“Five years of marriage, and a dozen of friendship before that,” I said. “And all it amounts to are a few happy memories?”
For the first time, he looked away, cutting his furrowed gaze to the corner.
“Which ones were the happy ones, Celeno?” I asked. “Was it flying kites over the canyon, or climbing the avocado trees? Was it picking apart the newest pamphlet from the University of Samna, or agonizing over our theses together? Was it sharing your hypotheses on meteor showers, or my discovery of cicada stridulation? Was it all the nights at the telescope? Exchanging gifts at Starfall? Dancing at our wed—”
“Stop it,” he said sharply.
“I just want to know,” I said, unable to stop myself, “so I know what you’ll remember after they hang me—because I came here for you, and I’m not taking the tunnel without you.”
“You betrayed me!” he exclaimed, cutting his infuriated gaze back to mine. “When confronted with choosing between me and our enemies, you picked Queen Mona and Queen Ellamae. How would you feel, were it reversed? If I had flung my loyalty at a foreigner, instead of my wife and queen of my country?”
“That depends,” I said. “In your hypothetical scenario, would I have just shot and killed an unarmed civilian?”
His body seemed to spasm. “He was not unarmed—he had incendiary grenades.”
“They were in his pocket,” I said. “He presented no immediate threat.”
“He was holding you captive!”
“And Queen Mona was negotiating for my release!” I took a step toward him. “You killed Lyle Roubideaux to prove to her that you were capable of doing so—that you wouldn’t hesitate to kill Queen Ellamae next. Did you hear me tell you I was unhurt? Did you hear me tell you to talk to Mona?”
“So she could barter Alcoro to ashes!”
“So we could salvage something from the ashes we’ve already burned!” I shot back. “If you had managed to bring Mona and Ellamae and Rou back here to Stairs-to-the-Stars, we’d have had an allied East rise up and march against us before their cell doors were even closed.”
He gave a short jerk of his arms, his palms skyward. “What would you have had me do? What do you want from me now? Unlike you, I don’t have the luxury of suddenly changing sides.”
The anger melted out of my body. He’d meant the comment to be hurtful, but it didn’t hit me with the barb he intended. I let out my breath. “No,” I acknowledged. “You don’t. What do I want from you now? I want you to let me help you, like I’ve always done. I want you to come with me, so we can set some of this right. I want you to refuse your poppy tincture tonight.”
That last one threw him off-guard. “You what?”
“I want you to tell Rastaban you don’t want the poppy tonight, and I want you to see what he says.”
“I need it, Gemma,” he said angrily. “I need it to sleep.”
“I know,” I said. “And you hate that you need it. So do me a favor. Or do yourself a favor, if you prefer. Conduct a little experiment tonight.”
“Gemma . . .”
“Tell Rastaban you’ve decided to try to sleep without the poppy. Just for tonight, to see how it goes. Tell him you’ll take it tomorrow if it doesn’t work.”
“To what utter purpose?”
“To see if he lets you.”
“Of course he’ll let me.” The words hung there, thick with defensiveness. “But,” he said quickly, as if hoping to cover them up, “I don’t want to. I want to take it, because I want to get a decent night’s sleep.”
“That’s fine. Take the tincture. Report me to the guards. Watch me hang tomorrow morning.” I saw the light shift under the crack to the bedroom door, and I moved toward my wardrobe. “But whether Rastaban gives you the tincture or not, you won’t be getting a good night’s sleep tonight. I replaced today’s dose with honey.”
He stared at me in consternation. “You . . . did . . .”
Someone rapped on the door.
Celeno swung around. Hurriedly I hopped into my wardrobe, engulfed by the smell of starch and sage sachets. I caught one last glimpse of Celeno turning back in my direction before I swung the wardrobe door shut behind me. I could just barely see through the crack—he stood staring until the knock came again.
“My king?”
He shook himself. “Come in, Rastaban.”
The physician entered with his case and gave a mild bow. “The Prelate tells me you’re turning in early.”
