The Heir Boxed Set
Page 8
Instead, his mother took his hand, then Malia’s, and beckoned them to show her what was wrong.
Luring her to her mother’s chambers was a blur for them both—one they never spoke about. When the Queen threw open the door, Riffin glimpsed Malia’s mother on the floor, propped up against the wall with blood pooling around her.
The Queen was at her side in an instant, clutching her hand dearly, stroking her pale cheek.
Malia was about to enter, either desperate or more courageous than Riffin, to be by her mother’s side. It was then that a hand laid itself on Riffin’s shoulder, startling him, as though the ghost of the woman, dying as far as he was aware, had laid her ice cold hand on him.
Looking up, he found Neyva standing over the two of them. A smile, gentle and troubled, grew on her face as she, too, took in the morbid sight of the happenings in those chambers. Swallowing everything she thought, everything she felt, she loosened her hold on them and brought them into her warmth, bringing them to rest against the skirt of her dress. “Let’s get you two cleaned up,” she whispered.
There was resistance from Malia, more sobbing that Neyva quickly eased with a tight embrace and some gentle words. He could barely hear any of it when he was filled with so many questions. What was happening to Malia’s mother? What was wrong? The look on his mother’s face, her eyes burning as she did her best to muster a smile, speaking softly to her friend, was enough to shatter all his resolve.
“Come,” he heard his half-sister say, distant, as though he had been submerged in the very depths of the ocean.
Riffin woke with an abrupt start, gasping for breath. The sensation of sweat trickling down the sides of his neck caused him to swipe at it incessantly, looking to the substance on his fingers. For a second, he swore he could see blood, embedded into the fine lines between his fingers, just as it had been that day.
He stumbled out of bed, reaching for the jug of water with a shaking hand, pouring out a drink to cool the heat that plagued him. With the heat persisting, he poured the remainder of the jug over his head, running his fingers through his soaked hair and down the back of his neck, willing himself to calm down.
Without giving it any thought, he was stumbling towards the door of his chambers, resting his forehead against it as his fingers tightened around the cool, metal handle. What was he about to do, he thought?
Before he could even answer that question, he was out of his chambers and stalking the dark corridors. Guards halted in their patrol, pausing, glancing at him, undoubtedly with furrowed brows and questions of their own.
He made his way to his mother’s chambers, ignoring the guards that stood there. They looked at him, if even for a second, but then turned their heads away, casting their glances towards the ceiling. Riffin banged his fist on the door. When there was no response on the other side, unsurprising considering the hour, he rested his forehead against it, slamming the palm of his hand until it stung with pain.
Eventually, the door pulled out from underneath him, causing him to gasp. His eyes fell on his father, stood in just his trousers, his hair dishevelled, alertness in his eyes despite the hour, and, most of all, his sword firmly in his grasp.
“I must speak to my mother,” he said.
His father stepped aside, looking him up and down. He couldn’t blame him for being wary; to be honest, Riffin too would not find ease in seeing someone in his state, waking him in the middle of the night. He would wonder what they had done, what they had eaten or drank, what they had smoked or what rituals he may have partaken in. He stumbled inside, his eyes cast on the ground as his mother stepped out from behind her changing screen, tying off her robe around her waist.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, softly.
He took a deep breath, one that was stilted by all the emotions that were forming in his throat.
His mother asked nothing else, taking a seat on the stool at her dressing table. He took a step forward and he could feel his father tense beside him, doing the same.
Riffin wasn’t crazy, he thought. He hadn’t lost his mind and, yet, as he dropped to his knees before his mother and caught a glance of himself in the mirror, he knew that his appearance said otherwise.
“Please don’t do this,” he said, meeting his mother’s gaze. All resolve, all strength and power that his parents had trained him to evoke during negotiations was gone. Gone entirely. Not a trace of it left to be found. Instead, he was a boy, begging his mother, not a prince begging a Queen. “Please have mercy,” he said.
His mother leaned forward, shaking her head. She ran her fingers through her hair, removing the sticking strands from his forehead and cheek. “What are you talking about?” she asked.
“Have you done something?” his father asked, taking a step forward. Riffin met his gaze, unable to regulate his heavy breathing. The look in his father’s eyes was one that he had seen before. His father’s defensive nature, his desire to defend his family, above all else, came through in the way he looked at him. It was then, with that look in his eyes, that he knew that, no matter how hard his father was on him, he would defend him against anything—he would help him fix anything.
“No,” Riffin said, raking his fingers through his hair. He looked back to his mother with his breath hitching in the back of his throat. “Please don’t do this,” he said. Again, his mother sighed, “Please do not force the issue of children.” Words formed around his thoughts faster than he could speak them, filling his mouth as quickly as possible, all in an effort to plead with his mother before she could find it in herself to dismiss him. “Her mother didn’t try to have children and, yet, it has almost killed her! Please do not force us! If it cannot happen, I will find another way! If she is the reason it doesn’t happen, I will find another way! If I am the problem, I will find another way!”
