The Heir Boxed Set

by Kyra Gregory

  Malia slid her legs over the side of the bed, fixing her nightgown before standing. “Good morning,” she said.

  The servant smiled, turning to her before bowing her head. “I hope I did not wake you,” she said.

  Malia shook her head. She could have been there for hours, barely making a peep as far as she was concerned. “You are?”

  “Aylee,” she said. “I will be tending to you from now on.”

  Malia pursed her lips together, “I see,” she whispered.

  Malia’s bare feet shuffled along the carpet as she reached for her robe. With a hop in her step, Aylee retrieved it before she could, slipping behind her to help her into it. “This isn’t necessary,” Malia said, laughing incredulously.

  Aylee took a few cautious steps back, smiling, “Forgive me,” she said, “I was just trying to help.”

  Malia put on a smile, brief as it was, before taking a seat in front of her mirror. “Do you know my itinerary for the day?” she asked.

  Aylee plucked a tray off the table in the middle of the room, placing it on the edge of the dressing table, “You may have your breakfast,” she said, “and you are free until lunch in four hours.”

  Aylee reached for the hairbrush as Malia pulled the tray of fresh fruit closer. Aylee, beautiful, with not a hair out of place, combed through the tangles in Malia’s hair with a gentle smile on her face. She spoke to Malia in a careful and quiet voice, as though unwilling to disturb her from her thoughts.

  Little did she know that Malia didn’t have it in her to think of much at the moment. Without her parents to follow around, without anything in particular to attend in between meals, she found herself lost already.

  There was a knock at the door, gentle, just as Aylee had finished lacing up the back of her skirt. She made her way to the door as Malia stood in front of the mirror, running her fingers through her curls.

  The door was opened and Aylee stepped aside. The Queen’s reflection slipped into the mirror and Malia spun around, bowing her head. “Your Majesty,” she greeted, softly, unable to help the tremor in her voice.

  The Queen stood tall and proud, regal in her posture, becoming of the Queen she was. The smile on her face, however, was anything but placed, as it would be in social gatherings. There were growing wrinkles around her eyes the wider she smiled. “You look beautiful,” she said, extending her hand to her. “Very becoming of the wife of my son.”

  Malia felt herself shrink. She knew she was well-intentioned with her compliment, that it’d been said with a purpose. The purpose, she knew, was to negate the cruel stares she will undoubtedly face.

  It was no secret; not everyone would welcome a common girl, the daughter of lawless pirates, no less, as the wife of a Prince. They would welcome her as the wife of a King even less.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Queen Sybelle reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind Malia’s ear, “You will find it difficult,” she said. She was blunt, as she often was; she was a Queen, Malia reasoned, and Queens didn’t have time to skirt around what needed to be said when it came to commoners. “But I have no doubt that you will thrive.”

  Malia’s eyes widened ever so slightly. She bit into her bottom lip, sensing that the Queen had more to say, unwilling to interrupt her from it.

  “Out of respect for your mother,” the Queen said, a smile twitching at the corner of her lips, “I wouldn’t have approved this if I thought the position would cause you unnecessary grief.”

  Malia lowered her head, her gaze dropping to their skirts, brushing against the ground. “You’ve always treated us like family,” she remarked.

  The Queen smiled, a short laugh emanating from the back of her throat, “Your mother is like the sister I never had,” she said.

  Malia swallowed the lump in the back of her throat. As endearing as that phrase may have sounded, it meant so much more coming from the Queen. Her family was nothing in the eyes of the Queen’s equals. They were elevated because of her love for them. That said, the way the Queen had treated family in the past was no secret. Nobody ever forgot the callousness with which she had taken her own brother’s life. The very thought that she, or her family, could face the same fate, was enough to send chills surging through her body.

  “You mean a great deal to this family,” the Queen added. “You will be cared for here. I can promise you that.”

  As quickly as the chills had surfaced, they were warmed away with the look in the woman’s eyes. Dark as they may have seemed, they softened with an unmistakable love.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  The Queen cast a short glance around, looking Malia up and down, “Are you finished here?” she asked.

  Malia pursed her lips together and nodded quickly, smoothing out the skirt of her dress.

  The Queen turned on her heel and beckoned her to follow her out of the room, “I see no reason why this marriage cannot go ahead,” she said, walking alongside her through the corridors. “I have concerns, to be sure, but—”

  “If you have concerns,” Malia started, softly, “I would be happy to quell them for you.”

  The Queen smiled, “I’m sure you would,” she said.

  Before she could say anything else, Malia found herself following her into the throne room. Seated at the marble-topped table, flipping through pages and overlooking maps with his father, Riffin was seated.

  The smile he greeted her with was wide and beaming, but a quick jostle of his shoulder from his father saw him returning his attention to his work.

  The Queen approached her husband, leaning into him to whisper in his ear. She spoke with her back towards Malia, such that she couldn’t read her lips.

  Deros pulled himself back, nodding curtly before clapping a hand on his son’s shoulder and leaving.

  Riffin rose to his feet, brows furrowing together as he watched his father leave and the doors close behind him.

  “What’s the matter?” Riffin asked, looking from Malia to his mother.

