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This was a disaster.
She could see its impending signs in the glares of her attendants and guards. She saw it in the stony expression of the Queen of Eddis, whose eyes cut like knives every time she saw Attolia. She saw it in Eugenides’ every movement.
She stared numbly out the window of her bedchamber. Fireworks burst in the sky, raining down streaks of bright red and filling the night sky with their smoke. Despite the hatred of the people of Attolia for their new foreign king, not one of them could resist the opportunity for a night of revelry in the wake of their Queen’s wedding celebration.
A revelry unfelt by Attolia and everyone else in the palace.
She frowned. What was taking Eugenides so long?
Not as though she minded. For the first time in ages, her surroundings were peaceful and silent. They would no longer be so when he came.
She’d taken more than his hand from him that day. She’d taken his profession, his peace of mind, his joy. Attolia had wanted to hurt him worse than death. She could have justified the punishment she’d meted out if it had been done for punishment’s sake. But it had been done from hatred and spite. She had meant to be cruel.
And she had succeeded admirably on that front, she reflected bitterly.
She pressed her forehead to the cool of the window.
She could love him. She did love him. But with an uncomfortable, strange love. A love that might have matured if only it had been given time to develop instead of rushed to the altar. Her heart ached at thoughts of peace and trust and joy. Maybe this was some cruel joke of the gods, playing with her heart in this way.
Where was that boy? Perhaps he wasn’t so much of a boy as she made him out to be. Perhaps the contrast was only so severe because she felt old beyond her years.
He enjoyed making her wait; of that she was certain. But maybe he hadn’t been recognized by her guards at the palace doors?
Her stomach twisted. How could one not recognize a one-handed boy? She looked at her hands by the light of the moon and distant fireworks. Her fingers trembled and she balled them into fists to quell their shaking.
And yet the silhouette of her two hands—her two good hands—in the moonlight remained. Attolia shut her eyes tightly and turned away from the window.
Before she even opened her eyes, she knew he was there. She didn’t bother to open her eyes.
She heard his quiet footfalls crossing the room to the fireplace. There was a clink of metal as he prodded the fire’s dying embers back to life.
Attolia hadn’t realized how cold the room had become in the absence of the fire. She didn’t know when it had died out either.
Her eyelids fluttered open. He stood with his back to her, a black void in the heart of the flickering flames.
“How long have you been here?” she asked. Her voice was neither warm nor cold, pleased nor impatient.
“Long enough,” he replied without turning.
The room brightened as the flames grew stronger. Only after Eugenides turned and met Attolia’s gaze did she realize that she’d been staring. She lifted her chin and refused to look away.
The last few weeks had been… difficult. Eugenides had made no effort whatsoever to fit in at her court. Her people had, in turn, made it very clear how unwelcome he was. Or perhaps they would have behaved so anyway. And she…
“Say something,” she demanded shortly; surprised to find herself speaking when she’d planned to remain silent.
“What would you like me to say, Your Majesty?” his voice was cool, almost mocking.
“Well you’re never at a loss for words. One might think you’d have something planned,” she responded flatly. This was a stupid conversation. But she’d started it.
He slid the poker into a slot beside the fireplace and turned again to eye her.
“Well… There are a couple phrases that one might use for this occasion, Your Majesty.” He shifted closer to her. “How about, ‘May I have your hand in marriage?’”
It was like a physical punch to the stomach. For a moment, Attolia couldn’t breathe. The blood drained from her face.
“Or maybe, ‘I’ve gotta hand it to you Attolians. You sure do know how to plan a wedding.’”
“Is this a joke to you?” she hissed, pale with rage.
“You take life too seriously,” he replied, smiling. “You can’t control everything. You’ll go crazy,” he paused. “Then we’ll be a matched set: the cripple and the lunatic together on the throne of Attolia.”
Blinded by fury, she took the first action she thought of; a jar of ink, near to hand, went rocketing through the air at Eugenides’ head. He ducked. The well-made jar gave an unsatisfying thunk as it hit the wall. The ink dripped down the wall, a black, spreading stain that soaked into the carpet as it reached the floor.
“Very good aim,” noted Eugenides wryly.
He was still joking. She felt sick. “Leave,” she demanded, slowly stepping backwards. “You stupid boy. Just leave.” In contrast to her previous rage, she now just felt incredibly old and tired.
She turned away, not bothering to see if he respected her demand or not. Only now did she realize the height of her previous hopes. That peace she had cautiously longed for—without admitting it even to herself—had been callously torn away. There was nothing here. Eugenides had married her for sport and torture.
Her eyes were dry and her face was set in stone.
The room was utterly still. Of course she wouldn’t have heard him leave, she realized. He would have slipped out the door in the silent manner in which he’d first entered.
