Chapter Twenty-Two
Ingrid
“Surely you can stay with me?” I plead with Morwen, holding her hands in mind while she tries to tug them away.
“Your Highness, I have my own duties, and I don’t think your tutors would appreciate my presence,” she argues, the monotone in her voice belying how many times we’ve had this discussion between my chambers and the high tower where my demon realm lessons are set to take place.
“And what should their appreciation matter?” I scoff, only half-teasing. “I’m to be the queen, shouldn’t my wishes be honored first?”
“They would,” comes a haughty male voice from behind. Morwen’s face pales, and she yanks her hands out of my grip and disappears down the spiral stairs before I know what’s happening. “If you’d actually been accepted by the throne. That remains to be seen.”
With the feeling that there’s a predator at my back ready to pounce, I slowly turn on my heel. The voice is familiar, but it takes me a moment to recognize the duke without his severe-looking counterpart.
“Duke Calessevan,” I say in greeting, dipping my head slightly.
“His Enduring Grace, Steward of the Western Canopy, Duke Calessevan, ” is the barbed correction from the demoness who emerges after him. “Your first lesson will be using proper forms of address when speaking to your betters.”
I bite my tongue. I can’t truly argue with what she’s saying, especially after the duke so generously pointed out that I have no real power until I’m seated on the throne.
“I see, thank you,” I say with great effort.
“A ruler does not thank their subjects, Your Majesty,” Duke Calessevan says, directly contradicting his counterpart’s point. “Allow me to introduce Her Excellency, Marchioness Drevane. Together, we will see if there is any hope for a human to learn our ways.”
Great. These two are my tutors, and they already look at me like an ifrak would be better suited for the throne.
Following them into the classroom, I can’t help but wish I was down in the stable with Brightstar.
While my tutors start unraveling a maps and scrolls, showing me the borders of the reach throughout the ages, how they’ve been redrawn, where the land is contested, and the terms of various treaties, I’m developing a headache and imagining the soft, downy calf emerging from Starcaller’s tummy fluff.
How that little pink nose peeks out first when I show up with my familiar clicks and basket of treats.
Brightstar’s just as relentless about treats as their mother, and at the rate they’re growing, I make sure to bring triple what I used to.
“And that is the basis for the Second Verdurous Accord,” Duke Calessevan says, and I’m still not sure if the accord started a war or ended one.
It’s hard to follow along, and this is already more reading than I’ve done probably in my whole life.
The late Lady Amond made sure I knew enough to write down her shopping lists and follow written directions, but I’ve not had much more experience than that.
School was never even a dream of mine, and now I’m glad it wasn’t.
It’s awful.
The tower is kept unbearably warm, and the duke’s voice is as uninteresting as the subjects he drones on about.
I’m struggling to keep my eyes open, idly wondering if the grooms are keeping the stables warm enough for Brightstar.
Xandril assured me the ifrak are hearty creatures made to endure the climate, but it seems that both Brightstar and Starcaller are more at ease when my presence makes the stablehands add more and more hot coals to the stove.
At least if I’m there, bundled up and turning blue at the lips, the stables will be kept as warm as possible.
The marchioness slaps her palm onto the table in front of me, her taloned fingertips digging into the wood. “This mountain range is all that separates Emerald from the barbaric deserts, so why do you think we don’t claim ownership of it all?”
“I…”
The gouges under her claws deepen. I don’t want to let her intimidate me, but looking at the map doesn’t help me at all. The mountain range she’s pointing to is labeled ‘Lumen’, but then it’s also marked with the symbols for contested territory between Emerald and Iron.
“If it’s contested,” I say, thinking out loud, “doesn’t that mean we’re trying to claim ownership of it?”
The marchioness’s hand relaxes, both tutors giving me a stunned look that has me feeling pretty proud of myself. Of course they’d try to hit me with a trick question. Maybe now they won’t think I’m so easily fooled.
“Your Highness, if this material is too taxing for you, perhaps we should reconsider the pace,” Duke Calessevan says, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Any child of the reach can understand this, even our Wilds-touched—” The marchioness stops herself short, black eyes gleaming as her nostrils flare.
“That’s enough for today,” she says, venom in every word. “We can’t risk further enfeebling your human mind with undue strain.”
The shock hits like a splash of ice water, and for a moment I simply stare at her, not sure how to respond.
“Direct eye contact is reserved for equals or challengers. Do not make the mistake of thinking you are capable of being either to me,” she hisses, stalking out of the room before I can respond.
The duke is entirely nonplussed by the exchange, casually gathering his lecture materials without paying me any mind.
It’s all I can do to keep my composure until I get to the end of the stairs, hot tears falling down my face long before I make it to my private quarters.
How am I going to do this? There’s so much to learn, so many things I don’t understand, and any mistake makes not only me, but also Xandril and the reach as a whole look foolish.
His challenges are great enough without my presence adding difficulty.
There’s no way I’ll ever know enough to satisfy the throne.
You don’t have to, a small voice reminds me. Because of course I don’t have to. I’ll be gone the moment spring arrives, and none of this will matter any more.
It’s not the comfort it once was. The thought of leaving now, abandoning Xandril to do this alone, never feeling Brightstar’s velvet muzzle against my palm or being able to witness Crownwood through all the seasons…
it’s the opposite of comfort. There’s an ache in my chest that I can’t explain when I think about leaving it all.
Even Morwen, for all her mercurial moods, has begun to feel like a part of what makes this place home-worthy.
The tears seem like they’ll never stop, and a knock on my door has me furiously swiping at my face, trying to sniffle quietly enough to avoid arousing suspicion.
“Your Highness,” Morwen calls through the door when I don’t answer right away. “The king has requested your company at supper this evening.”
My stomach twists in on itself. The thought of food alone is enough to make me want to lose its contents, but the added horror of facing the king after the disastrous lesson this afternoon is far too much to face.
I’ve no doubt my tutors filled him in on all of my inadequacies and how feeble my human mind is.
I’m in no mood to defend myself or my kind.
“Please deliver my regrets that I’ll be unable to attend,” I call back, fresh tears welling up when I remember Marchioness Drevane’s ‘A ruler does not plead for their subjects’ obedience,’ admonition.
“I…Your Highness?” Morwen calls back. It’s highly unusual for me to carry on a conversation through the door like this, and even more unusual that I would deny the king an audience. After the calamitous day I’ve had, though, there’s no will in me to explain or soften my tone.
“I said no, Morwen. That will be all,” I snap, those words echoing through the room as her answering silence stretches on and on.
Eventually, I realize she’s gone, and I’m left alone again, feeling sorry for myself with no need to muffle my sobs.