At His Majesty's Pleasure Ch. 07

A few more moments of seething, however, and he had returned to the body, squatting down to remove the mask.

"It isn't him," he exhaled. "I recognized Brother Galen by his eye." He indicated the distinctive rheumy pupil. His voice was quiet and speculative, as if reasoning to himself. "But of course - the assassin must have blinded himself. And the rest was covered by the mask."

That was some dedication. But then, it wasn't every day that one attempted an assassination on a king - especially this king. How had the impersonator even known of their presence here? Had it not seemed an impromptu journey? Was there collusion with the real monks involved?

Likely these questions were circling the King's head as well, for he was silent for a few moments, appearing deep in contemplation.

It was only after that he finally looked her way, this time for more than a cursory glance. "You can put that down now, Alais."

She realized she had yet to let go of the statue, her fingers still clenched tightly about Feros's dragon head like some kind of safety blanket. Belatedly, she eased the sculpture back towards its rightful position, the sound of the stone base dragging against the stone altar a bit conspicuous.

Unfortunately, another fit of coughing - this time lighter and less... exaggerated - seemed to overtake her. She left the statue at an odd angle as her hands retreated to tend to her mouth.

With an incredulous expression, he stared - at the wet imprints she'd left over the base, at the unseemly slant of the holy icon now dislodged. She thought she noticed a muscle jump under his eye.

She felt another dose of uncertainty, that she might have broken some sacred religious covenant or another - the statue was probably now tarnished by her touch, or perhaps it was supposed to have remained unmoved. That sounded right. But how was she supposed to think of that at the time? It looked like any other stonework - heavy, cumbersome, though impressive in the artistic sense. So what was he looking at her like that for? She hadn't chipped the damned thing, had she?

But the King only laughed, as if realizing the absurdity of the situation.

"The Most Sacred and Holy Idol of Feros has not been moved from its resting place for fifteen generations - when King Elias, the Founder, laid it upon that altar and cleansed it with a dozen sacrificial virgins." Oh. And she had been wielding it as a bludgeon. There was something vaguely funny about that, even if her own laughter could not quite bubble up to join his.

The King sighed. "What am I to do now, Alais? Where am I to find the time, or the virgins?" He grinned at her, in that way of his, as if he were sharing a joke. (He was joking, right? He had to be.)

Her hand rose to palm her mouth as she ducked her head and attempted to stifle another cough. Also, it would seem a waste of virgins, wouldn't it - for someone like him.

He retrieved his cloak, using the fabric to briskly clean his blade of its red dye - the motion altogether too fluid to be anything but (probably oft-repeated) habit. "Come here," he directed her.

Really, he looked altogether much too calm for someone whose life had just been in danger - but then, she wouldn't be surprised if the odd assassination attempt wasn't a staple in his life, given his penchant for offending others.

On the other hand, it took her a moment to move, if only because of the bloodshed she'd just witnessed (and the way it painted the ground red between them). Violence and gore was not natural to her as to the noble flock of his kingdom. She felt clammy as she finally stepped over the slick blood on the floor, giving most of it as wide a berth as manageable in the small cave.

Her feet were still bare and above all wet, rendering any accidental slides and trips a danger to be wary of at any probable misstep. Her footfalls, then, could have hardly held the grace she was so known for, as she clumsily ambled her way (stopping mid-distance to gather her ruined slippers off the side of the mat) to the cavern entrance. The corpse, as unseemly as the slippery puddles themselves, was also to be avoided (and awkwardly stepped around) at all costs.

She stilled, a more modest distance from him, unsure of what to expect.

The King looked at her sidelong, his expression difficult to read. Finally, he said, "Thank you for warning me."

The words were ungainly, and she had the distinct impression that he had managed them only with difficulty. It was so strange for him to sound sincere, absent of mockery.

"I know it was a calculated decision on your part," he continued, wryly. "You knew you would live another day if I survived, whereas the odds were less certain otherwise. Nonetheless...the fact remains that the ending to this battle could have gone differently."

