The King's Obsession

by Tanya Bird

  ‘First things first,’ he said, taking her by the hand and leading her out of the house.

  The action should have made her nervous, but as always with this man, for some unknown reason, she followed. ‘Where are we going?’

  He grinned over his shoulder at her. ‘I told you I would show you the ocean.’

  Now she was nervous. ‘And you do remember I cannot swim?’ He did not slow down. ‘We are not going in the water, are we?’ Her spare hand pressed against her stomach.

  ‘Next best thing.’

  They stepped down onto the soft sand, and she turned her head to look at the trail of footprints behind them. Her tongue moved in her mouth, tasting salt.

  ‘Just up here,’ Leksi said, keeping hold of her.

  She was forced to run in order to keep pace with his giant strides. Finally they reached the rocks at the end of the beach and she stopped next to him, looking up.

  ‘Start climbing,’ he said. ‘I’ll help you.’

  She turned to him, wide-eyed. ‘What do you mean, “start climbing”?’

  ‘That’s how we get to the top.’

  She stepped forwards and placed her palm on the cool rock. ‘It does not look safe to climb.’

  He stepped up behind her and grabbed her waist. ‘What have I told you? You’re safe with me.’ With that, he hoisted her into the air so her hands and feet scrambled on the surface of the rock until she found her footing. ‘Just keep climbing,’ he called to her. ‘I’m right behind you.’

  With her heart pounding in her chest and hands trembling, she gripped the jagged edges of the rock and pulled herself up until she reached the top. She glanced back over the edge, both scared and a little thrilled by the height.

  ‘Now what?’ she asked as Leksi joined her.

  He took her hand again. ‘Follow me.’

  She held tightly as he stepped onto the neighbouring rock. A step for him meant a jump for her, but she kept up. They continued that way for a number of minutes. At one point she lost her footing, but he righted her before any part of her touched the surface.

  They came to a stop at the edge of the final rock, and Petra held her breath as she peered over the edge, where the water swirled and crashed below. She looked in both directions. They were standing on the most western point of the shoreline. Wind whipped at her hair, pulling pieces from her braid, but she made no effort to tame it, breathing in greedy lungfuls of crisp air instead.

  ‘Wait for it,’ Leksi urged, tightening his grip on her.

  She turned to him, confused. ‘Wait for what?’

  Before he could reply, a giant wave smashed against the rock, sending a spray of seawater high into the air. She gasped as it rained down on them. Looking at her wet dress, she licked her lips, tasting the water. It was revolting and delicious all at once.

  ‘Like I told you,’ Leksi said, ‘the ocean can wash away anything.’

  She turned to him, frowning. ‘Hopefully it does not wash us off this rock.’

  ‘I’ve got you,’ he replied, sounding confident in his ability to keep her safe.

  She looked down at the water building up once more, splashing higher up the rocks with each wave. Her skin burned where the water sat on it, and she started to think he might be telling the truth about its powers.

  Up went the water, and then down it came. But she was ready that time, eyes closed, bracing for the cold. Her skin tingled at the feel of it.

  ‘Believe me yet?’ he asked.

  She opened her eyes. ‘I suspect I am going to need more than a few waves.’

  ‘Well, you have an entire ocean at your feet.’

  She nodded absently, knowing it still would not be enough.

  Chapter 8

  They transformed the house into something more closely resembling a home. Leksi helped her clean it once, and then Petra went over every inch of it again. Leksi did not comment, not even when she rewashed the windows he had scrubbed spotless. He had no idea how long they would be stuck there, and he wanted her to feel comfortable.

  Not one to sit idle, Leksi had Charis help him build a pell so they could train together. They would spend hours sparring and practicing their archery before washing off in the frigid ocean. In the afternoons, he would collect Petra from the garden behind the house, where she spent most of her time tending seedlings as though they were babies. They would take a long walk, either in the nearby forest or along the rocks. She never said no to him, never complained, but she never appeared to enjoy herself either.

