38. Thirty-Eight
thirty-eight
Dawn was little more than a pale promise on the horizon when Neira slipped out of bed. Erqis' embrace had become lax, as it often did when he was deeply asleep, a perfect opportunity that Neira didn't intend on squandering.
Her feet light on the carpets, she pulled on her discarded nightdress and one of the thick robes Erqis kept in here. It was dusk grey, so long it hid her bare feet, with a cowl she pulled deep around her face.
Her own bedroom was just a few doors down from his, and for a moment she longed to just sequester herself in it until the ache in her soul had gone away by its own accord, or she grew used to living with it.
But Neira willed the steel back into her spine. If she did not do this now, there was no way of knowing when the next opportunity would arise – and whether she'd take it then after allowing herself to hide once already.
No, this had to be done now.
“Stay,” she told Emra – or the thing that Emra now was.
The corridor was wide and cold, with a sleepy guard on each end who paid her little mind as she hurried past. Perhaps they knew who she was, that she was sneaking out; perhaps they didn't care. Perhaps her lie about bird watching, all those moons ago, had made the rounds already.
Perhaps, even, hooded women fleeing the king's bedroom in the early morning wasn't such a rare sight.
She huffed quietly to herself, feet already cold and aching by time she was halfway down the stairs. More guards, equally silent and dismissive. Each one she passed made the flame of anger press against the hollow ache until it filled the gaping maw behind her ribs with its burning wrath.
When she walked past at Erqis’ side, a crown on her head, they all bowed. Neira had half a mind to throw back her cowl and demand their submission.
But in the grand scheme of things, these men and their deference were inconsequential.
As all men should be.
She was done being used as a pawn. First her father, all too happy to skip over her the moment she had lost significance to him; her father's regiars, dismissing and betraying her the moment they had the opportunity; now Erqis, seating her at his side as a show of power, using every piece of her he found as a way to tighten his hold.
The Dread Queen of Brightmere's cursed forest, submissive to Malvea's conqueror. The Grey King's loyal wife .
Neira's teeth ground together so hard that pain shot through her jaw. Not anymore.
"You come to me with murder in your heart, Queen of the Lost."
The mirror hung beside the throne, its shape and colour adapted to the décor of its new home. Neira hadn’t sought it out since she had plucked it off the wall in the vault beneath the castle, and in truth it had faded from her mind once they had left Brightmere. She had no idea when Erqis had decided to rifle through her belongings, but it made her furious all the same. Nothing was safe from him.
Where the mirror now resided had given Neira little opportunity to speak with it. Likewise, the mirror had remained silent, as if their new home had muted it somehow.
Neira knew the feeling.
She approached the mirror now, watched its dark surface ripple when she pushed her cowl back. It hung heavy between her shoulder blades like an encouraging hand. "I come to you with questions."
Amusement wafted from the black glass like perfume. What had once been a black frame was now golden, the whorls and etchings changed from forgotten runes and the filigree of spiderwebs to depict instead the antlers of deer, the fangs of great beasts, the curved symmetry of wheat. Its appearance no longer held dark promises but tales of conquest, but it was still the same, darkly silken voice that spoke to her.
"As you are wont to do, Majesty. What weighs on your soul?"
Neira took a deep breath, steeled herself again. Banked the flames of her fury lest the entity inside the mirror feast on it too eagerly. Too many, she knew, had been driven mad by its whispers, and Neira didn't intend to meet the same fate as those unfortunates in her mother’s stories.
The last time they had spoken, she had chosen her dress and crown so meticulously, to be regarded as the queen that she had not been. Now, that notion felt as distant and foolish as childhood pranks; she stood here without a crown, in her nightdress, and with her hair unbrushed, bearing Erqis' touch still on her skin. She had never been more a queen than she was in this moment.
She felt the entity take in her state of being, its hungry delight in her distress. Neira almost felt sharp talons graze the other side of the glass, although the surface didn't reflect anything but her own wretched appearance.
"Where is Ramin now?"
The surface rippled; the boy was nestled in bed, his dark hair on a pale pillow. Snow fell in thick flakes outside the window behind him.
"Safe and sound with the Glacier Throne, Majesty."
Neira almost sagged with relief. Why hadn't she asked about his wellbeing before? Not knowing what had befallen the boy had been gnawing at her deeply, anytime she allowed herself to think of him.
"I want to know where Ramin came from."
Keen cruelty stretched its claws towards her. "Your father's heir was born from his most fervent wish to preserve his legacy, should one day soon his enchantments fail."
The entity's grin widened, Neira was sure, although she couldn't see it. She didn't want to see it. The mere thought of it sent chills down her spine.
"That tells me nothing."
"I answered you truthfully, Majesty. If you want a different answer, ask a different question."
Neira took another deep breath. "Am I Ramin's mother?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"I am sure your education has been extensive, Majesty. Do you not know how children are made?"