  Malia pursed her lips and shrugged her shoulders, making her confusion evident in the second that the Queen’s back was turned.

  “As I said,” the Queen started, taking a seat on her throne, “there is a singular concern that must be tended to before this marriage can go ahead.”

  Riffin shifted his weight. In an instant, Malia saw him grow; his shoulders rolled back, his head held high, he no longer stood shoulder-to-shoulder with her. Instead, he looked like a giant, growing into the room, appearing ready to challenge his mother in strength. “What is it?” he asked.

  The Queen licked her lips. Malia had so rarely seen her hesitate before speaking. She was to be admired for her ability to make demands without any concern—without any fear. All of a sudden, she stalled. “Children,” she said. Hesitant as she may have been, no trace of it could be found in her voice as she uttered a single word, winding them both.

  Chapter 7

  FEELING RIFFIN SHIFT BESIDE her with a growing unease, Malia swallowed the lump forming in the back of her throat. The silence fell over them, a mixture of fear and confusion.

  The Queen licked her lips once again and her gaze flitted elsewhere for a moment, “An Heir and a Spare are required,” she said, matter-of-factly.

  Riffin opened his mouth to speak but, before he could say a word, the Queen continued. “Owing to my inability to have more than one child and owing to my own lack of family, it is important that we expand and leave no room for doubt of succession.”

  “What are you talking about?” Riffin asked, brows furrowing together. Either Riffin didn’t think before he asked, or he was more clueless than Malia was.

  “As it stands, you are my Heir. However, there is no Heir to you—none that is certain,” Queen Sybelle said. Riffin opened his mouth to speak, stunned as he may have been, but the Queen continued before he had the chance. “The people will be watching this marriage closely,” she said. “They will be watching for Heirs. Should they not see one, anyone who oppose
s us, me or you, will rally support around one of their own—a boy or girl they can control. With no future Heir in sight, they will claim it is their duty to secure one of their own, to offer the kingdoms stability, and they will have the power to do it.”

  The Queen licked her lips, drumming her fingers along the figureheads on her throne’s armrests as she tilted her head back. As the subject shifted to political matters over the personal, she became more bold and brazen, confident in her words. “If they find someone favourable, even while you are alive—if they know that only a single coffin lies between the throne and their candidate—they will become brazen and will push to take the crown from this family.”

  “What are you asking of us?” Riffin asked, the anger growing in his tone.

  The Queen’s gaze shifted to meet Malia’s and she could feel herself stiffen, as though being pulled from her spine by a string. “I’m asking that you do not let mine and your mother’s shared experiences stand in your way,” she said. With not a word uttered, she shifted all attention back to her son. In an instant, her gaze grew harder than the soft, sympathetic one she had shown her only seconds earlier. It was striking—the manner in which she so quickly transformed herself. “And I ask that you never give her reason to fear it.”

  Riffin recoiled. The look on his face was one Malia likened to a cat receiving a sudden shower of ice cold water.

  “Should you not succeed in a timely fashion,” the Queen continued, lowering her gaze to the floor, “an alternative will need to be arranged.”

  “An alternative what?” Riffin asked, his voice booming, a growl rumbling in the back of his throat. The Queen met his gaze and that was enough. “A wife?” he asked. “A mistress?”

  “To act as a vessel at most,” Queen Sybelle said, quickly. “We can arrange for it to be done in secret. Nobody need ever know that—”

  “That the child is not my wife’s?” he asked, laughing when faced with his own incredulousness. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  Malia felt her hands beginning to shake. Clasping them together, hooking her fingers with one another, she held them against her dress in her bid to keep them from trembling.

  “And what if the problem is my own?” he asked, louder than before. “What if I am the problem? What then?”

  Queen Sybelle bit the inside of her cheek for a moment, nostrils flaring as she tempered her patience. “We will deal with that also, somehow, should we come to it,” she said.

  “This is absurd,” Riffin said. “You know this! You must know this!”

  Queen Sybelle met his gaze again. Remorse grew in her eyes. “This is what it means to reign,” she said. “This is what it means to be Queen and what it means to be King.”

  Riffin shook his head, shaking it hard, blinking out of both confusion and disbelief. “Absurd,” he said.

  “I accept, however,” Malia said, piping up before the argument between mother and son could go further. “However absurd it is—I accept.”

  The boldness with which she cut through the argument surprised even herself, causing her eyes to widen, her hands falling to her stomach, feeling herself winded by her own words.

  She swallowed the lump that gradually formed in her throat as the Queen and her son turned their attentions to her. “I will do it,” she said. “I will have heirs and, should I not succeed, I understand that I may be substituted for someone who will.”

  “No,” Riffin hissed, turning to her.

  She met his gaze, finding it to be blazing with both hurt and rage. “It is not for you to decide,” she said. Looking back to the Queen, she found her sitting upright. The look in her eyes…was something she so rarely saw—it was a look of pride. “I accept,” she reiterated.

  The Queen pursed her lips together, then put on a smile, “It’s agreed then,” she said. “I see no reason anything should get in the way of this marriage.”