His mother sighed. When he opened his eyes, allowing her image to shift back into focus, her features had softened further. She reached out and, with a cautious touch, pushed strands of dark hair back out of his face. “We already have another way,” she said.
Riffin breathed out heavily, as though struck by a great blow. Between the wave of relief and confusion, he found himself staring at her with large eyes. Fear struck him soon enough. Had she decided against the marriage? Did she accept another proposal? “What do you mean?” he asked.
“We have another way,” she said, softly. “We have always had another way.”
Riffin recoiled, seating himself on the back of his legs, “What way?” he asked.
“Your sister,” his father said.
Riffin swallowed, nourishing the back of his throat. “Neyva?” he asked. Before either of them could answer, he spoke when their expressions were enough, “She doesn’t have royal blood.”
“Neither would any boy or girl that could be pushed to usurp your throne,” his mother said. “All that would be required would be a well-made argument as to why they would make suitable rulers and for support to be effectively rallied around them.”
Riffin blinked in confusion, letting the news sink in.
“Your sister was given land and title so as to assert herself—to make a name for herself,” his father said. “Should the day come that she would have to make a play for the throne, she will have the education and upbringing of a Princess, with land and people who would know her mind and who would support her.”
“And when was this decided?” Riffin asked, looking from his father to his mother. He couldn’t tell how he felt, nor could he explain the touch of bitterness in his tone. He couldn’t fault them for having a plan. He faulted them for never telling him of it. “How long have you known?” he asked.
His mother shrugged her shoulders slowly, “From the beginning,” she said. Riffin’s eyelids fell shut, a weight dropped onto his shoulders and he felt himself slacken beneath the news. “Children die in their beds every day. They weaken and sicken and die,” she said. “So long as you were a child, so long as there was still that risk, there n
eeded to be another way.”
“The same could be said as you grew older,” his father went on. “If you were killed, if there was a war, we needed an alternative that we could rely on.”
Riffin’s hands tightened into fists around his trousers, his knuckles digging into his skin.
“And Neyva?” he asked, meeting their gazes. “Does she know about this?”
His father scoffed, lowering his head. His mother glanced in his direction, glaring out of the corner of her eye before turning her attentions back to Riffin. “No, of course not,” she said. “We wouldn’t put ideas into her head—not if there seemed to be no reason to.”
“Neyva is a last resort,” his father said. “You are the rightful heir to the throne—nobody in this family will dispute that. But, were it to come between a member of this family and someone who may have had a hand in driving it from the throne, she is the favourable choice.”
Riffin’s nostrils flared, the cold night air cooling him down, “Then why did you do this?” he asked. “Why did you insist—”
His mother sucked in a deep breath and cut him off, “Because you needed to know that, just because I have sanctioned this marriage, does not mean that the path ahead will be easy,” she said. “Duty comes first—you needed to remember that and Malia needed to learn it.”
“And having a plan in place doesn’t make executing it any more favourable,” his father said. “Putting your sister on the throne isn’t desirable—not to me, not to your mother and not to your sister.”
Riffin scoffed, “How do you know what my sister wants?” he asked. “If she doesn’t know of this then how could you?” He shook his head of the argument, raking his fingers through his hair.
“Do your part,” his father said, “and trust that you and your wife will not be pushed to harm.”
Riffin’s shoulders dropped and that familiar hot, stinging sensation returned to his eyes as relief washed over him. His mother’s gentle hand touched his cheek, her thumb caressing it with the softest of motions. “Now, may we get back to sleep?” she asked, playfulness in her voice.
Chapter 8
AS NEWS OF THE engagement was given, the palace took on a more unusual air. Everybody moved at a quicker pace. Each servant had their own preparations to make. As the news spread, the halls were filled with the comings and goings of messengers, each one bringing words of well wishes from nobles eager to gain favour with the Queen and her family. Nobles would be invited for the engagement, and the marriage, meaning that the messengers often came in contact with servants who rushed to prepare rooms and coordinate the decorating.
“I have never seen the palace like this,” Malia declared as she entered her chambers.
Riffin smirked, though he seemed to be a million miles away as he closed the door. “My mother wants everybody to know that she endorses this marriage,” he said. “She wants to leave no doubt in the minds of the nobles about where she stands.”
Malia spun around, picking at her fingernails, “Do you think they would question her decision?” she asked.
“They can try,” Riffin said, scoffing. “But it will not take long for my mother to put them in their place.”
Malia pursed her lips together. There was a struggle within her to be confident. She knew she needed to be, she knew she needed to exude a confidence in her position and in her being there—if she didn’t have faith in her, nobody would. But it was hard. When faced with some sort of uncertainty in Riffin’s eyes, unsure of what his concerns could be, what little confidence she yet had shook her.
Riffin’s lips pulled into a smile, his gaze softened, and Malia could feel her shoulders relaxing beneath it. He approached her, hands out to cup her face. “Your power must be seen to come from my mother, not from me,” he said. “The celebrations are her way of showing this.”
Malia smiled softly, placing her hands over his.
With their faces inches apart, a soft knock on the door to her chambers was enough to startle them both. Riffin pulled back and the door creaked open.
