Chapter Eight #2
Ger glanced around numbly and caught Imogen’s eye.
She stared back at him, unblinking, that same eerily blank expression he’d caught through the doorway the last time he’d seen her.
She lifted her hand, palm up in offering.
When he did not move, she gave the barest, gentlest nod; a sliver of encouragement and no more.
It was enough, though. Enough of a crack in her mask to thaw his frozen joints and see him stumbling into motion.
His limbs moved like they’d been rusted with years of disuse, but he made himself step forward, pry off his gauntlet, and carefully reach for the bead of ice.
He looked to Imogen as she gently rolled the little treasure into his waiting hand, but the moment the exchange was complete, her eyes dimmed, expression shuttered.
Avette, however, watched him with eyes that were all too bright as he took the two short strides between the settees to deliver the bead.
She took it without thanks; the brush of her fingertips lingered, cold as a bite of frost to bare skin.
Ger felt the sting of it even as he rounded the settee and replaced his gauntlet, his hand still cold and burning beneath the steel.
Avette was oblivious to his existence the moment he’d left her line of sight. She held up the bead and made a soft sound of admiration, turning the frozen treasure so the golden glow of the fire glinted and shone on its gleaming surface.
“Truly beautiful. Does it always take you quite so long, even for such a little thing as this?”
Imogen bowed her head. “Yes, Your Majesty. My magic is a mere token compared to the might of your gift. The Goddess has favoured you.”
Though he couldn’t see her face, Ger could tell Avette had liked that; her shoulders drew back, sleek curls tumbling down her straight spine as she preened.
But she only said, “It will take many hours, then, to make enough beads.”
Imogen’s head dipped lower; she was practically bowing over her thighs where she sat, offering Avette her nape like a traitor poised over a guillotine. Irritation flared in Ger’s chest at the sight—though at least it sent a welcome burst of heat bleeding up his neck.
“This is your coronation gown, Your Majesty,” said Imogen to her own lap. “I can think of nothing more worthy of my time nor my gift.”
Avette hummed out a little laugh. “Your token, you mean.”
For a moment, Ger could swear that Imogen’s shoulders stiffened beneath the intricate lace of her sleeves—but then she lifted her head in soft laughter, light as a Mid-Winter breeze.
“Quite so, Your Majesty.”
Avette was already moving on, barely listening; “Enough for the entire skirt, I should think. And then there is the matter of the wedding gown—although perhaps we needn’t be quite as extravagant with that one.
It should, of course, be beautiful, romantic.
But at the coronation, I must be truly unforgettable. ”
Hold the fuck on, thought Ger.
His gaze bounced from Imogen’s pleasant nod to Mareda’s glazed, vacant stare.
Neither of them reacted—but Ger swore he’d heard Avette say wedding gown.
Why did she need a wedding gown? Better yet, why was nobody questioning what fucking wedding she was on about?
For perhaps the first time ever, he found himself glad for Captain Doran; a horrible feeling, really, but when Doran cleared his throat, Ger caught the mild alarm tensing his grey brow, and thought perhaps he, too, was wondering what exactly he’d missed.
Doran leaned slightly over the back of the settee, hoarse voice dropping to a strained confidence, though both Imogen and Ger openly watched and listened.
“A wedding gown, Your Majesty?”
“Yes,” said Avette, still admiring the shimmer of the bead in the firelight.
“Forgive me—what for?”
“Well, for my wedding, of course.”
“Your wedding to whom, my Queen?”
Avette gave a short sigh and abruptly folded the bead into her fist. Her delicate jaw set in a firm line, tension fluttering at its hinge.
She did not deign to turn around as she spoke.
“If I am to be coronated, Captain Doran, I must also marry. And as the Sorceress of beloved, world-shaping Eisalaan lore, there is only one person fit to stand at my side. Now tell me, why did we spare a full platoon of the Eisalaan Gard over the Common Crossing?”
She delivered her question lightly, each word clipped and bright, a schoolmistress clinging to patience. If the sour curl of Doran’s lip was any indication, he did not miss the deliberate tone, especially when she prompted his answer with a curt “Hmm?”
“To find the Merrow King,” he said, thin lips barely moving around his gritted teeth.
“Precisely, Captain Doran,” she sang, her fist still tight around the bead. “We will find my betrothed and return him to the palace in time for our wedding.”
Holy fucking Daughters. An iron fist swiped at Ger’s innards, squeezing everything in an unforgiving grip until he wasn’t sure if he wanted to puke or pass out. Holy. Fucking. Daughters.
