Chapter 11
Chapter
Eleven
Elara
That evening, the king sleeps like a man trying to be a corpse and failing at both, and not even in the bed that stands in the far rear. Instead, he’s slumped sideways on his beloved couch, mouth parted just enough to catch a breath he seems reluctant to keep.
No drama tonight.
Almost disappointed, I lift the gauze, edge first, the wounds beneath dry, the maggots curled into tiny brittle twigs. If even the palace is short on salt, a soak in the sea might serve better—though I can’t imagine him agreeing to leave this tomb of a room.
Still, a bit of sun might do what the salves can’t. Fresh air could chase the rot from his skin. Maybe even from his mood.
After a new layer of wormwood, I vent the gauze again, pulling—
“Mother.” My fingers freeze at the king’s whimper, a sound so desperate it makes my heart shudder. “…have to…break it.”
Mother. Ophelia?
If a man bleeds such a thing in his sleep, it has to be meaningful. Was it her? The one who gave him this undying determination to undo the curse? When? With what words? What proof?
The candle gutters low, its light catching on the gold of the crown where it rests crooked against his temple. Curiosity rises like a tide in me. I reach out slowly, carefully. Fingers meet metal that feels almost warm, as though it borrows his pulse. I give it the smallest tug.
Not an inch of give.
The gold clings to him like an extension of bone. I know I’ve seen him lift it. What happens if he takes it off? Can he be killed? Is that how the curse gets passed down? Did his father put this thing on his head, then fade at last while his son was burdened to carry this fate?
I finish the wrap slowly, so as not to wake him, and turn away. “Goodnight, Your Majesty.”
The candles flicker as I pass them. The door sighs shut behind me. I hurry back into the corridor, the stones finally quiet enough I can take in my surroundings without hurry. The rooms lining each side. The windows overlooking ponds, or stables, or woods.
The pair of fine double doors left ajar by either carelessness or nostalgia. I glance left, then right. With the thin staffing, reckon I can dare a peek…
I glance into the room. Moonlight has more courage than candles here, spilling in through a high window.
A bed stands in the middle like a ship at anchor, draped and draped again under rich velvet.
A mirror watches the bed, its face veiled, the cloth secured with a single pin that catches a breath of moon and gives it back shyly.
The air tastes like old perfume that stopped being alluring.
A bowl sits on a low table, dried rose petals catching dust in layers.
This is no ordinary chamber.
After a glance over my shoulder, I step inside and run a finger along the edge of a carved chest. Time sleeps there, deep and forgiving. Under it, the wood is smooth and proud. On the night table, a ring-mark says a cup often rested here ages ago, lifted by a hand that held authority.
Like a king’s.
Then why doesn’t he sleep here, choosing that pitiful excuse of a chamber instead? What did the pillows hear whispered in this room? What did the mirror see that the king doesn’t want to look at?
Outside, boots hush over stone.
I quickly retreat. I shut the doors to a breath’s width and turn into the corridor. Vale walks with the practiced indifference of a man who knows the halls better than their builders, hands clasped behind his back, his boots too clean to confess where they’ve been.
I walk up to him. “You move like a traitor.”
“Then you best keep up, following quickly like an accomplice before someone sees us.” He turns, eyes pale green and unreadable. “I figured I might find you with the king.”
“I just finished.”
“And even with your hair intact,” he says with a smirk. “Hungry for food at last? The kitchens are long abandoned.”
“In fact, I am.” This place has enough corridors to work a body dead. “Feed me before I do something reckless, like be agreeable.”