Chapter 21

Isa lay in bed next to the King, surrounded by billows of warm blankets. She kept her nose buried in the mess of his hair, fingers wandering here and there. His scent, that lavender spice, was quite relaxing. Eyes closed, laying still, breathing softly, he seemed so vulnerable.

"Why can't I keep you like this?" she whispered, as if not knowing the answer already. Feeding her curiosity, her desperation, it was like feeding a dragon bone meal in hopes it would become tame. She would only end up hurt in the end, more than she was already.

He had told her of his brother, his father and mother, and while she knew it was true that the man here was not as his father before him, Isa couldn't let go. He spared her only to cage her up. It was a conflict. The two halves of her, the love and the hate, were still at each other's throats.

When they fought, Isa clung desperately to the rim of the waterfall. The water far below her cold and dark, the rocks sharp. Sometimes it seemed that if she let go she'd fall into the depths of the King. Him, open armed and soft-eyed. But now what lay at the bottom was a great unknown.

With a smirk, she considered that perhaps the answers were inside Parson's Hat.

What she did know for certain was that her body enjoyed lazing in bed alongside the King, him quiet and supine. But there was work to do. Aro's arrival was days off. A sickness had taken several members of the servant staff ill. Isa, though no longer assigned duties by Pearl, was still determined to assist. Her days were best spent occupied.

Essica.

The name, the odd fear that it now brought, leapt at her from the quiet. The sun was Essicaping up the edge of the earth, and it would soon be time for the King's breakfast. Isa jumped from the bed, gathering up her shoes and cloak as she went.

ooo

The kitchen smelled of yeast and heated oil. It would be a comfort to Isa if her heart wasn't still racing from the unfounded panic, if sweat hadn't soaked through her dress spite the cold.

"Morning!" Her voice came out shrill in her effort to disguise her unusual appearance as a pleasant visit. The door slammed shut behind her.

The staff all paused, looking to her in alarm. Standing still, they occupied the room like decorative ornaments, hands in basins and barrels. Isa kept her smile bright as she crossed from one room to the next, seeking out Essica.

And there she stood, the questionable-friend, hanging a mess of ladles and spoons.

Essica glanced over her shoulder. "I wasn't expecting you, they said Juniper would come."

"Is breakfast ready?"

Essica nodded her head toward the far room where the tables boasted covered trays. Isa picked over each one, deciding which meal the King would appreciate—but most likely not eat—the most. She selected a tray which boasted slices of veal and fat turnovers, sided with razzle berry gravy. When Essica's back was to her she dipped a finger into the gravy for a taste. Shameful that she had to worry over such things.

Yet when Isa arrived at the King's room he wasn't there.

"Gone early for his morning constitutional?" she asked a guard stationed at the far end of the hall.

"I'll leave his food on the desk. Be sure to tell him I've prepared it so he won't throw it away."

As if she were a member of the Royal House, he bowed.

Setting the tray on the desk, Isa paused for a moment, thinking back to that first day so long ago. Assaulting the King, clawing at his clothes, the pure thrill she felt through it all. Mere feet away from where she stood were faint brown stains on the floor slats where his blood dripped from his wounded chest.

After that moment, the first of many, she cleaned herself and him at the basin nearby, washing away the evidence of their tryst. Numerous things had changed since then. The downhill run things had taken was all rather disheartening.

While in his room with the door shut, nowhere else to be, Isa pulled a cloth from her apron pocket to dust with. First, the candelabra that hung nearby. Then a painting. It was a piece that had curled her lip the first time she saw it: a bronze-winged angel with a black sword held overhead, slaying a horned creature that looked more like a foul turtle than a demon. Such strange stories that accompanied their religious beliefs here. Movement in the gloss of the frame caught her eye. Instantly, she bristled, spinning around.

Expecting to see someone, she was surprised there was no one. The room was empty save for her. The drapes hung still, the frumpled bed remained as it was. The King's ostentatious mirror with her own frightened face reflecting back at her was the only thing to see.

Yet, the prickling tingle didn't leave her skin upon seeing nothing but herself.

Saying, "Hello?" aloud seemed sensible. Looking back to the painting with its Essicapy figures, she tried to replay the movement in her mind.

Holding her breath, she listened closely, but heard nothing other than the slight thump of her heart pulsing in her ears. Then another movement, by the balcony this time. She crossed the room, toeing her way forward.

A bird on the wrought iron railing.

"Shoo!" Laughing with relief, Isa popped the latch on the door. The grand crow leapt and then flapped its wings to fly. Catching the wind, it glided and then dove gracefully, snatching an insect from the air. As it glided toward the forest canopy in the distance, Isa's gaze wandered to the garden, to the King.