Her lips parted, and it almost seemed she finally hazarded to speak. But a sickly thickness had settled into her throat, rendering it difficult and highly uncomfortable to utter a single sound without threat of what felt like expelling the lining of her lungs. She coughed again into her wrist for a moment, and while doing so, lifted her remaining free hand to point lamely at the dark crimson bleeding out into his sleeve. The flow of blood did not seem to be stopping; had the wound really escaped his notice? (This was easier than addressing his gratitude, which she frankly didn't know how to handle.)

"Even now maintaining your silence?" said the King, dryly. He looked more amused now, though, than upset. "Well, at least you've graduated to miming."

Alais might have broken her silence with these ... extenuating circumstances, but alas, her throat itself had refused to cooperate, and it was not meant to be. If she put her mind to it, she supposed could manage a form of (raspy, ineffectual) speech. But, stubbornly, she had no desire to do so. The hand motions and slight movements of expression still had to have been an improvement from before, such was her aversion against speaking with him again.

The King finally looked down at his arm, as if indeed only just noticing. and his reacting sigh felt better situated towards a small inconvenience than the realization of an injury. He tore off the rest of the sleeve - this easily accomplished given that it was already ripped - so that he could examine the wound more carefully. It also exposed his well-muscled biceps, which she took care not to look at. At all.

"Not too deep," he noted. "I'll have to wash it out and then tie something around it to stymie the bleeding."

Fortunately, there was no dearth of water around them, and all it took was an extended arm in the right direction for the mist and spray to do their job.

The other part was a little more difficult, as a one-handed knot was awkward at best. She supposed she shouldn't have been surprised when he looked in her direction. He beckoned her closer. "If you wouldn't mind?"

Using his sword, he cut a swath of thick cloth from his discarded cloak, sheathed the (now thoroughly cleaned) blade, and offered her the makeshift bandage.

Clenching her teeth tightly behind closed lips, she managed to completely and uncomfortably stifle, with some difficulty, the next coughs as she took the piece of his cloak and stared at it for a solid moment. Helping him was an odd turn of events, but now that she'd already started down this path, it felt silly to falter before something as simple as this.

But she could not be held accountable for her actions now. Where there had only been the faintest ache during the climb to the cavern, her head now throbbed painfully, and after the fright of the assassination attempt had ended, all she realized she wanted to do was to curl up in any dark corner at all. It was as though her body's ability to fend off illness was finally disintegrating, the waltz through the relentless current of mountain water the final straw after a long series of battering her defenses all throughout these past weeks. The coldness in their chambers likely had something to do with it too, as did... stress.

In any case, the sooner the King was set to straights, the sooner they could both be done with the day. That was the thought

She swallowed and reached out. Though the deftness of her hands implied that she had performed similar acts several times before, she seemed to be reaching unnecessarily. Even with a slight lean to her back, she had endeavored to tie the bandage while standing as far away from him as physically possible. It was not, admittedly, far at all - naturally within arm's reach - but one could only try.

The King raised his eyebrows at this contortion, looking close to laughing again. But he held off, allowing her to finish at her distance. "...thank you."

He tested the makeshift bandage, ensuring its tightness. "Now, come. We should not linger here."

But he did spare the time to straighten the stone idol to its rightful angle, before departing.

*

The return trip was uneventful, all things considering, though it was just as difficult navigating the puddles of water as it was before. Being drenched in the spray of the waterfall, again, was not a pleasant experience, but the beaming sun did its share in drying them off.

Their arrival was met with a great deal of surprise and horror by the waiting entourage of knights, servants, and horses. They both looked worse for wear, of course, but on top of that, his wound was conspicuous, and flecks of blood from the battle still dotted his features. The King, in no mood for questions, deterred all inquiries with a terse word - admittedly it was convenient to have his reputation sometimes, for silence was immediately heeded to - and merely instructed them to ready the horses.

How Alais managed not to fall from her steed was either fortune manifest or a triumph of sheer willpower. Or both. With the same sort of luck and/or determination, she managed to uphold her precarious composure for as long as she remained in his company.

