Chapter Six #2
“Do you contend that unripe berries will produce poison?”
Quickly, I shake my head. “No, but they won’t taste very good.”
His smile has dagger edges. “I’m devastated to put you to such punishment.”
Asshole.
I manage not to call the king a curse word out loud. Just. Instead, I bring the box to my lips and tilt back my head so a few of the berries find my tongue. Immediately, I grimace. Piney, citrusy, pungent flavor floods my mouth as I chew.
“Ugh.” I shake my head before tilting the box again. He waits until not a one remains. “There. See?” I stick out my tongue to show him I’ve swallowed them all. “What now?”
He casts a glance towards the earl, who stands with his arms folded over his chest and his legs spread, staring at me. “Now, we wait.”
“For how long?”
But he casts another glance at the earl, whose expression grows stormier by the moment.
“Sorry to disappoint. Might I have a glass of water? My teeth are itching from the greenness...oh.” My belly cramps before releasing.
“Poison,” the king hisses, stepping back.
Quickly, I shake my head. “No. Only the result of days without food or water. My belly hurt after drinking shower water, too.”
The earl touches the king’s elbow. “Steady.”
But the king shakes his head, grimacing. “We starve does now? We make them thirst? Is that what we’ve become?”
“She was accused of poisoning you. She’s lucky she wasn’t instantly put to a rack of dull antlers.”
I meet the king’s gaze. “It’s alright,” I assure him. “It wasn’t so bad.”
His face contorts. He appears to be on the verge of exploding.
I change the subject, unwilling to cause him discomfort by having him dwell on mine.
“Anyway, what I told you about juniper was true, though they’re tastiest when mixed with sugar and cooked.
And ripe. Whoever told you otherwise was misinformed.
Why, at the edge of your kingdom, where the fir forests stretch to the mountains of the wolves, juniper is cultivated to spice meats.
When fermented, it becomes gin. What’s wrong? ”
“Nothing.” He glances at the earl. Some secret conversation passes between them, leaving them both looking like storm clouds. “Go.”
With a bob of his head, the earl departs. The king moves to the side table, whereon a pitcher lies covered with a wooden lid. He pours water into one of the glasses and brings it to me.
“Sip slowly.”
“Thank you.”
He watches me as I drink. The water is cool, clean, and refreshing. It lifts some of my spirits that I didn’t even know were flagging. When I finish, he takes the glass from me and places it next to my cup of mead.
“I’d apologize for your treatment, but I’m not yet convinced you aren’t an assassin.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah. Been in training since birth.”
“Remember, I don’t know that that’s not true.”
Right. I’m an idiot. “Sorry.”
He searches the ceiling before chuckling. “You’re not at all what I expected.”
“You expected the lowliest doe in your kingdom to slip you poison?”
“Not even in my wildest dreams.” Surprising me further, he sits on the bed, leg bent so his knee grazes my toes. “So, tell me, if juniper isn’t a poison, as you appear to be proving with every breath, why was I advised by a reputable and highly placed monk of Mayhaven that it was?”
I may have been born poor and weak, but I’m not a total mental case. To lay any kind of supposition against the powerful monks dedicated to Cernunnos, I’d have to be a lot stupider than I’ve already proven to be.
“I wouldn’t know, Your Majesty.”
“Go ahead. Give me a guess.”
“Not with you narrowing your eyes at me like that.”
Again, he huffs a little burst of laughter, but his humor disappears almost as quickly as it arrived. “No, I don’t suppose you’d think it wise to tell me the truth of your thoughts, not now.” He sighs, and his hand strokes the velvet nap of the bedcover.
Again, I feel his touch as if along my skin. I gasp and draw my legs up to me before I realize that the guard’s shift will fall around me like a tulip flower, revealing parts of me that modesty insists I cover.
His nostrils flare as he notices. A look of intense hunger haunts his eyes before he draws back all emotion to that hidden reserve inside him.
I change position, keeping the bottom of my thighs on the bed and the hem of the shift around my knees.
“What to do with you, Ayala Treadborn? My court calls for your execution. If I allow you to leave in peace, you’ll be assassinated by some outraged citizen who sees himself as my protector. Loyalty can be a double-edged sword.”
“I can take my chances.”
“I believe you would. However, allowing you to leave would merely be a different form of execution, and though you’re obviously guilty of terrible judgment and over-reach, you’re not a killer.”