  He kept waiting to witness some miraculous change in her. There was a part of him that wanted to figure her out, get inside that head of hers and see what demons were lurking, but the only time she gave anything away was when he received letters. She would linger as he read them, holding her breath.

  ‘Did they find him?’ she would ask the moment he had finished reading.

  He did not need to ask who she was referring to. It was all there in that hopeful expression, right before he disappointed her.

  In the evenings, Petra would sit in her chair close to the hearth and stare out the window. He could not tell if she was waiting for her son to miraculously appear, or for King Nilos’s men to show up and drag her back to Masville.

  Of course, he felt sorry for himself also. He too was forced to sit idle, waiting for news. Evenings were the hardest. Nights were for drinking, socialising and women. Instead, he sat across the room from Petra’s blank face, his sanity hanging by a thread—sober. It was not as though he were not allowed to drink, but rather that he would feel uncomfortable doing so under Petra’s scrutinising gaze. The awkward situation made for a lot of early nights.

  Three weeks into their sentence, he sent Charis to the market and then wandered over to the edge of the garden, watching Petra sow vegetables. It seemed she had retained some useful skills from her youth after all. She had asked Charis to bring her manure and sand from the beach, and every day she worked it through the soil.

  ‘In Pamid, the soil is full of clay. Nothing grows,’ she said, not looking up at him. ‘You have to put in the work if you expect anything to survive.’

  ‘Food scraps help also.’

  She was kneeling in the dirt, wearing the same empty expression she always wore. ‘There was no such thing as food scraps where I grew up.’

  He looked down and cleared his throat. ‘Your rows are crooked.’

  She sat back on her heels and studied the perfect lines. ‘No, they are straight. I marked every point before I began planting.’ She turned to look at him, taking in his playful expression. ‘Oh. I suppose you meant that as a joke.’

  The garden was immaculate to the point of terrifying. God help any weed that tried to make a home in her space. She was that way with most things. Whenever he cooked, she would wash all the pots, then line them up on top of the hearth with the handles pointing in the same direction. Naturally, during times of extreme boredom, he would go and turn them all in different directions, then sit across the room and wait for that moment when she noticed. He would smile to himself as her body went rigid, watch her fingers working over her nails while she fought the urge to straighten them.

  As he watched her dig into the earth with gloved hands, an idea came to him. ‘Time for a break,’ he called. ‘Come with me.’

  She looked up at him, tiredly. ‘Come with you where?’

  He tutted. ‘Always so suspicious. To the behourd.’ He thought the term might make her smile, something he was yet to witness properly. Instead, she frowned at him.

  ‘You mean to the grain sack you stuffed with straw, mounted on a stick, and stuck in the ground over there?’

  ‘That is our pell, located within the behourd.’ He could have sworn her eyes showed some life for a moment.

  She stood and brushed dirt off the skirt of her dress. ‘You want me to watch you train? Put on a big manly display? Is that it?’

  ‘Actually, I thought I would let you have a turn.’

  ‘A turn at what?’ s
he asked, folding her arms delicately in front of her.

  He stepped on the bottom rail of the fence he had built for her; it was supposed to keep the hares out, but it was a work in progress. Reaching down, he pulled a dagger from the sheath strapped to his ankle. ‘We’ll start small.’

  She glanced down at the weapon in his hand and shifted her weight. ‘You want me to stab the sack?’

  ‘So many questions,’ he said, waving her over. ‘Come, let’s see if we can release some of that tension you’re holding in.’

  She hesitated before exiting the small gate he held open for her, stepping past him without so much as a glance. They walked over to the cleared area and she stopped next to the pell, crossing her arms in front of her, waiting.

  ‘Right,’ he began, throwing the dagger in the air and catching it by the blade. He offered it to her, and she stared down at it. ‘Go on,’ he encouraged. ‘I’ll show you what to do.’