By the time she fell back into the hands of her maids (the term fell almost being literal), her deterioration from the morning was plain as could be. Her skin had taken on a sickly pallor such that even her lips had lost their rosy hue, and her brow was hot to the touch. The coughing, though, had subsided into a persistent itch and harsh sensation in her throat. It felt like sandpaper, with everything sensitive and sore in the worst of ways.

The compulsory bath did seem to put an end to the slight tremors beginning to shudder through her form, still chilled from the dampness in spite of the afternoon sun. It managed to restore some degree of color to her complexion while doing nothing for her risen temperatures, nearing dangerous peaks.

The maids, at first unsure of what to do, were ultimately resigned to put her to bed at the guest chamber closest to the master. Alais slept restlessly beneath the sheets, a cold sweat taking on a subtle sheen over her skin.

All the while, maids fluttered over one another just beyond her closed door, muttering anxiously at one another. At one juncture, she thought she could hear their exchange.

"Will he be angry?" one said, fearful.

"She... might recover!" said another, hopeful. "There's no telling when His Majesty will return. Delays en route could be unpredictable. New discoveries might compel him to stay overnight at the monastery - anything can happen!"

"Even if he does see her like this, it has to be alright. It isn't our fault. How can he be angry with us?"

"You're new, aren't you."

*****

A warm bath was in order for Alexander as well, as was a change in clothes and inspection from the maester. But rest did not follow. There was still light in the day, and Alexander intended to make use of it.

First on his agenda was to revisit the cavernous temple, this time accompanied with a bevy of his chosen knights; extenuating circumstances had him dismiss the usual customs - enough sacrilege had already occurred anyway. He intended to examine the body more closely, now that it was no longer a potential danger to linger. Then he would set off toward the monastery proper; a dispatch of soldiers had already been sent to secure it as soon as they'd returned, but he preferred to do his questioning personally.

*

It was that same night that he returned to the lodging, though, fortunately for the residents, his venture had been successful and he was far from a foul mood.

The resourceful brothers at the monastery had already caught the hapless informant attempting to slip out, some time ago, and had him overpowered and then tightly confined (special care was taken to gag him, lest he try to end his own life by biting his tongue). The monks had prostrated themselves before him, as soon as his feet hit the ground, apologies spilling from their lips - that they should have been more vigilant, that they had brought dishonor upon themselves by allowing harm to befall him, and that (most importantly) they had had nothing to do with the plot except in its denouement.

This was to Alexander's liking, though it did not quite spare them from his attentions - any attempted assassination was a dangerous thing to go unchecked, and his policy in such circumstances was to always risk over- rather an under-punishing. He handpicked a few of the monks to interrogate (just to confirm everything, he told them cheerfully), and had Brother Galen's assistant (who, really, should have been more careful) staked and burned. But he left it off there, and considered it a relative mercy that he had not done more.

The informant himself was the lucky recipient of his greater attention. When Alexander had finished wresting all the information from his broken lips, he had his wrists tied to the foot of his horse and dragged him back through the long and torturous journey to the hunting lodge. The man was all but half-dead at that point, his feet bleeding and nearly lacerated to ribbons, and unfortunately made for but a lackluster meal for Alexander's hounds. Still, there was some satisfaction to watching him be torn to pieces, and Alexander found his bloodlust slowly sated by the display. It was good, too (for the rest of the lodge) that the man's voice had been mostly lost already through the begging and screaming of earlier, so that the only sounds that came from his demise were the eager yips of the dogs.

This business finished, he had a letter dispatched to the palace, ensuring loose ends were tied there as well. Upon entry to the lodge, he also received some correspondence of his own - news of the most relieving nature, which put to rest that which had compelled his own muteness of before.

That was all to say that when Alexander was informed of his queen's sickly condition (by the very nervous maids), he took it better than he might have. Entering the guest room, he took in her condition with his own eyes, and laid a gentle hand upon her forehead to feel for the fever. It did not escape him that she could have been feigning, but this appraisal spoke for itself.