Walking slowly, his hands clasped behind his back, he strolled between rows of pruned hedges.

Isa leaned over the railing, her chin resting in her palm. She admired the way he walked, a graceful stride no less prideful for his ease. The pace he held was slow, yet the wind swept across the courtyard, over the flower covered trellis, and played with his hair. Long flowing locks of brown.

He walked with Stuart D'Compte and the Duchess of Dart, an old crust from the West. In the months before, when Isa was a servant and nothing else, the Duchess was nearby, often ferrying for the interests of Rose.

Rose, the former concubine. Isa chirped aloud with a laugh. Rose was here one day, and gone the next, neither seen from nor heard from since. Most likely that was Isa's future. The thought of a room full of discarded castle dainties came to mind, like something from one of the oil paintings that decorated the castle walls.

Worse yet, perhaps she would be sold. Like a peck of pickled peppers.

Frigid wind flicked at the shell of her ears until they stung. With a clap of thunder, harsh rain began to fall. Isa abandoned the crow and the King. The guard bowed as she passed.

That sourness stayed with her through the long day.

By the time night came Isa was blinded by exhaustion but there was no sleep. No rest.

She meant to slip from the King's bed—his arms too heavy, his breathing too coarse—and make her way across the whole of the courtyard to her smaller more quaint room, but when she reached the foot of the stairs she realized that was an impossibility. The rain in the night had turned to snow. The crest of the hill caked in white, piled deep against the steps.

With heavy feet, her back aching, she returned to the King's chambers. He had rolled over in her absence, an arm spread to the corner. Even if she wanted to she couldn't climb back into bed with him. She was needing to cut herself off from him, not cling to him even if it was in the dead exhaustion of night.

Her bed, the one assigned to her on edict of the King, the one she hadn't slept in before, now called to her with its fluffy down isolation.

The vastness of the room swallowed the light. She took time to light every candle and stoke a strong fire before she crawled onto the bed. The blue and yellow bed drapery surrounded her. Memories of hiding in shrubbery when she was young came to mind, but she was too far gone to feel homesick. As she slid between the cold layers of bedding, relaxing in spite of herself, her feet grazed something hard and cold. She flinched away, but her eyes slid closed before she could form a thought.

A moment later a strange brilliant blue light woke her. It took some time—eyes squinting, body arching with a stretch—before she realized where she was. Up, awareness pierced her like lightning, washing through her in surges. She threw back the covers.

A bundle of fabric, like the cleaning rag for the bannisters, bound tightly with a ribbon. It took a long moment for her to realize what ribbon this was—blue with a stripe running along the edges. The one that Essica gave her, the one Isa thought was lost.

Eyes stinging, relief filled her. Someone was gracious enough to return it. The kindest thing in all this time. Fingers shaking, she slipped it from the bundle. With it strung between her fingers she gathered her hair, twisted it around until she was able to run the ribbon through the center and secure it in place.

As she did so the fabric unbunched in her lap. Inside: a blade, the bronze handle and scabbard carved skillfully; two featherless quill pens, stark and simple.

Gifts?

By far, the knife was eye-catching with its intricate carvings of florals and leaves, but the pens were more of a puzzling matter. Around the handle of one pen was a piece of parchment, a scrap ripped from a larger sheet. Its torn edges cutting lines of poetry in half—evidence it was ripped from a greater script.

Four Silver for the Honey Lord

All Gold for the Holiest of Crowns

Investigate the secret, stored

Tyrant walls will tumble, Hellward bound

Have faith, ye lost, peace will afford

Soul's salvation, brimming full, resounds

Not a gift?

A riddle? She held it up to the light, flipped it over, as if the answer was written in milk.

A communication? For what? And why?

Was she meant to write a reply? It seemed odd that they were given in such a way. Even the fabric which everything was wrapped in seemed meaningless.

Who was the Tyrant? In her faith the one who was the Tyrant would be the one who opposed the Blessed Family. In this context, however, did it mean the same? Someone who opposed the Holy Church? And what of the reference to the Crown, meaning the King?

The sudden flood of questions made her head throb and ache.

Quickly, she rushed to dress herself with a warm cloak. The snow, peaked and crunchy, had already begun to slump and thaw where feet had tread. The courtyard, with the rising sun, had filled with servants tending to duties.

The steps inside the quarter she took by two. Essica was in her room, sprawled out on the bed, eyes closed with sleep.

"Essica, up." Isa grabbed her shoulders and shook. "Wake up."

Essica's eyes gleamed an eerie white when they fluttered open.

"What does this mean to you?" Isa ripped the ribbon from her own hair and held it out.

Slowly, Essica pushed herself up, eyes on the blue swath in front of her. "Yes. It's the ribbon I gave you."