  She exhaled before reaching out and taking it from him, holding it out from her as though it might turn on her at any moment.

  ‘Take a firm hold,’ he said. He watched as she adjusted her grip. ‘Now distribute your weight evenly between your feet, like this.’ He showed her with his own feet, and she copied him. ‘That’s it, that foot behind. Good. Now I want you to step forwards, and at the same time, thrust the blade like this.’

  ‘Into the straw bag?’

  ‘Not just yet. Show me the action first.’

  She looked entirely uncomfortable as she took a small step forwards and extended her arm.

  His eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘Really? That’s it? Where’s all that anger you’re holding on to?’

  She looked at him. ‘I am not angry, Sir Leksi.’

  ‘I disagree.’ He walked over, moving behind her. ‘May I?’

  ‘May you what?’

  ‘Engage the enemy,’ he joked.

  She turned her head to him. ‘Probably not a great idea when I am armed.’

  He put his hands up and stepped away. ‘Good point. I shall talk you through it.’ He moved so he was in her line of sight. ‘Step up to the pell.’

  She stared at him blankly.

  ‘The straw sack,’ he said, pointing.

  She stepped forward.

  ‘This time you’re going to stab it. Give it all you have,’ he instructed.

  Drawing a breath, she narrowed her eyes and widened her stance before thrusting the dagger into the sack. She stepped back to admire the one-inch hole with a satisfied expression, as though she had excelled at the task.

  ‘That’s all you have? Really?’ She looked a little taken aback. ‘Hold on a moment.’ He dashed off and returned a minute later with some flexible twigs and long pieces of grass.

  ‘What is that for?’ she asked.

  He held a finger up, telling her to wait, and got to work bending and binding the sticks together to form a circle. When he was done, he set it on top of the pell, like a crown. ‘You remember this guy, don’t you? I present King Nilos of Corneo.’

  Her hand went limp around the dagger as she stared at the pell.

  ‘More straw stuffing required?’ Leksi asked, trying to read her expression.

  She blinked and looked down at the ground.

  He stepped up beside her, lifting her dagger hand again.

  ‘Don’t lower your weapon,’ he said gently. ‘This man stands between you and your son.’

  She flinched and looked up at him. ‘I do not want to do this anymore.’

  He studied her face. She was shutting down, right in front of him. What on earth had the king done to her to initiate such a response at the mere mention of his name? ‘I think you should. Let it out, or it will eat you up.’

  She raised her eyes to the pell.

  ‘I want you to reflect on the past nine years,’ he continued. ‘Every painful moment. I want you to feel it. Don’t push it down. Just let it out—every ugly part of it.’

  ‘I can’t,’ she said, dropping the dagger. ‘My mind does not work like that. I am a mentor, not a soldier.’

  Again he stepped forwards, picked up the dagger, and placed it in her hand. ‘I’ve seen the bruises. I’m guessing you’re more like a soldier than you realise.’

  She glanced at him as though deciding if she should trust him.

  ‘Tell me about your son. How old was he when the king took him?’

  Her hand went to her stomach. ‘Four days old.’

  ‘But you remember him.’

  A nod.

  ‘Say it. Say, “I remember him”.’

  ‘I remember him.’

  ‘And did the king share his plans with you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He stole my baby.’

  Leksi watched the change in her face when she said the words. ‘While you slept?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I want you to say it.’

  ‘He stole my baby, from my arms, while I slept.’

  ‘And you hate him for it.’

  She closed her eyes, shaking her head.

  ‘You don’t hate him?’

  No response.

  ‘Why don’t you know where he is?’

  Her eyes opened. ‘He will not tell me.’

  ‘Why not? You’re his mother.’ She was trembling, but he continued. ‘What has he told you?’

  ‘He told me once that he was living with a distant relative.’

  Leksi watched the threads holding her together come loose. ‘That’s all he’s said in five years?’ No reply. She was struggling now. ‘Do you believe him?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘A thief and a liar. Do you think he should pay?’

