Helpless Page 4

  Pierce pauses in the middle of spinning Elisora. “Now? Stay a little longer, won’t you?”

  “I can’t.” He places the crown atop his head, cringing when his neck immediately begins to ache. Slipping away with Pierce and the others had been a short—but welcome—reprieve from his duties, but he’s king now. He had better start acting like it.

  He hopes no one smells the whiskey on his breath.

  Pierce straightens the crown and gives him a once-over. “You look good. Regal, if a little disheveled.”

  “I think you look marvelous,” Elisora announces. “Very dashing.”

  He searches her face for . . . something—something different from the way she looks at Pierce and the others. He isn’t sure if it’s love—that seems like much too small a word to describe the way his father used to look at his mother—but he’ll know it when he sees it, or so he hopes. They’ve known each other for thirteen years. He should be able to read her like a book. Yet when she marches over to him and kisses his cheek, he can’t detect the slightest change in her expression.

  “Thank you,” he chokes out, an invisible vise tightening inside his chest. He turns and bolts before she has a chance to question his reaction.

  Nice job, idiot, he curses himself as he closes the door behind him and strides toward the great hall. He feels his ears grow hot, flushing with embarrassment. She’s only your best friend in the whole world and your future wife. She certainly won’t suspect anything is amiss.

  But if she can’t tell how infuriatingly in love with her I am, how well can she truly know me? he retorts. Then he groans and stops in the middle of the hallway. “She’s got me talking to myself in the middle of an empty hallway,” he mutters. “Great. Just great.” He stares at the ceiling imploringly—at the Creator, at his father, at whoever is looking down at him from the heavens—and says, “How do you expect me to run a damn kingdom if I can’t keep my head around one measly girl?”

  6

  “You were late to the coronation.”

  Guinevere’s voice is low enough that only Ghyslain can hear, but it carries an undercurrent of power nonetheless. She accepts the bows from the councilmembers to whom Ghyslain had been speaking with a graceful tilt of her head, her jeweled tiara glittering under the light of the great hall’s chandeliers, then swings her gaze around to meet her son’s. It is evident in the tight line of her lips and the slight narrowing of her eyes that she can hold in her reprimands no longer. If he were foolish enough to play the spoiled child, he would point out that he is now the king—and thus above any motherly scolding—but he suspects it would only place him farther from her good graces. Instead, he excuses himself from the councilmembers and waits until they join the few groups of revelers who remain—(the band had stopped playing an hour ago and the sun is beginning to rise in the east, but, apparently, those hints are too subtle for some members of the nobility to realize that it might be a good time to go home)—before he responds, “I did not intend to be late. I’m sorry.”

  “You dismissed your attendants again, didn’t you?”

  Ghyslain opens his mouth, closes it, then changes his mind and objects, “They were giving me those looks again. I don’t want their pity.”

  “If you don’t want them poisoning your breakfast later, I’d suggest treating them with a little more kindness. Elven or not, they’re still your subjects.”

  “Not according to the laws. If I uphold the laws as they’re written today—like I swore to do at my coronation, if you recall—they’re property. Nothing more. Don’t you think that’s a bit archaic? I know the Cirisian elves are our enemies, but most of the slaves in this country were born right here, in Beltharos.” When his mother scowls at him, he lowers his voice a notch. “Most of the slaves we have here in the castle have never even left Sandori. They do so much work for us, and they don’t even earn a wage. If they raise a hand against their owners, they lose that hand. Doesn’t that strike you as barbaric?”

  Her face pinches as if she had bitten into a lemon. “Ghyslain, we’ve discussed this before. At length. Maybe after you’ve spent a few years on the throne, won the nobles’ loyalty as well as their affection, you’ll be able to change the laws regarding elven rights. But right now, with everything in such a precarious position after your father’s death, it wouldn’t be wise to make any major shifts just yet. You may be king, but you still need the support and approval of your subjects.”