“I . . . yes.” His gaze flicked to the wardrobe again. Behind Rastaban came my aunt, looking cool and unruffled and not at all like she’d discovered someone had been rifling through her office. After her came Celeno’s valet, carrying a tray that he set down on the nightstand. He went to the king’s wardrobe, pulled out the gloves I’d stuffed messily in their drawer, and replaced them neatly. He opened another drawer and removed Celeno’s nightclothes.
Rastaban fished out the key around his neck and unlocked his case, seemingly unaware of Celeno’s nervous fidgeting. Shaula took out a copy of the Book of the Prophecy and turned a few pages. The valet returned to his side and slid off his gloves.
“Actually,” Celeno said quickly, “I think I’ll stay up for a while longer, and do some reading.”
The physician pulled out the day’s vial. I saw the amber flash of honey. “On the contrary, my king, I think an early night will do you good.”
“No . . . I’d really rather sit up and read.” The valet slid Celeno’s bolero off his shoulders.
“My king, your evening dose is measured specifically. You don’t want to take it too late, or else you’ll miss your morning appointments.”
“Well, then . . .” His voice was thick with reluctance. “Then, Rastaban, I was thinking perhaps I’ll try not taking the dose tonight.”
Rastaban poured the sticky contents of the vial into the mug waiting on the nightstand. “That is not wise, my king. I regret to inform you that you likely won’t be able to sleep at all.”
Celeno waved away his valet and began unhooking the buttons on his shirt himself. “I’m aware of the potential effects. I’d just prefer not to.” Undeterred, the valet moved silently to his feet, sliding off his tall, polished boots.
The physician added a few pinches of herbs to the metal strainer and poured a stream of hot water over it. “My king, while I understand your reticence, I must insist you take the tincture. Were it another day, another week perhaps, when I could monitor your transition to another sleep aid, perhaps then we could talk.”
“Your work is too important at the moment to tamper with your regimen,” Shaula murmured, scanning a page. “Present circumstances demand your entire attention, and it would be irresponsible to simply take away the treatments that help you function.”
“Fine, then,” Celeno said. “Give me a half-dose. Let’s start the transition now.”
Rastaban stirred the mug. “Not tonight. If you like, the Prelate and I will discuss it with the council, and see if we can schedule a period to shift back to valerian.”
“I don’t want to go back to valerian,” Celeno said impatiently, his shirt hanging open. “I’d like to try nothing at all.”
Shaula selected a passage and marked her page. “Perhaps the spring, after current events have been sorted.”
Rastaban held out the mug. Celeno’s gaze fell on it. Desperately, it seemed, he looked to the case.
“You’ve used the wrong day,” he said.
Rastaban checked his vials. “No, my king. Today is the eighteenth.”
“I’m sure it’s the seventeenth.”
“No, my king. The seventeenth is empty—you took it yesterday.”
I bit my lip at the frustration written on Celeno’s face. “Then if you’re determined to put me under, I’d like two doses. Give me tomorrow’s as well.”
Rastaban closed his case with a slow, deliberate movement. He studied Celeno. “How are you feeling this evening, my king?”
“I’m feeling fine!” Cele
no snapped.
“Headache? Dizziness? Chills?”
“No.” Celeno jerked as his valet removed his unbuttoned shirt. The lamplight flickered over his bare skin.
“You were not this agitated at your Devotion a moment ago,” Shaula said. “What has happened to have you in such a state?”
Celeno’s gaze shot to my wardrobe, his mouth screwed up in anger. Rastaban didn’t miss the look, but he misinterpreted it entirely.
“Ah.” The physician turned back to his case. “I’m going to give you a measure of false dogwood, to ease your nerves . . .”
“Oh, by the Light.” Celeno swiped the mug from his physician’s hand and tossed it into his mouth. He swallowed and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.