She did, in fact, appear delicately pretty even while infirm, huddled so weakly and taking such uneven breaths. It almost wasn't natural.

He sighed. "Let her rest," he ordered quietly. "Attend to her carefully. Inform me at once if she worsens." He gave instructions too for the magister to see her, and for her to be served hot ginger and lemon tea when she woke - a recipe he recounted from childhood that was good for fevers like these.

The maids curtsied and made to obey, relief writ on their features that this was all. So it was with a nervous surprise that one of them (tall, fair, and particularly shapely) lingered when he asked, and that apprehension deepened when he led her back into his rooms.

"What is your name?" he inquired casually, as he poured himself a glass of wine.

"Arietta, Your Majesty," said the maid, and he saw her fingers fidgeting nervously before she clasped them behind her back.

"Arietta." He took up the glass, his manner quite nonchalant. "I desire your company tonight."

She flushed, deeply. "Your Majesty..."

He cast his gaze over her, and she quieted. As he took a sip from his glass, he allowed himself the leisure of an appraisal, not bothering to hide how his attention lingered on the generous curves of her body. His interest in his new wife was far from diminished - but it had been frustrated, two nights in a row, and he was not accustomed to having his pleasures denied. He felt little guilt in seeking his distractions elsewhere, and this one had caught his eye.

She wavered as he drew near, but of course, did not dare move from him. Her breaths remained uneven as he unlaced her gown, and more uneven yet as he tugged the garment down and exposed her bare skin. Fear and excitement warred in her eyes - but above all, uncertainty.

Not that she was left uncertain for long; she shivered as he lowered his lips to her skin, clutched at him as he pressed her to the bed. When he impaled her with his length, she shuddered prettily over his sheets, and attended to his instructions with wide-eyed obedience.

Indeed, as the night lengthened, she proved herself to be quite amenable to his attentions. Vocal, too.

*****

Deep into the night, Alais awoke to the telltale moaning and thumping of fornication next door. Her fever had yet to break, and at first she thought the walls were quaking and someone was dying. Realization dawned quickly enough, at least for her condition. Why. Why did they have to put her in the adjacent bedchamber.

Suppressing a disgusted noise, she pulled her pillow from under her head and pressed it to her ears. She tossed and turned and even dragged herself from the bed to search for more pillows in a state of half delirium, so that the next time someone entered to attend to her, they would have discovered her head, cheek pressed against mattress, buried beneath a veritable mountain of cushions with the thickest of sheets thrown over it all.

By the early rays of dawn and after multiple ingestions of hot ginger and lemon tea intermittent throughout the night, her fever still did not break - neither worse nor better for it. However, the morning was also much quieter with regards to her neighbor, and thus she proceeded to sleep soundly through the noon.

By the late afternoon, she felt much better.

There was still the apparition of an itch in her throat, but life itself seemed to have been restored within her. Now, sitting upright, a restlessness finally overtook her limbs after being bedridden for the past twenty or so hours. There was a mild hunger which she ignored, for that would require calling out and informing the others of her recovery. For the time being, her room was empty - likely between checks - and the window was unlocked.

Still irked by a lingering annoyance for all the disturbance of the past night, she pulled slippers onto her feet and a blanket over her shoulders, like a cloak, and clambered her way out of the window. She was, however, considerate enough to leave the window wide open (to better circulate the air) and a hastily written note pressed between the side-table and mug: I am not running away. I am (probably) sitting in the gardens. Do not release the hounds.

The gardens themselves were close enough to reach without threat of discovery. Enjoying the relief of fresh air and, above all, the rare moment of true solitude, she settled down onto a bench and reclined in the sun. Hers was a mind which had no struggle occupying itself if need be, and so those several hours were spent in a peaceable, ruminating, and almost appreciative stillness.

Her solitude was uninterrupted, though a maid (not that one) soon dawdled at a safe distance away; clearly her note had been discovered by the servants, and they were quick to keep an eye on her, for more reasons that one.