Chapter V Whispers
V Whispers
I lie in bed with my eyes wide open. I’ve spent the day confined to my rooms, bathing, eating, then overseeing the packing of my coffers. I am allowed to take two, and being forced to decide which belongings to leave behind was a horribly mundane hardship on top of everything else that happened.
But it’s done. I’ve packed things I can’t live without: a silver wind-up music box with my mother’s portrait inside, a book of poems she gave me for my ninth birthday, and then my favorite dresses and underthings, an ornate hairbrush, a pot of soap.
When there was room left, I added candles infused with rose oil and my two favorite books, both of them love stories filled with dashing knights and fainting princesses.
The night has fallen. A bit of blue moonlight falls inside, revealing contours of things, but not much more.
The Agnidari feast in the courtyard, the sounds of their celebration drifting in through the window my maid left ajar to let in the warm evening air. They are a rowdy bunch, singing songs in their harsh, unpleasant language, and bursting into braying laughter every other minute.
Even if they were quiet, I wouldn’t be able to sleep.
Staying busy all day kept my pain on a leash, but now, I am forced to face it. My eyes are dry, though. I wish I could cry.
Yet how? How do I cry for a father who died trying to kill me?
When the coffers were packed, and I was alone, the truth finally dawned, inevitable like the rise of the two moons over the horizon.
I watched them, the lady small and dark blue, and her knight, bigger and brighter, with a purple halo.
As the moons appeared, so did the sharp memory of what happened before my father collapsed dead on the marble.
The sword, pointing right at my belly. His scream.
“You will not take my prize!”
I lie in bed and wonder, baffled. How is it possible that I was willing to sacrifice myself to the enemy so my father would live, and he was ready to kill me so I would stay his?
It seems necessary for me to comprehend it so that I can grieve.
Why, Father? Why?
I groan and throw a pillow at the wall, screaming. “Why?!”
The door clicks open and Khay looks in. “Everything all right?”
I pant from fury and frustration, angry that he stays at my door, listening to my every sound, as if I’m a child that has to be watched even in my sleep.
“No!” I scream, throwing away decorum and good manners. “Why did my father try to kill me? Do you know?”
Khay comes in, closing the door behind him.
“I take it you can’t sleep,” he says with a small smile, grabbing a chair that stands in front of my dresser.
He carries it in one hand without effort, even though I know for a fact that the chair is heavy. Khay settles it by the foot of the bed, keeping a polite distance.
“Would you be able to sleep if your life was turned upside down in a day?” I ask, my eyebrows raised.
Khay thinks for a moment. “I think yes, if I knew a battle was coming. We learn to fall asleep fast in the army, and rest well without dreams. But in times of peace, I might toss and turn a bit.”
“A bit.” I don’t hide my scorn, pulling my comforter up to my throat before I lean my chin on my bent knees. “So tell me why he did it. And don’t lie to spare my feelings. I know what I saw. That sword was aimed at me.”
Khay leans back against the backrest and puts his hands behind his head, stretching his long legs in front of him.
“I wasn’t going to lie. Yes, he tried to kill you.
My best guess is: he didn’t want Magnar to become the rightful heir to the throne.
Since the marriage wasn’t consummated yet, your death would have annulled it.
I might be wrong, though. Maybe your father simply didn’t want you to be defiled by the beasts. ”
His lips curve in a smile, one I barely see in the darkness colored by the lady’s cool light. Outside, the Agnidari shout something together, drunken voices bleeding into a cacophony of male festivity.
I hug my knees closer to my chest. “You’d think that, would you?” I ask bitterly. “From what he said, yes. ‘You will not take my prize.’ But that’s… That is so selfish. So… So.”
Greedy. Cruel. Horrible. And for me, so lonely. Like finding out my father never treasured me for me, but only for himself.
I always liked it when he called me his prize. I felt special. But now… The word makes me feel uneasy, and I finally see what it truly means. A prize is a thing, maybe valuable, made of precious metals and stones, maybe displayed with pride and lovingly caressed…
But a thing, nonetheless.
“It’s actually typical,” Khay interrupts my musing. “I told you before that a similar thing happened in the kingdoms of Zanvar, Serilla, and Troos. Only there, the royal families killed their princesses before we took their castles.”
I remember a faint echo of him telling me that in the broom closet before the worst happened.
“Why? Wouldn’t you have killed them anyway? That’s what I was told. That the Tyrant slaughters every royal family as soon as he breaks through their final defenses.”