  No reply.

  ‘I said, do you think he should pay?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So make him pay.’ He took another step back. ‘He’s standing right in front of you.’

  Narrowing her eyes on the pell, she lunged forwards with surprising speed, driving the dagger through the material. She stilled, staring down at the giant tear where a few strands of straw now poked out. Then pulling the dagger out, she thrust it in again. Leksi remained where he was, watching the raw emotion play out on her face. She held it with both hands this time, driving it into King Nilos’s straw heart. A noise escaped her—a sob and a roar forming a single sound.

  Leksi realised at that moment that years of suppressed anger and pain might be too much for her all at once. He could only guess at what had taken place behind those walls. Perhaps the reality was much worse than he had imagined.

  By this stage, she was slashing the pell, all composure gone, her hair coming loose with each swing of her arm. He had a choice: stop her or let her finish the job. He went with the latter.

  ‘Talk to him,’ Leksi called to her. ‘Tell him why you’re doing this.’

  ‘Because I hate you!’ She reached for the sack with her spare hand and began pulling at one of the holes until it tore open. ‘You took him from me!’ Straw began to fly everywhere, floating down around her. ‘You drugged me, and you stole my baby, right from my arms.’

  Leksi looked down at the ground. He had heard the story from Tyron, but this was something else.

  ‘Then you called me to your bed, night after night, knowing I hate you!’ Another tear, another puff of straw. ‘Why didn’t you leave me alone?’ She shoved the pell, and when it did not budge, she began kicking at it. ‘Where is my son?’ she screamed.

  It was no longer safe for her to continue, so Leksi went to her, keeping an eye on the dagger in her hand, worried she might accidentally hurt herself. When he took her arm, she turned on him, blade swinging. He leapt backwards, angling his body so the weapon passed him without making contact. She froze and her gaze went to the dagger, staring at it like she had forgotten she was holding it. It fell from her hand, right before her knees gave out.

  Leksi stepped up, caught her, and lowered her gently to the ground. He did not keep hold of her, instead si
tting in the dirt next to her while she cried into her hands. After a few minutes, the crying stopped.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ she said, barely able to look at him. ‘Are you all right?’

  He laughed through his nose. ‘It would be fairly embarrassing if I wasn’t. I’ve learned how to avoid a blade over the years.’

  ‘I did not mean to—’

  ‘I know.’ He was surprised by how much he hated seeing her cry. After a long silence, he asked, ‘He really drugged you?’

  She sniffed and pulled her knees up, hugging them to her. ‘He knew it was the only way. I would never have handed him over.’

  For once, Leksi was at a loss for words, slightly out of his depth on this one. He had most definitely underestimated the extent of her anger. ‘I thought it better out than in.’

  She studied him. ‘Probably safer for both of us if my feelings remain buried in the future.’ Looking down at herself, she said, ‘I am a mess. Is this how you train your men?’

  ‘Sometimes. Depends on the man. They don’t tend to cry as much though.’ He usually ran in the other direction when women cried in front of him. He was a bastard like that, especially given he was usually the cause of the tears—he had broken a few hearts over the years. Something about their puffy red faces and desperate expressions made him want to flee, so he was very surprised to find that instinct had not kicked in. It helped that she was one of those rare people who looked beautiful when she cried. Stunning, actually. ‘It doesn’t bother me if you make a mess of yourself. You do the laundry.’

  She glanced across at him. ‘This is probably one of the most mortifying moments of my adult life.’

  He shrugged. ‘I’ve seen men twice your size in far worse states.’

  ‘I never cry in front of people.’

  ‘I would be more concerned by the fact that you just tried to stab me.’

  Almost a smile. ‘There is that.’

  He leaned back on his hands. ‘They’ll find your son.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘You’ve met Aldara. She isn’t one to give up.’ He reached out and plucked a piece of straw from her hair. ‘How old is your son now?’