She stared out the window. Her reflection wavered back, a pale woman, faceless, in a ghostly dress. Slowly, with fingers that again trembled, she reached up and began to remove the pins that bound up her hair. Her fingers, clumsy and unfamiliar at a task that was usually reserved for her attendants, were slow to locate and remove each pin without pulling out hairs in the process.
A warm hand brushed the back of her neck. She froze. That same hand gently moved her fingers out of the way and began to remove the hairpins carefully.
“I thought you’d left,” she murmured a bit inanely.
He didn’t respond, but she felt the last pins slip away. Her hair tumbled down her back. Her scalp ached from the weight of holding that intricate style in place all day.
She froze again as he ran his fingers through her hair, smoothing and untangling its coils. Undeserved kindness.
“Why are you here?” she whispered. She looked down several inches to meet his eyes.
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “I’ve told you why,” he said with calm assurance. Though he had to look up to her, she suddenly as if she were the younger one, the foolish one.
“Maybe I don’t believe you anymore,” she responded bitterly, moving to turn away.
He caught her chin in the palm of his hand. “That I love you?”
She refused to answer. His face was pale in the moonlight. The fire had faded once again to embers. He didn’t release her.
“You’d be a fool to,” she spit finally.
His hand moved from her chin to her cheek. “I forgive you,” he said quietly. “And I won’t stop until you forgive yourself.”
For the first time in years, her mind went blank. Her eyes blurred with tears. She blinked them away, astounded, dropping her face to hide.
Not fooled, he led her gently to a chair. After a moment she mustered the courage to meet his gaze. There were tears drying on his own cheeks.
“Why are you crying?” she managed with what could almost pass as a laugh.
One side of his lips curled up in a crooked smile, “Why are you?”
He was right; some things weren’t ready to be stated. She found herself content to remain in the moment, surprised by its unexpected sweetness.
Eugenides, however, did not appear to feel that restraint. “I don’t trust your captain of the guard,” he out of the blue, after a silence of some minutes.
She felt her peaceful contentment flitter away at his words and resented him bitterly for it. “Why?” she asked without emotion.
He didn’t respond for several minutes. “Because if he can make your power, then he can take it too.”
She said nothing, attempting to quell her irritation.
“I’ve offended you?” he said almost regretfully.
She didn’t want to say yes but could not respond with an honest no. She simply sighed.
“Okay. He stays. But… We’ll compromise.”
She waited.
“The strength of the guard lies in their manpower, not in one man—no matter how good a leader he is. Reduce their number and you reduce their threat.”
“How much?”
She could practically feel his frown as he thought in the darkness. “Half,” he responded flatly.
“Absolutely not,” she sat up abruptly.
He rose languidly. She could barely see his form in the dark. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
She couldn’t tell if the “yes” was agreeing with her refusal or a continuation of his argument. He’d probably planned it that way. The bastard.
But she was not Queen of Attolia for her impatience or irritation. Her quick mind delved a solution with multiple favorable endings. “Okay,” she said, almost smugly.
“Ouch. I can hear the catch already.”
“You may reduce the Guard by half when Teleus agrees to do so.”
“I thought I was king.”
“Then act like one.” Suddenly serious, no longer smug, she continued, “Act like a king. Pay attention. Be polite. Grow a backbone. Don’t lounge at the dinner table. Give an opinion; don’t just sit like a lump when we form public policy,” she was angry by the end. She saw again his apathy of the past weeks.
“When you agreed to marry me, I promised you’d retain most of your sovereignty. You suddenly want me to change?” Now he was angry as well.
“Yes!” she almost hissed. “Your very presence here erodes my sovereignty. You have to make up for that or the power will fall to others.”
“I’m not a good king!” Eugenides was too angry to come up with anything clever or biting, and this lack of ingenuity compounded his irritation.
“Should have thought of that before you agreed to marry me,” the queen’s voice was like ice.
Eugenides stood up.
“The door is back behind you,” she noted pointedly, and then went to stir up the fire.
He stalked out the doorway, not bothering to close it behind him. Both his attendants and hers had a clear view of the bed that had not been slept in and the rage on their monarchs’ faces. The women grew angry and the men smirked with derision.
-
The King and Queen of Attolia did not speak to each other for two days.
They breakfasted in icy silence. The daily dinner feast was coldly stilted. Each went their separate ways at night.
Attolia filled her days with matters of state. Eugenides grudgingly complied with the requests sent to him by her messengers to attend meetings and greet ambassadors. He made a point of closing his eyes during important meetings, never speaking a relevant comment, and, once, snoring during a meeting of the barons.
She met each new rebellion with icy anger, retreating behind aloof formality and ceremony. Her personal attendants had never been so poorly treated in their lives.
And the people of Attolia watched their beloved and feared queen and hated their new foreign king more with each passing hour.
Then Eugenides made the mistake of visiting his wife’s chambers during the day. He was formally announced to the queen as her attendants readied her for the evening meal. Accompanied by his guards and attendants, he was left cooling his heels in the antechamber for a good half hour before being admitted.
