Chapter 34
Ihave nearly reached the end of the corridor when I see Charles. He is speaking to a steward, who bows quickly and disappears the moment Charles notices me.
He looks at me with an expression I cannot immediately name.
“You seem well,” he says, approaching. “Better than this morning.”
“I am,” I reply. “The air helped.”
His gaze lingers on my face, then lower, as though he is assessing something beyond my appearance.
“You look flushed,” he adds.
“I have been walking.”
He reaches for me, intending to kiss me as he often does when he feels watched by others. There is no one here now, but habit persists.
I turn my head slightly. Not enough to insult, but enough to avoid him.
His hand pauses in midair. “For how long,” he asks quietly, “do you intend to keep me at arm’s length?”
“I have not kept you anywhere,” I say, keeping my voice level. “I have been recovering.”
“For nearly a week?” His tone is still calm, too calm.
“I do not wish to fall ill again before the ball,” I answer.
“You deny me,” he says. It is not loud or angry, but wounded.
The ring begins to warm. At first, it is subtle, a faint heat beneath the metal. Charles notices my stillness.
“Who is he?” he asks. The question comes out without preamble.
“What do you mean?” I stall, my voice shaky. It is the wrong thing to say.
The heat of the ring sharpens suddenly, searing against my skin. I cannot suppress the small intake of breath.
“You think I cannot feel it?” he says softly. “You think I do not sense it when you are working your spells?”
“I have done nothing,” I insist.
His gaze is no longer searching. It is certain. “You belong to me,” he says. “Not merely in ceremony. In truth.”
The ring burns again. This time I see it—a thin fracture along the newer band, the metal that was added in the tavern. It is faint, but it is there, splitting along the seam where old and new were fused.
The reinforcement is weakening.
My heart is pounding loudly; I am sure I can feel the crack in it widening.
Charles releases my wrist. “You will not make a spectacle of me,” he says, voice still controlled. “Not after what I have given you.”
“I have made no spectacle,” I answer.
His restraint vanishes. He turns abruptly and drives his fist into the stone wall beside us. The sound is sickening, bone against masonry. I flinch, and he does it again.
When he pulls his hand back, the skin across his knuckles has split. Blood wells quickly, bright against the gray corridor. He bends over, and I think he might be crying. But then I realize: he is laughing. It is not loud at first, not even hysterical, just wrong.
The sound builds until it becomes something almost unrecognizable. His shoulders shake. His eyes—Devil’s mercy, his eyes—look as they did on the battlefield, when victory tipped into slaughter and he could not tell the difference.
I take a careful step back. “Charles,” I say softly. “We should not quarrel like this. The parade is in two days. The court watches everything. If there are rumors—”
He stops laughing. “Rumors?” he repeats.
“I will stay away from any man who offends you,” I say quickly. “If that is what you need. We have more important things to think of than suspicion.”
He stares at me as though I have spoken in another language. “You think this is about need?” he asks.
Before I can answer, he pulls a dagger from his belt. For a heartbeat I think he means to threaten me, but he presses the blade to his own throat.
“Charles,” I breathe.
“One more betrayal,” he says calmly, “and I will spill my blood at your feet. Let the court see what their Queen has done.”
The corridor feels too narrow.
“Put it down,” I say. “Please.”
“You will come with me,” he says. “To the chapel.” He does not lower the dagger. “If you try to run, I will not miss.”
There is no choice. “I will come.”
We walk through the corridors together—his hand gripping my arm, the dagger never far from his skin. Servants freeze as we pass. A pair of guards exchange uncertain glances but do not intervene.
Rowan stands at the far end of the western hall. His gaze flicks from Charles’s bloodied hand to my face.
I shake my head once, tears burn in my eyes.
He turns and runs in the other direction.
We reach the chapel doors. Charles throws them open so hard they crash against the walls.
“Out,” he bellows.
The few priests and attendants inside scatter without protest. The echo of the doors closing behind us feels final. He drags me forward, all the way to the altar.