"It went missing. Someone found it and left it in my bed."

Essica wiped at her eyes, fighting with a yawn. "Only the ribbon?"

"No, it was wrapped around something."

With a frown fixed to her face, Essica reached out to take it. "Around what?"

"Why does every conversation we have together go this way? I ask, you flit about. I bring up something else, you pretend you don't know. If you know something, out with it."

Essica kicked free of her covers and jumped up from the bed, pulling Isa toward her, fingers clasped. "They told me I was wasting my time, that you were too far gone."

"Who?"

"The Teh Council. At the gathering in Elgon they made the decision that you were gone to us. Inside." Pointing to her heart, her hand quivered. "Part of the reason I've come is to prove they were wrong."

Isa felt twisted and heavy inside, her soul like a knot around a ship's anchor. "And what did you tell them?"

"I told them nothing. I didn't know what to say. You and—" her voice dropped. "You and the King are . . . ."

Are nothing. Isa felt it, but couldn't say it.

"Aurrie placed me here," Essica continued. "I asked him to, of course. My duty was to see the King's reign end, the line of Masens to run aground like a ship wrecked as have been the effort of so many others. But—" She glanced to the door, her excited voice dropping to a whisper. "I've drawn attention."

"Attention? From whom?"

A thumping sound from somewhere outside forced Essica's mouth to snap shut. She shook her head. "Everyone else in his inner circle is unwavering. You're the only one on our side who the King trusts. But . . . I wasn't too sure at first, but here you are."

The way she smiled as she spoke, the passion of her words building with intensity, diminished the disapproval Isa felt. She didn't like the idea of running the King's ship aground. Yet, that was put to the side when she considered Essica, and possibly her own people, thinking of her in a positive light. It was like being forgiven after being falsely accused of a crime.

The positivity drew Isa in. She cracked a smile. "I'm only his courtesan to help others. There are more important things to see to."

"You are on our side, then." Essica said, smiling through her tears. "I knew it."

Our side? With that revelation, suddenly things made sense. That's why no one had come for her. That's why she was in the dark all this time. There were sides at play far beyond the King and her, and she, with her heart split in two, wasn't on either side.

"I have things for you." Leaning over the bed, Essica twisted around strangely, pulling something from under the matted bedding. Standing, she unfurled a glossy green silk. A dress. A traditional piece from Dwyer worn to festivals and sacred gatherings. Gemstones along the shoulders, ruched fabric bands in a brilliant shade of green like a glossy Yui leaf.

And then she pulled free a much more subtle item. A pouch. Small, flat, velvet. "I keep mine in my apron. But since you are a Courtesan I made this for you. To conceal them neatly inside your bodice."

"They're both lovely," Isa said while draping the dress over her arm and taking the pouch in hand.

"Here." Essica popped up from the bed, pulling something from her pocket. A pen like Isa's with a stem that of a porcupine quill. Essica pulled the silver nib free from the slim shaft. It popped loose like a cork from a bottle.

"See? Four drops of silver, illness. Ten drops of gold, death."

Isa stepped back instinctively, not wanting to be in contact. The memory of spinning wildly and waking to the pain of healing wounds came fresh to her mind. Worse yet, she now feared who the Holiest of Crowns referred to.

"It must be drunk with wine or spirits," Essica continued. "Otherwise, it will have minimal effect."

"Is this what you've come here for? Only to poison the King?"

"No." Essica tucked the pens away somewhere in the bell of her dress. "There were political matters, treatise and proposals, but those paths ran dry." From her bodice she drew a blade, similar to the one given to Isa: creamy yellow ivory over a black casing. The delicate carvings didn't do much to disguise the fact that it was such a brutal thing. The blade shone, the sharp edge catching the light.

"Were you given something such as these?" Without waiting for an answer, Essica sheathed her blade and then plucked the pouch from Isa's hand. Taking her by the shoulders, Essica turn her around.

With brusque fingers, Essica loosened the lacing that ran along Isa's back and then shuttled her hands underneath and around to the front in order to situate the pouch. It lay snug right underneath Isa's bust, pressing uncomfortably against her skin.

"There." She tightened the lacings, tucking the frills of fabric in. "He can touch all he likes but he will never know. Not until it's too late."

The purpose of such a thing was ghastly. Isa didn't know which God to pray to for forgiveness of her traitorous, selfish heart—for merely standing and listening to Essica talk so animatedly about ships running aground—so she prayed to both. But neither prayer eased the feeling of revulsion that crawled along her skin like snakes.

"See now. You're given free pass in and out of his chambers. You're with him everywhere. I've yet to make it down the North Hall."

Hastily, Isa thanked Essica and attempted to excuse herself, wanting to rip the pouch from her belly and run.

