Dragonoak: Gall and Wormwood, page 24
I wondered if that had ever stopped anyone.
“The Princess is resting, and is not to be disturbed,” one of them said, chin raised. “Queen’s orders.”
Had time not been of the essence, Akela and I would’ve enjoyed watching Kidira make them tremble in their boots with a few pointed words. Given the nature of the situation, Akela saw to their spears with a few swift swings of her axe. The spearheads clattered against the floor and the guards wound up pointing blunt sticks at us.
“This is, these are the King’s orders,” the healer explained as we headed up the stairs. “So you’re not—you won’t be in trouble for this. Sorry. I’m sorry, we…”
The healer was recognisable enough for the guards to sternly stand their ground, but not head after us. Healers in the castle were a class in and of themselves, I supposed. It didn’t matter where they came from or what they’d done before this, because their powers were not something that money could buy or noble bloodlines could entangle with.
I shouldered the door open. Clearly, it was a bad night for sleeping. Claire was in the living area with a discarded book at her feet and her temple rested against her fist. Her eyes were on the verge of being heavy, until we barged in.
“Rowan,” she said, voice groggy. “What’s wrong?”
“Sorry, sorry. I am not meaning to scare you,” Akela said, dropping her axe onto the sofa. Reaching up, she pulled her hair loose and raked her fingers through it. “I am being rudely awakened, and I am not having time to be brushing my hair. You are looking at it, yes! There is so much, I am not controlling it easily.”
Which Claire took to mean that Rylan’s armies weren’t pounding on the castle doors.
“It’s the King. We need to see him now,” I said, and Claire’s fingers curled around the arm of the chair. “Your mother’s with him. The healer came to find me, which means…”
I didn’t have to finish my sentence. There was no convincing to be done. Claire took her cane when Kidira handed it to her and pushed herself to her feet.
“Are you alright?” I asked, taking her arm.
She stared ahead. Not at the healer, but at the darkness beyond. There was nothing like regret etched into her features, and not once did she murmur anything like I should’ve gone sooner. She simply put one foot in front of the other and moved towards the door, as though we were not headed to her father’s deathbed.
CHAPTER XIII
Outside, it was beyond dark. The black of night made me forget the ever growing heat, and dark clouds covered the stars. We were a breath away from a summer storm, and all felt it. Akela and Kidira let me and Claire go ahead and watched our backs, and the healer fumbled his way around the dark surrounding the lake, muttering apologies as he went.
I wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault the King was dying, or that he’d chosen such a poor time for it, but to him, it was his fault. It had been his duty to hold the King’s life in some sort of balance, yet it had all slipped between his fingers. The fact that he’d left the King’s side was proof enough of that. He knew beyond knowing that there was nothing more to be done for him.
Outside the manor house, we weren’t met by more guards for Akela to part with a friendly swing from her axe. We ground to a halt, scattered thoughts reunited at the sight of the Mansels.
They were more or less wearing full dragon-bone armour, save for their helms. Each set was unique, but I couldn’t focus on the way it was carved to fit their forms, or the spikes that rose from their shoulders. My eyes were drawn to their swords and the impossible obstacle they posed.
They were Knights. All they had done to irritate us did not diminish that fact. I had the utmost faith in Akela’s abilities and trusted Kidira to hold her own, but a fight was the last thing we needed. Even if it didn’t result in unnecessary bloodshed, every second we were delayed felt like a lifetime. I was convinced my feet would sink into the dirt and roots would grow around my ankles, ensnaring me.
“Let us through,” Claire said quietly.
“Sorry,” one of the Mansels grunted, and it wasn’t entirely insincere. “Queen’s orders.”
“Amy,” Claire said, stepping closer. “Let us through. Now.”
“Can’t do that,” Amy said, lifting her sword so that the tip was an inch from Claire’s chest.
“She is not giving orders for long,” Akela said, hoisting her axe up. “This is being your last chance.”
Akela swung her blade not to kill, but to make her challenge clear. Both Mansels raised their swords to push the axe back, and before Akela could take another swing, Emma knocked Amy’s sword clean out of her hand. Amy didn’t get a chance to react. Emma thumped her chestplate with the hilt of her sword, knocking her back.
“What the fu—”
“Let them go,” Emma said, kicking Amy’s sword away from her. “The King’s going to be dead by morning. It’s not going to make a difference.”
Had they not been sisters, Amy would’ve used her clawed gauntlets to tear out Emma’s throat. Instead, she simmered in an anger deep enough to light the night sky, and Emma hooked an arm around her elbow, dragging her away from the door.
“Go on,” Emma said to Claire, and despised herself for doing so. “Prince Alexander is in there, too.”
Claire didn’t thank her. I doubted she trusted herself enough. We edged cautiously into the building, waiting for the punchline where one of the Mansels stuck a sword through our backs, but there was no retaliation for crossing the threshold. Inside, it was too easy to make our way to the King’s room. There were guards but they were few and far between, and they did nothing but stand straighter at the sight of Claire.
Queen Aren had put too much faith in the Mansels. Not that it mattered: she would put up more of a fight than ever from the King’s chambers.