The Queen entered, her head held high as usual. “Have you had a nice morning?” she asked.
The two of them smiled and nodded, unable to find the right words to express themselves. The Queen looked from Malia, to her son, and, in silence, Riffin left the room, paying Malia a short glance over his shoulder.
The Queen waited for the door to close, then, without looking at Malia, made her way over to the balcony. The kingdom beyond it must have been a sight she had seen a million times before. Even so, her gaze lingered, if only for a minute.
“Have I done something wrong?” Malia asked, breaking the silence between them.
“Not at all,” the Queen replied, turning to face her. “On the contrary,” she said, “I’m impressed with how well you’ve taken to everything.”
Malia shifted her weight, subtly enough that her dress didn’t even swish, never alluding to the unease she felt when faced with the domineering Queen. While she had no reason to lie to her, a perk of her superiority, Malia couldn’t find it in herself to believe her. As far as she was aware, she had done very little to warrant her compliments.
“After making a few arrangements, I see no reason this marriage should not go through,” she said, suddenly. “You will be given the title of ‘Princess’ so long as you are married to my son and ‘Queen’ when the day comes that he takes the throne.”
Although the woman said nothing but fact, the inevitable that had dawned on Malia before, it only felt that much more surreal when she heard the words straight from her own mouth.
Malia bowed her head and fumbled with words of gratitude, only not to be given the chance to speak them.
“Your parents will arrive tonight, as will Neyva,” the Queen said. “I look forward to us dining together as a family.”
Malia’s brows inched together, her mouth falling open ever so slightly. The Queen looked to be lost for words. She bowed her head and, then, as though recalling suddenly, she pulled a draw-string bag from around her wrist.
Pursing her lips together, she slipped her hand into the pouch and brought out something that glimmered spectacularly in the light. “I brought you this,” she said. She took a step forward and extended it to her. In her hand, held delicately between her fingers, was a beautifully-crafted tiara, with diamonds and majestic blue-green stones twinkling in the sunlight. Her heart fluttered—the stones reminded her so much of the seas of Azura. “This was mine when I was about your age,” she said. “It’s suitable for just about any occasion and matches your eyes.”
Malia met her gaze, wide-eyed, “This is for me?” she asked.
The Queen smiled and nodded, “I have plenty,” she said, offhandedly. Chewing on her bottom lip, she took a step closer and moved to place it on Malia’s head. The glimmer in her eyes was much like that of a young girl, dressing up her favourite doll. It was endearing, Malia thought. The Queen took her by the hand and led her around, bringing her to face the full-length mirror. “It suits you,” she said.
Malia stood there, staring, taking in the sight of the tiara on her head. It was the most exquisite thing she had ever owned, without a doubt.
Before she could open her mouth, to thank her for the gift she had bestowed upon her, the Queen had withdrawn. What moment they had shared, a Queen and a Princess, a mother and a daughter-in-law, was gone.
The tiara came as a surprise to more than just herself. She wore it to greet her parents outside before dinner and she couldn’t help but notice the way their gazes lingered upon it. “Have you been treated well?” her mother asked.
“Always,” Malia replied, wrapping her arm around her mother’s.
She couldn’t help but worry; it was clear, even in her mother’s stone-cold expression. The way her eyes darted around, taking in everything in their surroundings, everything that was said, everything that was done, the way people looked at them, had never changed. There was a protectiveness there that she had known her entire life.
“Let the nobles say what they like,” Malia murmured, doing her utmost to ignore the pang of hurt. “We have rarely paid them any mind before. Why should we do so now?” she asked.
Her mother cocked her head to one side and her nose crinkled with something akin to disgust, “Should be in their interest,” she said. “You’d think they’d try to use it to their advantage, that they’d try to seek favour with your father to get to the Queen, but they’ve been vocal about their disdain instead.”
Malia hummed in agreement, “An Azurian Queen should be to their advantage,” she whispered. She bit the inside of her cheek, blinking away the confusion, “Leave them be,” she said. “I’ve never let them ruin matters for me before. I don’t intend to let them start now.”
Her mother smirked, “How strong you’ve become,” she remarked.
Malia smiled, looking to her mother with mock-hurt on her features, “You act surprised,” she said.
Her mother’s smirk widened— it was this cheeky, devilish smirk that could be seen even in her eyes. “Surprises me every time,” she said. “I never tire of it.”
That evening, they all sat together over a meal. Although there had been a foreboding nuance to the Queen’s words, she had been right; the night was cheerful, enjoyable, as they all chatted and laughed. Malia’s father chatted with the Queen’s husband, just like always, exchanging book recommendations and stories of battle and politics. The Queen sat forward in her seat, inching towards Malia’s mother as they exchanged light conversation.
“It’s like nothing’s changed,” Riffin remarked, leaning into Malia’s ear.
She couldn’t help the smile on her face. Feeling the warmth of his breath against her neck, the tingles that ran down her spine. There no longer needed to be any secrecy, no more stealing glances over dinner, sitting in silence, while the adults spoke.