“I’ll be fine. Really.”
“Really, you won’t. And after you’re killed, I’ll be forced to execute your executioner, which will be one hell of a political nightmare, not to mention I’ll have to bear the weight of guilt for the killing.
” With a deep exhalation, he runs his hand through his hair, sweeping back the dark, damp locks.
“But if I don’t let you go, I’ll be imprisoning an innocent. ”
“So, we’ve taken my execution on your points off the table?” I ask, since that’s the worst outcome I’m faced with.
Another bark of laughter. “Incredible. You’ve got temerity, little one. Balls, as we stags would say.”
I ruffle my shoulders. “I wasn’t born physically strong, Your Majesty, but my parents taught me that mental strength is the next best thing. Courage, perseverance, and calm demeanor, they said, were weapons anyone could lift.”
“I suppose such is true. I’ve never considered the matter before.” He sends me a piercing look before grinning. “You’re intelligent, too, maybe too much so. A certain wariness might better serve you.”
“I’m wary.” Which is the truth. “But if I remembered my stature every time I opened my mouth, I’d never speak.”
“Can you shift?”
“No.” All my enjoyment in conversing with the handsome ruler departs as my stomach creases. Admitting to the lack of basic magick is tantamount to asking to be spit upon. I notch my chin higher. “But I’ve used a lender three times. I know how it feels to run free.”
Even I hear the wistful quality in my voice. There’s nothing like the freedom of four legs sprinting through the glade. Scents are heightened. The connection to the earth and all its creatures tingle in one’s very bones.
But a lender’s magick comes at a high cost, and for those like me who exist on basic wages, hiring one with any regularity is impossible.
“Lenders.” He snorts. “They’re little beyond whores.”
“And necessary for those of us who long to explore what we’re supposed to be and can’t manage.”
“That’s blasphemy. And in front of Cernunnos’s representative, too.”
His gentle rebuke gives me pause, but only for a moment. “Maybe it is, but the weak are also shifters of Cerf-Biche, though we lack ability to access our basic natures on our own. It’s not our fault we hold so little magick, any more than it’s the fault of someone who’s born without legs.”
“The old king used to kill the less abled. He might have killed you had you come to his attention.”
I scoot a little closer to him, leaning forward to make my point. After all, I may never get the chance to speak with the king again. He’ll do whatever he wants with me, but before he does, maybe I can make the world a little better for others like me.
Though I don’t know why it’s suddenly my place to do so, I feel that it is.
“You’re different, Your Majesty. When you won your challenge, all of Cerf-Biche rejoiced. The Aurory prophesied you would renew and reimagine society for the benefit of all.”
“The Aurory is nothing but a bunch of gossiping men who stare too long into the fire.”
“Nevertheless, when I was a girl, I had your portrait on my mantle. You were the handsome prince who would ensure peace and fairness throughout the lands.”
His lips quirk, but his eyes grow troubled. “How am I doing?”
I have to think about that. “Not bad. But you could do better.” I shift again, trying to find the right words.
“This world caters to the strong. That won’t ever change.
But why do the privileges for the strong have to come at the expense of the weak?
Like shifting. Lenders are looked down upon, when really, the palace should institute a system where those of us who can’t access our deer forms by ourselves can borrow the magick more often.
Without the exorbitant cost. Do you know it costs me a month’s wages for an hour’s ability? ”
He tips his head to the side. He’s really listening. I can feel him—would know he was even if I couldn’t see him. “You’re talking about what? A pool of resources and an allocation?”
“Yes, like everyone pools physical resources when firefighting, or after a disaster.” But his expression has blanked again. I’ve pushed him too far, too fast. “Anyway,” I hedge, “it’s just a suggestion.”
“I’ll keep it in mind, little one.”
It would be easy to forget his position since he sits with me in such easy companionship, but the throbbing of his power is impossible to ignore. At least he doesn’t appear to want to stab me on his antlers for questioning the traditional hierarchy of Cerf-Biche.
“You are a puzzlement, Ayala Treadborn.” Swiping his palms on his thighs, he rises to his feet in one fluid motion. “One thing has become clear. I can’t let you go. Your mouth will be the ruin of us all, not to mention your proclivities with spices.”
Shame battles with fear. Not the dungeons. I can’t. I’ve been talking about shifting, and the reminder of that freedom compared with my earlier incarceration... and to consider it again for the rest of my days...
