fraction of a second before he lowers them to his side, blinking his eyes against whatever haze he is still in.
"Zaina? I'm sorry, I --"
I throw up a hand to stop him, because if there is one thing I know, it is that I cannot handle an apology from him right now.
"Just go."
He opens his mouth to argue, and I feel my resolve crumbling.
"Please," I add, realizing it is probably the first time I've ever spoken the word to him. I can barely get it out past the tightness in my throat.
His expression shutters, and whatever he was thinking is now as much a mystery to me as it ever is. Without another word, he goes to the passageway and shuts the door quietly behind him.
I wish he had slammed it. I wish I could slam it. I wish I had some outlet for all of this rage and panic and frustration. Hell, I even wish I had a bottle of that eiswein in here right about now.
Anything would be better than this sinking feeling, like I am deteriorating before my own eyes and am powerless to stop it because I know that I have no choices going forward.
This is the cycle my life will take, protecting the ones I love at the cost of literally everything else