The healer rushed ahead and held the door open for us. I went in with clenched fists and a twisted gut. Claire’s cane tapped against the floor as she followed me in, and for the first time since arriving at the manor house, I let myself take in the feel of the room. The air had stagnated since our last visit. The King was dust already. He had aged a century in the past days, laid in his bed as though already in his grave.
There was life within him, but it couldn’t even be described as fleeting. He was a rock that had been pulled from a fire: the heat faded fast into the air, and had never belonged to him to begin with. The older, more experienced of the healers stood by his side, head bowed. My nausea told me that his powers were rippling within him, but I understood that it was a mere formality.
I was the only one who could save the King, but my power was nothing without permission.
Alex sat in a chair by his father’s side, clasping his hand with dark, distant eyes, and Queen Aren perched on the edge of the bed. Despite our intrusion, it took them a few long seconds to realise we were there. Queen Aren withdrew her hand from the King’s face and turned our way. I prepared myself. Everything in my body knitted together tightly, but something inside of the Queen turned to a strange softness.
“Claire,” she said, voice barely pushing past a whisper. “You ought to be here. With your family.”
“But—the Mansels…”
Claire’s voice was too shaken for the accusation to come across. Queen Aren didn’t argue with her. She held out a hand, beckoning her closer.
“Rylan ought to be here,” Alex muttered, expression twisting as the words came out. What started as anger resolved itself in the trembling of his jaw, and his eyes stung with tears.
Claire didn’t move. Queen Aren kept her hand outstretched, and I pressed my fingers to the small of Claire’s back, letting her know she could move forward.
“Ki—” she began, but bit the inside of her mouth. “Father. I… I had intended to meet with you again. To speak with you. Had I known this would… I should have come sooner.”
With his free hand, King Garland reached out and curled his fingers towards his palm. Claire stared down at it with an intensity that made me want to scream. She didn’t have time for hesitation, for fear. Finally, finally, she fell to her knees by the side of the bed.
It was not an easy manoeuvre. The initial impact sent pain ricocheting through her, and with the pressure she put on her knees, it wasn’t given a chance to fade. She did not care. She had felt so much of it, these last years, and all of her attention was fixed on the King. On her father.
He turned his head to face her, dry lips cracked, skin yellowing around glassy eyes. Let me take it all away, I silently pleaded, and had to grasp my wrist behind my back to stop myself from doing what death screamed for me to.
“Claire,” he whispered, and Claire wrapped her hands around his. “My darling.”
“Do not,” Claire began, mouth impossibly dry. “Do not speak to me as though you have not done terrible things. As though you are redeemed by this.”
“I know,” he said, eyes closing. “But you are my daughter, and I have… I have done enough good in my lifetime, despite it all, to deserve this goodbye.”
Screwing her eyes shut in kind, Claire tilted her head forward and let the King free his hand from Alex’s to press against her cheek.
“You were… you were a terrible ruler. An awful man. The things you did, the people you slaughtered; it will take all I have left inside of me to so much as begin repairing this,” Claire said, words quiet and level. She would cry, but only when she was ready to. “But you were not a terrible father. You were… I…”
“I love you too, Claire,” he murmured, and dug the back of his head into the pillow. “And you will make a fine Queen. That is one last awful thing to add to my repertoire: leaving all of this to you.”
“… I meant to come sooner. I promise, father.”
The King’s death was not a fast process by any stretch of the imagination. He didn’t say all he needed to and close his eyes for the last time. His breathing became staggered and slow, and I felt each part of him forget its purpose, until it was nothing but dark, wet pulp. We were there for hours. Light filtered through the window, and still the three of them gathered around the King’s bed, holding his hands, stroking his face, and murmuring things I did my best not to hear.
Alex cried first, and he cried the loudest. The sound of it almost drowned out the pounding in my veins that screamed stop this, stop this, but I thought of King Jonas and the way I’d stolen him from his grave and could not move. It was not my place. Holding my breath, I let the King slip between my fingers while his family begged for just another minute.
“He was stubborn,” Queen Aren said, when she pried her hand from his. “We could have prevented this. We could have saved him, but he would not let us.”
“Mother,” Alex said, reaching for her.
Flinching, she edged away.
Clinging to the bedframe, Claire pulled herself to her feet. For once, determination was enough to push past the ache such effort brought with it. She headed to her mother’s side, put her hands on the shoulder, and endured the Queen’s steely gaze, until she relented all at once. She collapsed against Claire’s side and wrapped her arms around her waist, shoulders silently shaking. It wasn’t as though there had never been a drop of bad blood between them; rather, it was as though it had evaporated thanks to the long, arduous night.
“He was stubborn, and a coward,” Claire agreed. “But he was in agony. It was not the easy way out; it was simply one way to put an end to things.”
It was easy to think of the King and Queen as people born to fulfil roles, but the way Queen Aren held Claire and let Alex wrap an arm around her reminded me that they had been married for decades. They had loved one another, but now the King was gone and Queen Aren was alone.
As discreetly as they could, the healers drew a sheet over the King’s body. Watching Claire, Alex and Queen Aren alter between bouts of silent mourning and stuttery tears was worse than waiting for the last drops of life to eek from the King.