  Malia curtsied, lowering her gaze for only a second, “I will not disappoint you,” she said.

  A flash of a smile flickered across the Queen’s lips. “I don’t think you will,” she agreed.

  The Queen dismissed them both with a nod of her head and a flick of her wrist.

  With her head hung low, Malia turned on her heel and walked out of the throne room. Riffin followed with an urgent pace all the way down the staircase. “Why did you do that?” he asked, as they stepped out into the sunlight of the square.

  “Do what?”

  “Why did you agree to her terms?” he asked. “You needn’t have!”

  “Don’t you wish for this marriage to happen?” she asked, brows furrowing together as she spun to face him. “Because, as far as I’m concerned, agreeing was the only way she would allow it to happen.”

  Riffin visibly swallowed the lump in his throat, recoiling, “We could’ve found another way,” he said. “Argued for another way.”

  Malia stood tall, as tall as she could manage, until she rivalled her future husband himself. It was a skill she had learned from her mother. Small as she was, her stature often led her to be mistaken for someone more vulnerable, someone easy to push around. Her mother, nor she, would ever allow that to happen. “There was no other way,” she said. “Your mother made herself clear; we can have this marriage, so long as we do our duty. If we fail, we must succumb to plans, less favourable, that would see success.”

  Riffin’s nostrils flared and he recoiled, “And you would be fine with that?” he asked. “You would be fine with me laying with another woman in my attempt to have a child?” He leaned in further, his features reddening, “Perhaps you would be fine with it, but I wouldn’t be fine with the alternative,” he said.

  It was Malia’s turn to withdraw, for her nostrils to flare as she cast her gaze to the ground. The hotness in her cheeks began to grow.

  “Or did you not give that any thought?” he asked. “That you may be subjected to laying with another?”

  Malia pursed her lips together. For the moment, she could barely considering laying with him. “If it needs to be done, I will do it,” she said, lifting her head in defiance.

  Riffin’s eyes began to burn and he took a step back, “You would, wouldn’t you?” he asked, his voice growing softer as the anger died down. “That is not the life I would’ve wished for you,” he said, “and I wouldn’t have you despise me because of it.”

  Malia shook her head, her forehead wrinkled with the grimace that crossed her features, “I wouldn’t think that,” she said. “It’s not you who would’ve subjected me to it. It would be...circumstance.”

  “And who will you blame for forcing you into such circumstance?”

  Malia’s shoulders dropped and it took everything within her to resist rolling her eyes. “Forcing me?” she asked. She licked her lips and took a step closer, “You asked to court me and I agreed. You asked me if I would marry you and I agreed,” she said. “You have not have forced me to do anything,” she whispered, “you have always been very certain of that.”

  Riffin swallowed. He let her words sink in, if only for a minute, before he nodded with a slow and visible unease. “I hope you’re right,” he said.

  Malia mustered a smile. The heat of anger and frustration that had burned from her very core began to die down, making her capable of taking in the sensation of the subtle breeze that brushed against her features. Looking down, finding his hand clenching into a fist at his side, she placed hers over his until she could entwine their fingers together. “Will you walk with me?” she asked.

  Riffin smiled, a short, hapless smile, nodding before leaning in and kissing the top of her head. “Of course,” he said.

  Try as she might, Malia thought, no matter what she said, no matter what conversation she began, the distance between them, forced by the thoughts in Riffin’s head, continued to pester him. Malia forced herself to bite her tongue. She had always known that the weight of being an heir to the throne would be a hefty one, not just for the man she loved but for everybody who got close
to him. To be this close was both a gift and a burden—one she hoped love would be enough to endure.

  ***

  In the dead of night, the ease that once came with sleep started to dissipate. Riffin shifted with discomfort, running his fingers through his hair. The images that flashed before his eyes, darkened and hazy, were memories so far into the past that he thought them gone forever.

  He walked through the corridor of the palace, no older than seven years old. He could feel the smile on his face, sure of its placement by the flicker of joy in his heart. But as he lay sleeping, recalling what would come next, that joy soon dwindled into nothingness, until even an ember of its origin had yet to remain.

  He heard crying—one that he had heard before. He quickened his pace, looking down corridors until he could find its source. Soon, he found Malia—stumbling through the dim pathway, rubbing her eyes and sobbing. He rushed to her and wrapped his arms around her, “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “My mother,” she gasped. She sucked in a deep breath but even doing so was enough to cause her to double over. It was only when she lifted her hands to her face again that he saw the blood on her fingers, a crimson stain that had set itself deep into her skin.

  His heart raced. Torn between consoling one of his closest friends and actually getting help, he squeezed her in his embrace before taking her hand. “We’ll get help,” he said. His fingers tightened around hers, unfazed by the prospect of blood on his hands, and then coaxed her to run with him down the corridors. They caught the sight of guards but they wouldn’t be enough. Instead, he ran faster, letting go of Malia’s hand to rush into the throne room where his mother was seated.

  The look on his face, whatever it may have been, and the grief-stricken sobs from behind him were more than enough to get her to her feet. She needn’t ask any questions, knowing that he struggled too hard with his own heavy breaths to give an appropriate answer.