But the scene was as unlike his wedding night as he could have imagined. Surrounded by multiple attendants, he had the feeling that if he asked for privacy, it would not be granted.
His doomed conversation started poorly and deteriorated rapidly. A few minutes later, she left, sweeping away and leaving him dismissed in her own chambers.
During that evening’s supper, he was seated by Ornith, the Eddisan ambassador, to his right. Attolia was to Eugenides’ left on the other side of the table.
“I trust you have been doing well?” said Ornith in the manner of a man creating small talk with a lesser individual.
“Yes,” smiled Eugenides, taking a small sip of sand-sprinkled wine, “My queen is as good-natured as she is beautiful.”
Two pink spots appeared high on Attolia’s cheekbones and her two nearest attendants hissed in rage. She continued eating. Ornith discreetly said nothing
The Baron Erondites, seated to the left of Eugenides, smiled predatorily. “I am glad,” he simpered with delight, “That our esteemed queen has found such a perfect equal to be her king.”
The King of Attolia bit down rather unpleasantly on some residual sand stuck between his teeth. He took another small sip of the wine, finding that very very small swallows tended to minimize the amount of sand that he imbibed.
“I’m afraid you are incorrect, my dear Baron,” he said silkily once he’d set down his goblet, “I believe you’ll find that my queen is without equal.”
That ended the evening’s conversation. Both the king and queen danced that evening, but never with each other. As Baron Erondites returned Attolia to her seat at the high table, Eugenides realized he had never seen her look so cold and cruel, nor so beautiful.
-
A latch clicked very softly in the darkened room. Without making a sound, Attolia reached for the knife under her mattress.
“It’s just me,” murmured the king.
“All the more reason,” she returned icily, but replaced the knife.
There was the sudden hiss and flare of a sulfur match as Eugenides lit the candle beside her bed.
“I thought I closed off the passage you used to visit me before,” she said, watching the flame dance and flicker.
“You did,” he replied, but offered no other explanation. He did not appear in any hurry to leave. Sighing, the queen sat up and pulled on her robe.
“What?” she asked, exhausted.
He stared at her. Even in her night clothes, perched on her bed in the half-darkness, she was more regal than any royalty he had ever seen or could imagine.
“What?” she asked again, significantly less charitably.
“I realize I made a mistake,” he noted. She remained expressionless. “You didn’t tell me that Baron Erondites was so… slimy.”
“Well you don’t listen,” she remarked.
“He insulted you to your face.”
“So did you.”
“That’s different. He hates you, Irene.”
The way he said her name made her heart confused her. “So far you haven’t told me anything I didn’t already know,” she snapped coolly.
“Why don’t you exile him?”
“He’s powerful. Popular. Well-respected. Everything you’re not,” each word hit like hailstones.
“Then let me take care of him,” Eugenides replied, ignoring her snub.
The queen actually laughed at that. It was not a particularly kind laugh, but it was also the only time he could remember her ever doing so. “You think you can destroy the Baron? A boy? Against his power and experience?” she shook her head bitterly and looked down.
When she glanced back up, he face was mere inches from hers. Her breath caught in surprise. “You don’t actually see me as a boy,” he murmured.
He was so close. Her heart skipped several beats and she found that she couldn’t breathe.
In the next instant he was gone and the candle was snuffed out, the smoke rising into the nearly unrelenting blackness.
“Give me six months. Then he’ll no longer be a problem to you,” he murmured, still unbearably close. It took her a moment to pick up the threads of their conversation. Then he slipped away without a sound, leaving the queen thoroughly rattled.
-
The next morning as they sat down to breakfast, the king had the slightest hint of a smile dancing across his face. He made polite conversation throughout the meal, ignoring the utter lack of interest of the other table members. The queen kept her head down the whole time.
Attolia realized she just might have underestimated her new husband.
Eugenides, however, continued with his absolute apathy of all things related to kingly responsibility. But now she watched him. He wasn’t sleeping during those meetings, she realized. Even as what he wore became increasingly outlandish, her suspicions hardened. He was playing a game.
Days passed. Each night, Attolia was slightly disappointed when Eugenides failed to sneak into her chambers. Each night, she tried to convince herself that it wasn’t disappointment that she felt. Each night, that attempt failed.
-
A week later, the latch clicked. The queen was mostly asleep.
“Mmm what?” she asked.
He said something, but she could not comprehend it in her sleepiness.
“Mmm.”
He tried again to wake her.
Nothing.
The king said nothing more, but crossed to the other side of the bed and slipped under the covers. Attolia froze, suddenly wide awake. She waited, very stiff, curled on her side with her back to him as she had been before.
Silence fell. She didn’t move a muscle.