Captain Doran straightened abruptly, confidential tone forgotten. “Your Majesty, you cannot mean to delay—”
“Do not dream,” Avette cut in, the tight knuckles of her fist bleaching even as her voice remained sweet and even, “that you may tell me what I can or cannot mean to do.”
Doran ground his teeth at her turned back, but he pressed on determinedly. “I only mean to say, with the matter of Her Late Majesty’s heir still uncertain, time is of the utmost—”
“I am the Heir of Eisalaan.”
Avette did not raise her voice, but the controlled fury in her every word whipped around them like the whistle of a stormwind.
Ger was nearly certain that a flash of blue light had pulsed against his eyelids between one blink and the next.
In the deafening silence that followed, Avette’s slim shoulders rose with the deepest of sighs; then she lifted her hand, still tightly fisted, and unfurled her fingers.
A trickle of water fell from her palm, and she tutted to herself, shaking off the damp residue as though it were the lowest of pests.
“What a waste,” she said.
Across from her, Imogen’s lips had parted, eyes locked on the empty hand that had held her beautiful bead.
She didn’t seem upset at its destruction, but there was something shifting behind her dark eyes as they studied the queen’s open palm.
Before Ger could even hazard a guess at her thoughts, her lips pressed tight, and she scooted abruptly forward in her seat.
She dragged a handkerchief from the pocket of her puffy pink skirt and gave it a smart snap in the air before rising to approach the queen.
“A wedding is just the thing, Your Majesty.”
Slowly, Avette reached for the handkerchief in Imogen’s outstretched grasp.
She patted her palm dry, then rolled her hand at Imogen as if to say, Go on.
Imogen continued in a rush, hands wringing together at her waist—a gesture so far removed from her usual loose, confident poise that Ger couldn’t help but stare.
Behind her, Mareda had finally torn her own gaze away from the walls, and she, too, was fixed on Imogen’s hands, those long Wielder’s fingers twisting together.
“Your claim to the throne is based on ancient, blessed laws of ascension. Laws said to honour the will of the Goddess herself. You were in line for the throne before Queen Selma and her daughters existed, so by the will of the Heavens, the throne is rightfully yours.”
Avette’s shoulders drew back once more. She sat before Imogen like a fickle cat; momentarily basking in the attention it craved, but poised to draw its claws at the mildest slight.
“But if you’re to honour one ancient law,” Imogen continued in a slow, thoughtful tone, “you must be shown to honour the others. Even those laws that Queen Selma herself bent to her whim, in spite of the Goddess’s will.”
Mareda glanced swiftly away; she was betrayed only by the slight catch of her breath, a white puff on the chilled air. Avette, of course, paid her no mind. Her slim fingers drummed thoughtfully on the armrest.
“If I am to be appointed by the Mother—” Avette paused, catching her error. Her hand flattened on the armrest, and she squeezed at it, fingers flexing tight. “Appointed by the Goddess … I must be seen to honour her in every way.”
“Your Majesty, you have adopted many modern practices,” Doran protested. “This is the Eisalaan way; we are a modern country!”
“And a blessed one,” Imogen cut in at once, lifting her chin in Doran’s direction.
“So much so that half the world pays pilgrimage to our lands. Selma was our first monarch ever to be coronated without first marrying. She was known for it throughout Adhlas, and not always in the most flattering way. Her Majesty is wise, Captain. She’s already beloved by a whole kingdom who grew up with her history as our bedtime stories; a Goddess-blessed union to her truest love is a happy ending—and that is the Eisalaan way. ”
She had lost her mind.
She had lost her damned mind, and Ger’s was whirring painfully.
At some point in Imogen’s impassioned plea for the unhinged Sorceress to hunt down and entrap the Merrow King, Mareda’s focus had slid away again.
She stared intently at a side table adorned in sharp, frozen droplets, though she flinched at Doran’s vicious scoff.
“My Lady, that is, quite frankly, insanity—”
“Enough,” said Avette. She spoke pleasantly, as though Doran were simply pouring her a cup of tea and hadn’t thought to leave room for milk — but he had the good sense to freeze at once. The room held its breath. “I will not subject my Court to such impertinence. Apologise.”
Imogen’s wringing hands stilled, then folded at her waist. She raised her chin higher, triumph flashing in her dark eyes. Though Ger did not much like how they’d gotten here, Doran’s purple face was a sight to behold.
“I am sorry,” he wheezed, as though each word were a knife to his vocal cords. “Forgive me, Lady Imogen.”