“It tastes like honey,” he said angrily, glaring in my direction. I held my breath. At least he’d taken it before Rastaban had added false dogwood—a harmless name given to an herb that was more commonly called fishpoison.
Rastaban gave a noncommittal grunt as he packed away his herbs. The valet stripped off Celeno’s trousers and then fed his nightshirt over his head. As Rastaban took the king’s pulse and checked his breathing, Shaula rested a hand on Celeno’s shoulder.
“My king, now is a tumultuous time. Grief wreaks terrible havoc on body and mind—”
“I’m not grieving!”
“—and it’s natural to be upset at the queen’s betrayal,” she continued. Celeno twitched against all the hands on him—hers on his shoulder, Rastaban’s on his wrist and back, the valet’s plucking and smoothing his nightshirt. “But remember that your success is the subject of prophecy, with or without the queen.”
Rastaban released his wrist. “I’ve already added extra rounds of false dogwood and lavender to your daily regimen, and if you’re feeling unstable in the evenings, I’ll add a measure to your tincture.”
“I’m not unstable!”
“You must trust your advisers,” Shaula said, releasing his shoulder. “Do not tamper with your regimen now. Do not fend off our assistance. Gemma’s betrayal has demanded more of you than ever. When the security of this country is assured and your responsibilities are less dire, we’ll work on your transition. But not now.”
“You mean not ever, if I must wait until Alcoro is secure,” Celeno said bitterly.
The Prelate opened her book again. “You carry doubt of the Prophecy in your words, my king. Do not travel down that road. Remember that your actions carry the will of the Light, and to ignore that is to work actively against the Prophecy.” She found the passage she had marked. “The Prophecy of the Prism gives an unprecedented mandate to the Seventh King, that his works and actions are divinely driven. Every action, no matter how small, is an advancement to the Prophecy, and as such those who assist him take part in the same mandate. An action done in the king’s name is done in the Prophecy’s name. A life taken or spared by his hand carries the will of the Light. Therefore let there be no room for doubt, for to doubt the king is to doubt the machinations of the Prophecy itself.”
My mother had remembered correctly—Shaula always did like reading her own religious theorizing best.
She closed the book. The valet turned down the covers on the bed, leaving the side that had once belonged to me tightly tucked. Rastaban gestured to the bed, and Celeno rather mechanically sat down. The physician thumbed his eyelids to check his pupils, and then patted him on the shoulder.
“Take some rest, my king. I’ll return in the morning with your usual tincture.”
He and the valet filed silently out of the room. Shaula was the last to leave, nodding to Celeno and then closing the door behind her with a distinct click.
He sat on the edge of his bed, pointedly staring straight ahead, not turning to look at the wardrobe. I didn’t move, waiting to be sure everyone had truly gone. A minute slowly slipped by.
Finally, I eased the door open and stepped out. Celeno still didn’t look my way, his body stiffening slightly. His hands were clenched on his lap.
I circled around to stand in front of him.
“It all makes sense, you know,” he said forcefully. “I know you probably feel like you’ve won, but what they’ve said makes perfect sense.”
“I’m far from feeling like I’ve won,” I said. “I notice you didn’t tell them I was here.”
His eyebrows snapped down. “If you’re so keen to hang, why don’t you go do it yourself?”
I turned and went to his wardrobe. I pulled out a hooded cloak and the boots he used to wear back when we took walks into the canyon. I set them down next to him.
“Come with me,” I said.
“No,” he replied. “Why should I?”
“Because I’ve learned about something that can help us both,” I said.
“Is it a steep drop into the canyon?”
“It’s another Prophecy,” I said. “One that’s nearly complete.”
His eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe you.”
“It’s not far from here, protected from the elements, not out in the open like the one in Callais.”
“Who told you this?”
“A scholar,” I said carefully. “I don’t believe you’ve met.”
He studied me. “You’re a bad liar.”
I flushed. “I’m not lying, Celeno.”
“Then you’re not telling me the whole truth. What is it you used to say when we were students? What am I still missing?”