With a sigh, he rolled over and wrapped his warm arm around her shoulders and torso, holding her gently but securely close to him. He tucked his head close enough to her ear that she could hear the sound of each breath and feel the exhales brush her cheek.
She knew he could feel her rigidity but was unwilling to relax into his embrace.
As if he could read her thoughts, he chuckled. “I know you’re awake now.”
“Bastard,” she snapped without a second thought.
“You know I’m not,” he replied, unperturbed.
“I’m going to break your nose the next time you try a stunt like that.”
He leaned up on his elbow so that he spoke directly into her ear, “Good night Irene,” he murmured. Then his warmth was gone and his weight left the bed.
She instantly regretted her words but pride kept her silent. Finally she sat up and called his name softly.
There was no response. He had left. Her shoulders slumped.
“Yes?” he whispered from right beside her.
She put out her hand and touched his face. He grasped her hand and kissed it gently. She stopped breathing, unsure of her next actions. Then he leaned forward and kissed her neck, tracing up to her jawline. By the time he reached her lips, she had made her decision. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and kissed him back, his hands tangled in her hair in the darkness.
Then he was gone.
-
Phrenine was scheduled to be Attolia’s morning attendant. As she stepped into the bedchamber, lit by the streaming morning sun, she beheld her queen lying sideways across the bed with the sheets twisted around her feet.
She woke Attolia respectfully. “You’re usually awake by this time,” she noted, bustling around the room and stoking the fire. “Nightmares?”
“What? I mean yes,” the queen recovered quickly. “Something like that.”
Phrenine straightened up from the fireplace, “Now, Your Majesty, we…” her smile and words trailed off as she noted what she hadn’t before. Attolia usually slept primly on one side of the bed. There was a distinct dent in the other pillow, where someone had obviously laid their head. “Well now,” she murmured.
Her gaze met Attolia’s. The queen flushed faintly and dropped her eyes, but she couldn’t keep a tiny smile from hovering around her mouth. Phrenine’s smile returned more broadly than before.
“Well now,” she repeated.
“Don’t” the queen held up her hand although she still refused to make eye contact, “even say it.”
“Would Your Majesty like her breakfast?” Phrenine beamed.
A weight that Attolia had never noticed seemed to have slipped off her chest that day. Even breathing came more easily.
That evening, Attolia waited for the king to slip into her chambers. He never came.
-
The queen was a storm cloud the next day. Tables were upset, bridges were burned, and barons were threatened. When the sun set and she retired to her chambers, the entire palace breathed a sigh of relief.
As the queen lay, raging, in the darkness, the latch clicked.
Eugenides sat on the corner of her bed.
“Why is it that you always come when I’m in a foul mood?”
“Because, my queen, I know you too well.”
“Do you think so?” she drawled.
The weight left the corner of her bed. A light hand stroked her cheek. “I think so,” he murmured.
Clearly unimpressed, she moved away from his touch.
“I know that you have nightmares, Irene.”
She clenched her teeth together.
“What do you dream about?” he mused, “Does your kingdom fall to your enemies? Are your people harmed?” He paused. “Or do your nightmares parallel my own?”
She closed her eyes as his words played back the images from her dreams. “Not always,” she admitted without intending to.
He waited.
“They’re all different,” she whispered, as if confessing, “The Medes raze my country and starve the people. Or Sounis , Eddis, and,” she lets out a humorless chuckle, “even Attolia unite against me and chase me away.”
“And other times?”
She knew what he was asking. His baseless musings happened to hit home and she had revealed as much. There was a long silence. “I dream that a boy is torn up by dogs in the forest. And then I cut him into little pieces and send him back to those who love him.,” her voice was hoarse and low, “And I see that in the process I have cut out my own heart.”
Eugenides said nothing for a long time. Then, without bothering to move to the other side of the bed, he slipped under the covers beside his wife and held her until she fell asleep.
That was the first time the queen’s attendants found the king in her bed the next morning.
Iolanthe froze on the threshold when she saw them, clinging tightly to each other even in sleep.
The sensation of eyes woke Eugenides. He noted Iolanthe with the corner of his eye and sighed, smoothly extricating himself from Attolia’s arms.
“Let her sleep a bit longer,” he instructed Iolanthe, commanding a woman to whom he’d never before in his life spoken with ease. And then he slipped silently through a section of the wall paneling, showing how effortlessly he had done it before.
The queen woke a few moments later, before Iolanthe had the presence of mind to make any decision whatsoever. Several of the other attendants, having missed Eugenides, crowded over to see what the commotion was.
“Yes?” the queen asked, drawing out the word.
All eyes turned to Iolanthe. “N-Nothing,” she stammered.
Attolia placed her hand on the sheets were her husband has slept. They were still warm. “Ah,” she muttered, understanding why Iolanthe was astonished and not really caring. “Breakfast?”
Iolanthe dipped her head, “Right away.”