Khay snorts. “Yes, he did that in those three kingdoms. They welcomed him with the bodies of the princesses displayed, still warm. You can’t blame the man for getting angry, can you?
Like I told you, the youngest was four years old.
Her mother cradled her to her breast, the dagger she used to cut her daughter’s throat still in her hand. ”
My insides turn to ice as I ponder the horror of such a thing, unwilling to believe him, yet forced to consider he’s telling the truth. Because I wasn’t slaughtered today, and my father was spared, too—at least, until he attacked me. So many things were different from what I’d been told before.
Khay tries to settle more comfortably in the chair until it creaks ominously, unused to such large occupants.
“This is why I don’t mind when humans call us monsters, little diamond. I know for a fact you’re worse than us. See, I never met an Agnidari who was willing to harm their own young, whatever the reason.”
I grimace. I have to admit he’s right—if he’s telling the truth.
“But what was the reason?”
Khay hums, tilting the chair back until his face is parallel to the ceiling.
“The same reason your father had for trying to kill you, I imagine. From the moment Magnar becomes one of them through lawful marriage, he is untouchable. They’ll never be able to take back the kingdoms he took, because the oldest law of the Eleven Kingdoms forbids them from warring against each other. ”
“But that also means he can’t make any more conquests,” I say with a shake of my head. “He’s bound by the same laws now. Isn’t that an advantage?”
Khay snorts, shaking his head, and I just catch the light reflecting off his eyebrow piercing in the dark. “I don’t think it’s advantageous enough to outweigh the humiliation of having an Agnidari as a son-in-law. They’d rather kill their daughters than let one be married to Magnar.”
I shrug, remembering that moment in the library, the Tyrant’s cold, silver eyes, and the hate burning in my stomach. “I kind of see their point.”
Khay only laughs, low and warm. Outside, the warriors sing a slow, mournful song that I don’t want to admit is beautiful.
“Is he really worse than death?” he asks in a teasing voice. “Back home, every Roharra woman would weep for joy if Magnar chose her for his wife, you know. He’s strong, just, and beautiful. You won’t find a better man in all Eleven.”
Beautiful. I sense a wistful note in Khay’s voice, something very much like longing, but maybe it’s just his accent. I consider his words. Yes, I will admit without hesitation Magnar is strong. The way he killed my father was barbaric, but it must have required a lot of physical prowess.
Is he just? It’s too early to tell. The punishments he dishes out to those who disobey him, like disembowelment for raping a Farneerian, are harsh. But if he follows through, it’s not a fault. At least people know what to expect.
“Always set down clear rules,” I remember my father’s voice, his hand kneading my hip. “Chaos reigns in uncertainty.”
I push the memory away and focus on Magnar. Do I think he’s beautiful? Khay clearly does. His choice of the word surprises me, though. Men are called handsome, but well, if I squint and forget I hate him for a moment, I might admit Magnar possesses a savage sort of beauty.
“His hair is nice, I suppose. But the teeth spoil whatever good qualities he has.”
Khay's laughter is loud and unabashed. It sounds foreign, still, but not as unpleasant anymore. I think I’m getting used to the Agnidari—or at least, to Khay.
“His teeth are the best part of him!” he explodes, slapping his thigh in mirth. “He still has all, and they are white, healthy, and strong. He can tear out a bear’s throat with them. Few Agnidari can say the same.”
“Charming,” I mutter, imagining the Tyrant wrestling in mud with a bear, both of them roaring at each other and snapping sharp, predatory teeth. “I still fail to see the appeal.”
“Do you?” Khay asks, his chair falling onto four legs with a thud as he leans forward, watching me with curiosity. “What if the bear was about to attack you? Would you still fail to see the appeal of a husband who can keep you safe with one well-aimed snap of his jaws?”
My mind returns to that horrible moment in the throne room, a strong arm pushing me out of danger’s way, his movements blurring from speed, and the quick, violent death he gave my father.
If it were anyone else, I would have been grateful. As it is…
“No, still unappealing. He killed my father, Khay. And before you say he did it to save me, I know, all right? But I still can’t… He was my father.”
“I know. It’s complicated. Life often is.”
I nod despondently, because don’t I know it? Clear rules, that was my father’s principle. Yet with me, he always blurred the lines until I didn’t know right from wrong. Complicated is a good word for that.