I took slow steps into the corridor, where Akela and Kidira had been waiting. I closed the door softly behind me, and the question etched into the faces confused me. How could they not know beyond knowing that the King was dead? The air reeked of it, and morning light did little to drive it into the dark corners.
But they were not like me.
They were not like Kondo-Kana, or Halla.
I nodded and their frowns deepened.
“What do we do now?” I asked.
“Now, we are waiting. It is not being easy, I am knowing this, but it is all we are being able to do,” Akela said solemnly. “We are letting them forget that they are being royalty, and that they are having an entire Kingdom to be worrying about. For today, we are letting them forget they are ever scheming and being spiteful towards one another.”
I dug my nails into my palms. It wasn’t too late, it wasn’t—
“Go outside,” Kidira ordered. “Take a moment. We’ll be here.”
My feet carried me down the stairs before I could find a way to refuse her. It wasn’t the need for fresh air that drove me out of the building and away from Claire, but the way the healers drew closer and closer without ever moving. Outside, I was amazed by how high the sun had reached, as though time itself ought to have stopped in something akin to respect.
It was close to midday. The Mansels were sitting on a worn stone bench in the manor gardens, relationship apparently no worse for wear after what had transpired the night before. They were too bored to do much more than glance my way.
I followed the path down to the lake, wondering how much easier this would all be, had I slept. The King was dead. It was good, but it wasn’t. It was what we were waiting for, needing Claire to claim the throne, but the King was dead. Her father’s death was yet another thing for Claire to struggle through, and once she was done with the grief she had no choice but to make public, Queen Aren wouldn’t relinquish her power without a fight.
I crouched by the edge of Lake Lir, shallow water washing over my fingers, and shattered the surface as I splashed it against my face.
“Rowan!” someone called.
I stopped mid-motion, water dripping down the front of my shirt. Eden was behind me, waving as she drew closer. Her face was cheerfully red from a brisk walk, and there was mud on her boots and breeches.
“Good morning!” she said, offering a hand to help me up.
“Where have you been?” was the question my brain provided, in spite of all that had unfolded in the house behind us.
“I was with Oak!” she said, grinning from ear to ear. “I thought he might be lonely or otherwise bored, and so I spent some time reading to him.”
She gestured to the satchel at her side, and everything about her was so radiant, so wonderfully kind and thoughtful, that all I could do was take her hand and let her pull me to my feet. No wonder Claire loved her so. It was hard not to.
“That’s…” I blinked hard. “That’s really sweet. Thank you.”
“Not at all,” Eden said, letting go of my hand to offer out her arm. “Shall we?”
She tilted her head towards the castle. I took her arm, ready to leave, but when she took a step forward, I came to my senses. Grabbing her wrist, I stopped her on the spot.
“Rowan?” Eden asked, letting herself be drawn towards me. “Is everything alright?”
“No. He’s dead. Claire’s dad, he’s…”
Eden had almost become King Garland’s daughter-in-law. She clasped my arm tightly, face falling. I slipped my hands into hers, once her fingers fell slack.
“When did— How— Was he…?” Eden tried, swallowing thickly after each fragmented question. “Is Claire alright?”
Tugging on her hand, I led her to the manor house. Claire needed all the family she had left. Once inside, Eden rushed into the room, and I knew that she felt the death of the King perhaps not as strongly, but just as keenly, as the others gathered around his shrouded body. She embraced Claire, Alex, and Queen Aren, whispered her condolences, and the four of them lapsed into the silence of their shared loss.
“We cannot let the people know of this,” Queen Aren said with subdued determination. “If word gets back to Rylan…”
“He will do something rash,” Claire concluded.
There was no argument to be had. Hostilities between Claire and her mother had helped me forget that they could bridge the differences between them by uniting against a common enemy. It meant that Queen Aren would continue to maintain her pretence of power, but Claire did not fight against it.
“The Kingdom first,” Queen Aren said, and Claire was too exhausted to laugh bitterly at the gall it took to claim such a thing.
It stormed all afternoon, and through the night, too. The next morning brought sheets of rain with it, and the grey skies cast a chill that belonged in autumn. The King’s body was not moved, for that would draw far too much attention, but his bed was packed with bitterwillow to stop any encroaching rot, and the healers remained in the manor house.
Had I not loved Claire, and had I not been at her father’s deathbed with her, I would’ve told her to fight Queen Aren. I would’ve told her to claim the throne, because it was rightfully hers; I would’ve told her that no matter how genuine Queen Aren’s grief was, she was still using Claire’s to her own ends.
But I couldn’t. I could give her days. I had seen the world change in the blink of an eye before, but I had to believe that two days of rest and reflection would not see Thule brought to its knees. We had not heard from Rylan in over a month and he had been across the wall for close to two years; this wouldn’t change anything. What’s more, I was struck with the horrible, sinking sensation that what we did was of no consequence, as though there was some greater force at work.
I’d asked Tizo about Isjin’s supposed influence and the extent of her power in the grand scheme of things once, and she’d laughed, slapped my back, and said Isjin was just as surprised by what happened as the rest of us.