  “‘I will to my power ensure justice and mercy be executed in all my judgments,’” Ghyslain intones, echoing the oath he had sworn to keep not twelve hours earlier. “Is it justice to allow one man to own another, Mother? Is it merciful to stand idly by while that slave is worked to a premature death?”

  “The slaves of the nobility live in better conditions than the free men who live in Myrellis Plaza, Ghyslain. If they didn’t serve their masters, they’d be stuck in Beggars’ End with the rest of the unemployed and the degenerates.” At Ghyslain’s wounded expression, her tone softens. “I love that you care for every person in your kingdom, Ghyslain. It’s a sign that you’re going to be a wonderful ruler. But now is neither the time nor the place to be having this debate.” She kisses his temple, then scrunches her nose. “You and your friends were drinking quite heavily, weren’t you?”

  He looks away. “No.”

  “Don’t even try to lie to me. I can smell it on you.” She sighs. “I’m glad you didn’t make a fool of yourself in front of the guests.”

  “Did it really seem that likely?” Ghyslain asks, suddenly stricken with fear. If his mother had seen through his false confidence, how many of the nobles had seen through it, as well? How can he ever hope to win their respect as their king if his nerves are so transparent?

  “Not to most, but I’m your mother—I know you like no other.” When his expression doesn’t change, she runs her hands up and down his arms as if warming him. She smiles, crinkling the corners of her eyes. “Oh, stop worrying so much. It’s good that you were able to relax with Pierce and the others. After the chaos of the past few days, you deserve some time away from the demands of being royalty. Now that you’re king, it’s only going to get worse.”

  “Hm. I don’t like the sound of that. I don’t suppose this coronation thing is reversible?”

  “Ha, ha, very funny.” She lifts the crown from his head and instructs a passing guard to take it to the royal vault. Sweet, blessed relief, he thinks as he massages a kink in his neck. If he’s lucky, he’ll never have to wear that thing again in his life. Guinevere laughs. “Yes, I thought you’d like to finally take that off. Your father told me how much of a pain it is to wear.”

  “He thought so, too?”

  “I’m fairly certain every monarch since this crown was made has thought so. Go get some rest, Your Majesty. The guards and I will get rid of the rest of the guests.”

  “You’re sure?” he asks. After staying awake all night, the shadows under her eyes are even more pronounced than they had been the past few days. That, coupled with her sudden weight loss, worries him. “I think it would be best if you slept, Mother.”

  She shakes her head, then pushes a stray curl from Ghyslain’s forehead and tucks it behind one of his ears. “I know you’re the king now, but allow me to mother you for one more day, all right? It’s just . . . hard letting go of everything all at once. Your father’s gone, and soon you won’t need me at all. Give me one more day. Please.”

  Sensing the possibility of Guinevere suddenly bursting into tears, Ghyslain quickly nods. “Okay, all right, that’s fine. Thanks, Mother. But . . . promise me you’ll take a break as soon as the guests leave.”

  “I will, I promise.”

  “Good.” Ghyslain leaves her and the rest of the guests in the great hall and starts toward his room. His steps drag as he makes his way up the stairs, the energy and excitement of the celebration giving way to exhaustion. When he reaches the second-floor landing of the stairs, it suddenly strikes him that he hadn’t seen E
lisora leave. It’s unlike her not to—at the very least—say goodbye. He freezes midstep. Had she been able to tell what he’d been thinking while they had danced? Could she sense his doubts?

  “No, I’m just paranoid,” he says to the empty hallway. “Annnnnnddddd . . . I’m talking to myself again.” He swears under his breath and shakes his head. I’m just tired. His eyes ache after being awake for so long; it feels as if the insides of his eyelids are coated with sand. Each time he blinks, it becomes harder to open them again.

  He’s only a few yards from his bedroom door when there’s a loud thump and a panicked shriek. Ghyslain jumps, his heartbeat stuttering. He glances down the hallway behind him—empty—and through the open doorway of the meeting room nearest him.

  Empty.

  It’s just a slave. Someone dropped something. That’s it.