"Was it the marriage?"

Isa stepped backward to the door, playing the fool with a, "Whose marriage?"

"Is it the marriage that has you changing your heart?"

Is that what this looked like? A change of heart?

Perhaps it was.

Perhaps Isa was struggling to find her purpose. Perhaps this was her path she was meant to take and the only thing standing in her way was her tattered shreds of morality and loyalty. Loyalty to whom?

"Things." Isa smiled awkwardly. "Aren't always what they seem."

Essica reached forward, pulling on the rumple of Isa's dress. "A bitter thing. Becoming the forgotten. Take that hurt. It will help you see things to the end."

Atrocious. No, she couldn't go through with this course of action. It wasn't her intention to gain footing in order to do away with the King.

As Isa left Essica's room she mulled over the turns that the evening had brought. It was impossible to deny it, no more looking aside and pretending it hadn't happened. Her own countrymen had set the wheels in motion and now everything was spinning wildly out of control. First Queen Dora, and now King Edward. Who else? At what cost?

Like a bundle of flowers being tossed about and then arranged neatly, priorities and ideas took form in Isa's mind.

Until this moment she hadn't felt a sense of direction beyond the expectations of her station, beyond the game of dollhouse and servant, but now . . . did she have a path to follow now?

Lord Aro was wrong, she did have a choice.

In fact, her choice lay with Aro himself, the only one other than the King to show any interest in her wellbeing. Somehow in all of this, Isa knew Aro was the key, an end to misery and confinement. Instead of seeing something debilitating and horrific, she now saw a way out, a way to a more solid life where she wasn't doomed to be discarded.

Already the air was far more fragrant, the water calming.

ooo

Juniper, her small arms cradling fresh blankets for the King's bed, was a step away from the chamber door. The sight of her, skin pale and nearly ashen white, gave Isa pause.

"June? Here, let me." Isa collected the blankets from her. "Your cheeks are pale, love. Are you feeling well?"

"Yes, Miss."

"How about you go to the kitchen and ask Essica for some of today's soup. There was plenty left over, I'm sure more than enough for you to fill your belly."

Like a child offered a piece of fruit from a Picrue tree, Juniper's eyes lit up.

Amid all the things that meant so little, being able to care for others in such a small way gave Isa comfort. The person she was meant to be still lived inside.

The King's chamber was cold and dark, several candles having gone out, the fire reduced to glowing embers.

Now alone, Isa set the bedding aside and dropped to her hands and knees, feeling along the underbelly of the bedframe to find the small key box. She had seen the King draw it out only once, and knew that there were several places in his chambers where important documents were stowed. He trusted no one, not even his clerk.

When her fingers touched a slick corner an uneasy excitement overcame her. This was far beyond what she ever imagined she'd do, poking about the King's secret places. But there seemed to be no other solution. She needed leverage.

Damn the waterfall.

Keys in hand, Isa checked the hall, seeing no one of concern other than the guard who stood dutifully. The desk nearby the balcony was the most likely place. She had seen him sit there, the plans spread out before him, pouring over details, the plume of his quill fluttering wildly. Sketches for a bridge which looked more of a lengthy barn stretched across the most narrow span of the river. Isa hadn't looked at it closely, however. At that time it meant nothing, more of the King's random busy-making. Now she wished she had paid more attention.

In fact, now that Isa looked back on the previous year, she noted that the King had made great effort to conceal it form her; turning away when she entered the room; silencing his self-speak when she came close.

Early on it only made sense that, as King, it was natural to be suspicious of everyone, especially your ill-gained servant who had loyalty forced upon her. And as she considered things such as the marriage kept equally a secret, she wondered, how much did he trust her? Implicitly? Or was the idea that she held anything of his heart and mind a mere illusion?

Yet, as her fingers fumbled through the pages inside the cedar drawer, she realized that if he found out what she was doing in this moment he likely would sever himself from her in more ways than one. And the thought hurt, like taking part of her own body, flesh and blood, and severing it clean with an axe. She flicked her hands through the air at the sudden gross thought of it being her head on the block.

Was this act here her letting go of the fall's rim? Or pulling herself up?

The truth, much to her his heartened self, wasn't writ on the leaves of paper tucked inside the desk drawer. She flipped through them again, growing more anxious and baffled. Had he taken them with him into the Strategy Room?

But, no, if he held papers Isa would have noticed when she last served him wine.

Shutting the drawer, she returned the key to its place. Perhaps this would be easier to accomplish if she approached everything differently, more direct rather than snooping about. The other night the King seemed open and willing to engage her in conversation. If she twisted things the right way then perhaps tongues would loosen again. At the very least she would be able to relieve her stress, ease the ache she felt.