“Kneel,” he commands.
I do, and the stone bites into my knees.
He begins to pace in front of me, blood still dripping from his knuckles. “You are unworthy,” he says. “Do you know that? Unworthy of a crown. Unworthy of the covenant.”
His voice grows louder, wilder.
“A worthless soul. Even to the Devil.”
The words strike like a hand would. He lifts the dagger and, without breaking eye contact, draws it slowly across his forearm. The cut is shallow, but blood spills freely, running down his arm and dripping onto my gown.
I flinch as it touches my skin.
He does not seem to feel the pain; he only watches me.
I begin to cry, not loudly or dramatically, but because the sight of it drags me backward into memory.
To other moments when his anger turned physical.
To the night, he gripped my wrists so tightly he broke it.
To our wedding day, when I stood in my red gown and imagined I might one day die in the snow rather than here.
How naive I was.
It would be fitting, perhaps, to die beneath the face of God, at the hands of a man protected for generations by both Heaven and Hell.
Charles throws his head back.
“I have offered enough!” he shouts toward the vaulted ceiling. “I have given my life. My victories. My blood!”
He gestures wildly with the dagger.
“And what do I receive? A wife who disobeys me. A wife who spreads her legs for other men like a common whore while I secure the kingdom!”
I close my eyes.
“Tell me what more you want!” he cries. “What more must I give? Why does the devil not accept the Ayna I have offered him?”
My eyes snap open.
Charles strides toward me and seizes my arm, hauling me upright.
“You will not shame me,” he says again, breath hot and metallic with blood. He tries to force his mouth against mine.
I twist away, but he is stronger now, or perhaps simply beyond reason. His blood smears across my cheek, my throat, staining the bodice of my gown.
“Charles, stop—”
He grips my jaw, trying to turn my face back toward his.
A laugh cuts through the chapel. Deep, dark, slow, it bounces off the vaulted stone walls until it feels like it comes from everywhere at once. Charles freezes mid-motion, dagger still in hand. The air thickens, heavy with smoke and iron.
Footsteps follow. Deliberate, slow. They echo from the upper gallery.
I squint and see two legs descending from where Charles’s white throne sits.
A cane clinks against the metal gates—gates imported from Italy, expensive and ornate.
Clank…clank…clank…each strike reverberates through the chamber like a drumbeat, announcing someone’s presence.
“Who is there?” Charles’s voice cracks, sharp and loud, betraying more irritation than fear.
“You called for me, King,” the voice says, mocking, almost playful. It has no clear source. It seems to swirl, coming from the gallery, the walls, the shadows themselves. “You want answers to questions you have no right to ask. You got your bargain, didn’t you?”
“You!” Charles shouts, fury and desperation tangled together.
“Get away! God, help me! Lord, help me!” He collapses to his knees, head bowed, praying as if his life depends on it.
And maybe it does. I stumble back, falling onto the cold stone floor.
The smell of Charles’s blood, still smeared on me, mixes with the incense, making me dizzy.
My heart pounds so loudly I’m certain it will burst this time.
“Our Father, Who art in heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name. Thy Kingdom come. Thy Will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread …” Charles is frantic now.
The man seems to have disappeared, and I look over to the door behind the altar, leading into the sacristy. I need to get away.
And then he appears. A figure emerges from a swirl of black smoke.
Without hesitation, he reaches down and hauls Charles up by the throat. The dagger clatters to the floor, forgotten.
I close my eyes instinctively, bracing.
Charles is struggling. I can hear him breathing hard. I open my eyes a fraction, and his body is dangling in mid-air, shielding the man’s features from me.
“Lord, save me!” Charles rasps.
The man laughs again. “I am the God you are calling for… I. Am. The. Devil.”
Charles drops lifelessly to the floor, and I stare back at the man in front of me.
“Don’t be scared, Ayna’vael.”
Click.
THE END