  He reaches for the handle on his bedroom door and—

  “Stop! Let go of me—”

  There’s a soft scuffle, then a bang, and the sounds of several small things hitting the floor. Books—they’re in the library. Ghyslain sprints down the hall and shoves the massive door to the library open just as another shriek pierces the air. The door cracks against the wall. Someone gasps.

  “Who’s in here?” he demands. When no response comes, he stalks down the center aisle, peering down the shadowy rows of bookshelves with a scowl.

  Somewhere in the back of the library, someone whimpers. Another—a man—hisses, “Quiet!”

  “Show yourselves at once!” Ghyslain orders. He continues toward the back of the library, his footsteps silent on the ornate rug which runs the entire length of the center aisle. Every few yards, a settee and several small chairs are clustered around a table piled with books. At the rear of the library is a massive fireplace, dark except for a few glowing embers. A lit lantern hangs from a hook on the end of every third bookshelf, and Ghyslain grabs one as he nears the area near where he had heard the people whispering. The light bobs as he rounds the last bookcase and sees—

  “Drake?”

  He’s standing with his back to Ghyslain, a skinny girl cornered between him and the wall of shelves. He shifts so his torso blocks Ghyslain’s view of her—hiding everything but a glimpse of her dark hair. Several books litter the floor at their feet, splayed open and spilling torn pages.

  Drake laughs and peers over his shoulder at Ghyslain. One of his hands is braced against the bookshelves beside the girl’s head. The other is lost under her skirts, which are hiked up around her hips. “Whoops. Guess you caught me. Say, you don’t think we can keep this between you and me? My sister doesn’t need to know, and my wife certainly doesn’t—”

  “I think it’s time you left.” Ghyslain grabs Drake’s shoulder and pulls him back, but Drake swats him away.

  “You may be the king, but this is none of your business,” Drake snaps. “Go back to your party.”

  “Party’s over, and you need to go.” Ghyslain grabs Drake’s arm and yanks so hard and so suddenly that they trip over each other, off balance, and fall in a heap on the floor. Drake’s elbow strikes Ghyslain in the gut when he lands, knocking the wind out of him. The lantern slips from his grip and shatters on the stone floor, splattering hot oil everywhere. The girl shrieks and shields her face with her arms.

  “Let me go,” Drake shouts.

  “Have a little self-control,” Ghyslain retorts, wheezing between every word. “You have a wife and a baby at home.”

  They clamber to their feet and face off in the small aisle between bookcases. Ghyslain positions himself between Drake and the girl, still struggling to catch his breath. “Get out of here,” he hisses. He had never cared much for Elisora’s brother, but he had put up with him for her sake. He’s relieved that, after this, there will be no need to continue the charade of their friendship.

  “Fine,” Drake spits. His gaze lifts to the girl, who is cowering behind Ghyslain. “Seems I’ve found the only man in Beltharos who will stand up for a knife-ear. We’ll finish this another time, when His Majesty isn’t around to interfere.”

  He storms off. When the door slams shut behind him, Ghyslain turns to the girl. “Are you hurt?”

  She shakes her head and takes a shuddering breath. “Some of the oil burned my arms, but I’ll be fine.”

  “May I take a look?” When she nods, he takes her hand and leads her to one of the settees in the center of the library. “Sit here, I’ll only be a second.”

  He tosses a few logs into the fireplace and prods them with one of the heavy iron pokers until they ignite, filling the room with their soft crackling. When the light is enough by which to see, Ghyslain turns back to the girl. He pauses, recognizing her for the second time that night.

  “Your name is Liselle, isn’t it? You’re Elisora’s slave.”

  She nods.

  “Let me see your arms.”

  He doesn’t know much about burns—or healing in general—but her injuries don’t look too severe. He counts two small red splotches on her left forearm and one larger one—about the size of a coin—on her right. Her skin has already begun to welt.

  After a few beats of silence, Liselle murmurs, “That’s not the first time Drake tried that.”

  “That’s not the first time Drake . . . tried to rape you?” Ghyslain repeats, fighting to speak past the sudden lump in his throat. “Has he ever managed to—?”