“Please. I won’t—send me back to the kitchens, or banish me to the edges of the kingdom. I’ll be good, I promise.”
“I’m counting on you being very good.” His eyes upon me grow hot, twisting my core again.
“But I’m afraid you’re done with the kitchens, since no one in court will trust eating again if you’re there, and I don’t trust you out in the general public since you’ll be killed.
There’s only one place you’re safe, and that’s with me. ” He pauses. “As my plaissance.”
The world drops around me. I’m sitting, but the very air sways. I surge forward, only to be yanked back by the chains around my wrists. “What?”
A wicked smile spreads his cheeks. “Since you’re already in the right place for it, why not?”
Sounds sputter from my lips, none of them words. He just... without asking... telling me that I’m to be...
His mistress. The king’s plaissance. The second most powerful position for a doe to occupy in the entire kingdom—second only to his future mate.
“You look disquieted. Are you worried I won’t give you pleasure?”
Just looking at him is pleasure. The rest...
“It’s just...” I take a deep breath, though my lungs refuse to fill and my heart pounds nearly out of my chest. “The king’s plaissance is normally er—tall.
Strong. Wellborn,” I add, trying to be diplomatic while not pointing out all my shortcomings, my literal shortcomings, just in case he’s grown blind, deaf, and dumb so he’s failed to notice them.
“The king decides who graces his bed, and I’ve decided.” A look of resolve firms his chin. “No loyal supporter would dare harm you with my overt protection.”
I struggle onto my knees, which isn’t easy given how I’m sitting. “Wait. Your Majesty. You aren’t thinking this through. You’re searching for a bride.”
“And?”
He’s right. A diplomatic marriage is no bar to pleasure wherever a king wishes to take it. The strongest always get everything they want, because who will gainsay them?
He steps closer to where I sit and leans over, catching my chin in his long fingers. “Do you offer any objection?”
I couldn’t, even if I wanted to, and what doe would be foolish enough to turn from even an hour under him?
“Ayala, I need your consent.”
“Why?”
“To ease my conscience. I’ve never fucked an unwilling woman. And I will be fucking you if you accept the position. Often.”
I’m the color of lobsters flown in from the cooler rivers up north. I’m sure of it.
He chuckles. “Is that a yes?”
But for my own sake, if not his, I say, “But you could have anyone. Anyone in this kingdom, and likely all others. Someone strong who befits you.”
A dark frown forms in the ridges along his forehead as he straightens, towering over me. “You think I’m choosing you for a lark, for something different?”
“Yes.”
“No.” His gaze briefly flits over the ceiling as he searches for words, and I hope, for truth. I need truth, now more than ever. “You have qualities I admire: bravery, a certain irreverence, kindness, cleverness. So yes, Ayala Treadborn, I could have anyone, but I’m choosing you. Now say yes.”
The word contains my entire future, disrobes me of the past, and lands me like the aforesaid lobster right in the boiling water of the cooking pot, but I give it to him. I give it to him because... because there’s nothing else I can do.
“Yes.”
“Wonderful. I can’t wait to seal our union.”
“Now?”
He laughs before tucking his head to brush kisses against the length of my jaw—kisses that travel right through me and lodge in my very core.
“Unfortunately, I have matters to which I must attend, but I look forward to our next encounter. Soon.” His lips lift to mine, pressing the most magical kiss I could have imagined against my lips.
He tastes of my youthful belief in gods, justice, and hope.
It’s a light touch, just a promise of more, but my insides twist into a hard knot of yearning by the time he stands tall again.
And then he’s gone, leaving me chained, needful, and with my mind spinning like a top. I manage to lie back with my head on his pillows and try to catch my thoughts.
His plaissance. For a doe like me, so weak I can’t shift without borrowing magick, it’s an impossible position. I’m not powerful enough to hold it.
Which probably doesn’t matter. He’ll likely fuck me once and grow bored. All I should be focused on is convincing him to send me away somewhere peaceful and pretty.
Because when he casts me aside, I’ll have no job, no honor, and less of a position in Society than I hold now. As it stands, powerless stags don’t want me because I can’t bring them anything—not money, not position, not power. As a discarded mistress, I’ll be deemed even more unworthy.
What will I do? What will I become?
And once he touches me, how am I going to bear being sent away?
Somehow, it was easier when it was just a matter of dying.