Of Beast and Beauty - Jay Stacey - Страница 52
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years old. She wouldn’t have been old enough to marry until you were
nearly thirty, Bo, and who knows how the political climate would have
changed by then? The only way I could ensure your place on the throne was
for the king to die before he could marry again, while I still had the power
to convince the other advisors my son should be the one to marry the
queen.”
A sour taste fills my mouth, and the floor beneath my feet goes as
soft as sand, leaving me nothing firm to stand on. My legs tremble and my
heart beats faster, but for a long moment I can’t understand why I’m
frightened. Even when my brain sorts out the meaning hidden in Father’s
words, I can’t believe it. Surely I’m missing something. Surely …
“The king was killed by the Monstrous,” I say, my voice as weak as
my knees.
“It appeared that way.” He stares me straight in the eye, not flinching
when he adds, “But only because I made it so.”
I reach out to brace myself on the mantel above the fire. “I don’t
believe you.”
Father ignores me and continues, “The Monstrous was on the path
by the lake, near the garden where the flowers for the court tables are
grown. I had planned to poison the king, but as soon as I saw the creature, I
knew my moment had come. I killed the guards first, to make certain there
were no witnesses. Then I killed the king, cutting him open to make it look
as if the Monstrous had done it.”
“No,” I say, sounding more like a child than ever. Tears burn the
backs of my eyes, and sickness rises in my throat. If I hadn’t skipped dinner,
I know I’d be ill all over Father’s finely carved fireplace.
“Thankfully, it was one of the creatures without our language, who
couldn’t reveal what I’d done.” He rises slowly from his chair, looking older,
wearier, than I’ve ever seen him, and comes to stand beside me, gazing into
the fire. “If it had been the other one …” He shrugs and slips his hands into
the pockets of his pants. “Not many would have listened to the ravings of a
monster, but there are always those who pause to consider the absurd. If
they’d paused long enough, they might have found reason to believe it.”
Isra might have paused. Isra might have listened to the monster.
Tonight she called it her “friend.” If she ever learns the truth …
“She’ll have you killed,” I whisper. “She’s not as fragile as you believe.
If she finds out, she’ll—”
“She’ll never find out,” Father says, his strong hand coming to rest on
my shoulder. “Not unless you tell her.”
I turn to him so quickly I lose my footing and knock my shin on the
marble step of the fireplace. “I would never. Never.”
“I have your loyalty, then?” he asks, uncertainty lurking in his eyes.
“Yes,” I say. “Of course. I’m your son.”
He nods stiffly. “I spent my entire life serving another family. I
wanted you to rule your own life, to be your own man,” he says, mouth
weak around the edges, the muscle in his cheek leaping. I’ve never seen
him out of control. He has never appeared vulnerable in any way. I’ve
imagined Father weak, and thought I’d find the sight thrilling—but this isn’t
thrilling. It’s terrifying, a god falling from the sky, his wings on fire. “I did
this for you, Bo.”
“I know, Father.” I take him by the shoulders and give a firm squeeze,
willing strength into both of us. “I won’t fail you. We’ll manage Isra.
Together. I’ll be king by springtime, and I will never forget that I owe
everything I am to you.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, before whispering, “Thank you, Son.”
Then he smiles. Really smiles, a proud smile, a grateful smile. Proud of me.
Grateful to me. The sight firms up every trembling, doubting bone in my
body.
Great men aren’t afraid to do dangerous things to tip the hand of
fate in their favor. My father is a great man and he did a brave, dangerous
thing to give me a chance at a future I couldn’t have had without him. I
would never have asked him to kill the king, but … it’s done now. There’s no
going back. We can only go forward, and make certain we prove that the
end justifies the means.
I will be a great king. I will do great things for this city, and I won’t let
a girl who’d rather play in the dirt with a monster than devote herself to
her people get in the way.
“Let me do it,” I say, giving my father’s shoulders one final squeeze
before dropping my arms to my sides and standing tall, determined to show
him I’m man enough to handle the queen. “Let me show Isra the truth
about the city tomorrow. I’ll find a way to make her love me for it. I swear I
will.”
Or hate me less. I will be the only one who’s ever told her the truth.
She’ll have to respect me for that, at least enough to honor the promise she
made tonight.
“All right,” Father says, with a slow nod. “You’ll be her husband.
You’ll have to learn how to manage her sooner or later.”
“Thank you,” I say, the rush of being treated as my father’s equal for
the first time making me certain I could climb the tallest mountain in the
desert if it were safe to leave the city. “I’ll make you proud.”
He cups my cheek in his hand, his touch gentle for the first time in
longer than I can remember. “I’m already proud.”
My throat grows so tight I can do nothing but nod in response.
“Until tomorrow.” Father bows. I bow lower, keeping my head
tucked to my chest until he has left to join Mother in their bedroom.
Even when he’s gone, I can feel his faith in me lingering in the air,
warming me to the core, making me certain there is nothing I can’t do.
Nothing I won’t do to ensure our family’s success.
TWENTY-ONE
ISRA
ONE, two … five, six …
Seventy-five … one
hundred
and
twelve … eighty-eight … eighty-nine … ten … two …
I can see, but I find myself counting my steps all the same. Counting
to stay calm, to retain control, counting until numbers lose their meaning
and my mind is a jumble of circles and curves and slashes. The hourglass of
an eight. The dangerous corner of a seven. The soft belly of a six. I trace
their shapes in the air as I walk, my fingers busy at my sides, frantically
trying to bring order to the world.
But even numbers are powerless against chaos. Disorder. Madness.
I’m beside myself, outside myself. I watch my long body glide down
streets filled with the twisted and the wrong, and everything is … upside
down. Inside out. I look down, expecting to see the sky beneath my feet
and my heart settled on the skin outside my chest, but there is only the
shimmering green of my dress, tight at my bust, tighter still at my waist, but
loose enough near the ground.
Loose enough for hands with missing fingers to reach out to brush
the fabric as Bo and I pass by.
This particular hand belongs to a child, a girl with only three fingers, a
wee thing with silky black hair that hangs over her face, partially concealing
the fact that her nose is missing … pieces. Pieces of skin. Maybe bone. Skin
and bone. I don’t know. I can’t look too closely. Not at her, or her parents,
or all the others gathered by the side of the street to kneel as I walk by. I
just can’t.
I lift my eyes and find a tiny rectangle of blue sky high above the
laundry lines zigzagging between the intimidating buildings of the city
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