  “No! I try to be careful—to stay away—but he’s gotten close a few times. Recently, he’s become bolder. I don’t want to think about what he might have done if you hadn’t interrupted.”

  Ghyslain’s hands clench into fists as a rush of rage overtakes him. “I’ll have the guards bring him in tomorrow. This cannot stand—”

  “No, don’t, please,” she begs. “Let me deal with it.”

  “You want me to leave it alone? What if he corners you again? What if—”

  “I can handle it. I’ll be more careful—”

  When she starts to rise, Ghyslain grabs her hands. “You think after what you told me that I’m just going to forget about it? He cannot be allowed to continue to act so boorishly.”

  “Your Majesty,” Liselle says gently, slipping her hands out of Ghyslain’s grip, “I don’t think you quite understand the situation. I’m a slave in his father’s household. He’s the son of a rich merchant. Do you think anyone cares what happens to me behind closed doors?”

  “I care. You shouldn’t have to fear him.”

  She almost smiles. “I’m lucky to not live in his home. Whenever Elisora visits him, I make excuses to stay by her side or with the other slaves.”

  Ghyslain leans forward and runs his hands down his face, ignoring the tiredness in his limbs. “So you want me to do nothing. Drake is tormenting you, hurting you, and you want me to do nothing about it?”

  “Yes.”

  “How can you let him get away with it?”

  “Because my parents are his slaves.”

  He freezes. “They’re what?”

  “His slaves. He has . . . a history with my family, and I’d like to leave it at that, Your Majesty.” She glances over at the bookcase against which Drake had pinned her. One of the shelves is crooked—presumably the one into which he had pushed her—and half the books are still lying on the floor, bent covers splayed. “I’ve found it’s best to stay silent. I don’t want him to take his anger at me out on my parents.”

  “I understand.” He waits for her to meet his gaze. “Really. I do. I don’t like it, but I understand why you would want to keep quiet. I’m still going to speak with Drake, though.” When she opens her mouth to argue, he continues, “He knows I know what he’s doing. The rest of the nobility don’t have to hear about it, but I will not be a bystander to attempted rape. If he lays a hand on you again, I want you to tell me immediately.”

  “Okay.” Liselle takes a deep breath and crumples the fabric of her skirt in her fists. “Okay, I will. Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  “You don’t have to thank
me for doing what’s right.”

  She fidgets with the slave sash across her chest, running her fingers along the edge. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? What are you sorry for? The only one who should be sorry is that asshole Drake—”

  “Not for that. I’m sorry for being short with you earlier, after the coronation.” She peers up at him through her lashes, her hazel eyes wide and sincere. “I shouldn’t have been so rude. I was out of line.”

  “It’s all right. Elisora mentioned you can be . . . abrasive.”

  She lets out a short, humorless laugh. “That’s one word to describe me.”

  “Why were you so angry?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me.” When she looks at him sharply, he continues, “That stupid sash doesn’t make your thoughts and opinions any less valid than those of humans. Will you please tell me?”

  “I . . . shouldn’t.”

  “But?”

  “But . . . you saved me from that pig, so I suppose I owe you. I was angry because you became king. Because there is a new man on the throne but nothing will change. Because all the nobles in the crowd were talking about was who you’re going to appoint to your council and who is going to receive titles and whose daughter will become the next queen if your betrothal with Elisora doesn’t work out.” She says it in a rush, hardly pausing to breathe. She takes a deep breath and perches on the edge of the settee. “I was angry because they were talking about themselves, not about what you could change or what you might do as king. They don’t care about anyone but themselves. To them, people like me are no better than the shit in the streets.”

  Ghyslain stares at her, shocked that she would speak so brazenly to a human, let alone the king. “I know,” he breathes. “I want to help the elves.”

  She rolls her eyes. “That’s what everyone says.”

  “No, I do, really. My mother advises against it, but I want to change the laws. I don’t know if I’ll be able to free you, but I can certainly give you more rights than you have now.” He isn’t really sure why he is trusting her so much, except that her honesty had surprised and impressed him.