Neira’s cheeks caught flame. Wretched, obstinate creature . To bare her soul and doubts to it would make her vulnerable, but neither could she rely on Erqis to tell her truthfully everything he had read in her father’s notes, or show her what he had taken.
"I am aware. But I do not remember. Surely I would remember if I had chosen a lover, endured pregnancy and childbirth."
"That is not a question, Majesty."
Neira wanted to bloody her knuckles on the damn thing, watch it shatter into a thousand useless pieces. Instead, she dug her nails into her palms and forced serenity onto her face.
"Show me my father's notes." That, too, wasn't a question – but it must have suited the entity’s purposes, because the mirror yielded to her demand. The dark glass rippled again and a leather-bound journal rose from the darkness, as if someone was standing on the other side of the glass, pressing it to the invisible surface between them.
Her knees buckled within a few written lines.
The latest vessel proves as stubborn as her mother. I have presented suitor upon suitor to continue the breeding program, to continue my bloodline, yet she rejected all of them. This has gone on for too long now, and she is ageing so much more rapidly than I had anticipated. Her mother's blood, unfortunately, is stronger in her than mine. I will have to raise the dosage for the next one, regardless of the vessel's reaction to it. There is a sense of doom on the horizon. I hope the next vessel will be a boy. My blood seems wasted on the female ones.
An invisible finger turned the page.
I have unearthed the notes I took the last time a suitable vessel was bred and will change my approach to a sire for this next one. As luck would have it, a suitable candidate stumbled into the forest weeks ago with a wounded female and has been kept in one of the dungeons since, but remains in good health. It is important that both womb and sire are strong and healthy, else my blood would burn through their bodies before the offspring can mature. I have decided to also change the method, however, lest this current womb – the Princess Neira – throw herself into the lake like the last one did. I don't believe I have the time to raise another female in hopes the next one will bear a son, and the ancient beast has become more obstinate, less willing to speak to anything male in recent decades; the princess's child will be raised as her sibling, and if it is another girl, we will just try again. The wounded female has since passed, but her husk will prove a loyal handmaiden for the princess.
"Stop. Enough."
The page turned again, regardless of her pleading, and Neira read the next entry as well, finding it impossible to look away.
I have put both vessel and sire into a trance. They offered an amicable show in their couplings despite their initial reaction to my blood; it truly is a shame, however. I like the girl. I enjoy her sharpness and her wit, and I would have liked for her to choose a good husband from the ones I offered her, all hand-picked of course, for her to have a normal, happy life. She even shows magical promise, which none of the vessels before her did. I had hoped to keep her as my daughter regardless of her usefulness to my plans, but immortality eludes her, and I cannot be distracted. I hope these traits will be amplified in her offspring, however. I might be close to my salvation. If the child is a girl, her soul will nourish me for long enough that I can have the princess bred again soon after. If it is a boy, I may have to absorb the sire to buy more time.
Bile rose hot in her throat. Like clockwork, the page turned.
It is quiet in the castle without the princess. She remains asleep, cared for by that abomination she refuses to give up, as the life inside her grows. I make it a point to visit her bedside regularly, as my fondness of the girl has not diminished, but I am nervous. If this new method fails, my transference will be pushed back considerably, and I can already feel this vessel falling apart around me.
It is a boy! Blessed day. I entombed the regiars and raised new ones to replace them, along with some women from the village, who will act as wet nurses for the babe. The princess will remain in her slumber until she is healed, and then we will continue as before. I am curious if the child will grow into the perfect vessel for my transference, but that will not be revealed until his fifth year at the earliest. Perhaps the womb should be bred again before that, just to be certain. But a small victory revealed itself already: the boy is lacking his sire's horns.
Neira stumbled back, tripped over the long hem of her robe, and was sobbing before her behind even hit the ground. In the mirror, the journal faded away and was replaced again with that terrible, cruel knowing, that terrifying delight at her pain.
"What is… what does this mean?"
"Can you not read, Majesty?" Purred the entity, brushing against her like an affectionate cat, unseen and unfelt, at such odds with the delighted cruelty it radiated. "You are the last vessel in a long line of women serving the Dread King of Brightmere as wombs to secure his legacy. You were his favoured creation, the one to finally give him what he craved – a new vessel to possess. His old body was failing him." A low chuckle grated on Neira like jagged claws on her naked soul. "Immortality is what he had wished for, but found the execution severely wanting when none of his bodies were quite immortal enough ."
Terror choked her. This couldn't be true. The man she had known as her father, doting and indulgent for most of her life if a little distant, had created her from a breeding program spanning who knew how many generations? And used her in the same.
"But you know all about wishes and how they come true, don't you, Majesty? You wished to be queen." The unseen grin stretched impossibly wide again. "Your father wished to be immortal. I wonder what terrible, delightful things you will do to keep your wish."
Neira fled, that dark chuckle nipping at her heels.