“I can only give you so much information, because I haven’t seen them myself,” I said. “And I hesitate to speculate until I have.”
“Where are they? How far away?”
I took a breath. “A few days.”
“Days?”
“Probably longer.”
“Gemma. They’ll send out the army.”
“Then we should start now,” I said.
“And if I refuse?”
I turned back for my wardrobe and opened the drawer that held my star bands. “Then you spend a sleepless night lying here in bed, and a lifetime of being handled and medicated by your physician and the Prelate,” I said.
“They’ll let me transition off the poppy,” he said angrily.
“As long as you’re sure,” I said, pulling out a few of the flat boxes containing my array of star bands. He frowned at my tone, but didn’t respond. “In the meantime, I plan to go and find out exactly what the Prophecy says about you. And . . . we’ll probably never see each other again.”
“Would that be a loss for you?”
“Only the few happy memories,” I said.
His lips twisted sharply, as if he’d swallowed something bitter. “What’s in all of this for you?”
“Peace of mind.” I selected the box that should have held the silver star band set with gray pearls and opened it to the sheaf of letters I’d stowed.
“That’s it?” he asked.
I looked over my shoulder, the letters clutched in my hand. “Great Light, is that not enough? Would you prefer I say enduring fame in the Eastern World? Because there will probably be some of that.”
He quirked an eyebrow, obviously unprepared for me to be joking. “How so?”
“Queen of the Seventh King, hanged for treason and abduction of the king?” I suggested, snapping the flat box shut and stuffing the papers in my shirtfront with the vellum packet.
“Yes, I suppose that will come with some longevity,” he said flatly. “Tell me this—how do I know you’re not going to spirit me away and deliver me to your newfound allies to the east?”
“Aside from the fact that literally no one would expect me to be able to accomplish such a thing?” I asked.
The corner of his mouth lifted in a non-smile. “Point scored.”
I closed up my wardrobe and turned to face him fully. “Celeno, listen to me. You hate your title. You hate being the Seventh King. You hate what it requires of you. You’ve always hated it. And—I hate what it’s done to you.”
“It hasn’t done anything to me.”
“Yes, it has,” I said softly.
His face screwed tight in a frown. “Then it’s changed you, too, because the quiet, kindhearted biologist I married wouldn’t ever have suggested we flee the palace in hopes of overturning the Prophecy.”
The clever, excitable astronomer I married wouldn’t have needed me to.
Wouldn’t have traded fearmongering for his own sense.
Wouldn’t have killed Lyle.
I reined in the tirade building inside me—it wouldn’t do anything to get him through the door and into the tunnel. And shouting would bring the guards running.
“What choice did either of us have but to accept things as they were?” I asked, spreading my hands. “Now there’s new data, new evidence. Celeno, how can we not chase after it? What if there’s something else to your title, something we’ve missed all these years? Science moves and changes, history gets retold . . . why should this be any different?”
“A scholar through and through,” he said flatly. “Though I believe your aunt would describe that as heresy.”
“Yes, most likely. But in the end, she’s just the Prelate, not the Prophecy itself.” I gestured to the hidden panel in the wall. “The only thing I want is to go and see these things for myself, and for you to come with me. I’m not asking for your love, or even your trust.” His face gave an odd sort of blanch, but I pressed on. “Think of it as a field study. How many scientists do we know who despise their research partners?”
He stared at me with an unsettled look, and he drew in a breath as if he might say something. But he didn’t. He merely held it. His gaze flicked over me, from my servant’s attire and bare arms to my dirt-covered boots.
“How did you get in the palace?” he asked.
“Through the crawl space under the laundry,” I said. “Where the termite baits are.”
“With all the tarantulas?”
“Tarantulas aren’t dangerous,” I said.
He let out his breath in what might have been a silent, mirthless laugh. He swiped up his stockings and boots and jerked them on his feet. He stood and swept the cloak around his shoulders.
Creatures of Light, Book 3 Page 8
