Helpless

by Jacqueline Pawl

  Twenty minutes.

  Ghyslain stares at his reflection in the polished metal mirror atop his vanity, trying to imagine what it will be like to be king. Will he feel different? Will Pierce and his few other friends in the castle suddenly grow distant, colder, now that he will be their ruler? His father had always said that ruling a kingdom is the loneliest job in the world. Before, Ghyslain had never understood that—the castle was constantly filled with visiting royalty, foreign dignitaries, military leaders, courtiers and advisors eager to meet with the king or queen—but now he’s beginning to see what his father had been trying to teach him. He had never fully grasped that a king must keep himself separate from his citizens; he must care for them, but he is not one of them. The only person Ghyslain can trust with his innermost thoughts—who understands exactly how he feels—is his mother. And yet, after seeing how frail she has become these past few days, he fears she may not be around to guide him much longer.

  Nineteen minutes.

  He sweeps his hair back and ties it into a low ponytail at the nape of his neck. When he had returned to his chambers after watching his father placed in the crypt below the castle, the outfit for his coronation had already been laid out for him. The gold embroidery on his purple doublet shimmers under the light from the lantern sitting on his vanity table. His black pants are tucked into fine leather boots, and a matching purple-and-gold cloak tumbles from the clasp at his neck to the floor. Every piece is perfectly tailored to fit him; the entire ensemble must have cost a fortune.

  Eighteen minutes.

  A rap at the door startles him.

  “Come in,” he calls warily, half expecting another advisor insistent on talking him through the ceremony for the hundredth time. Perhaps it’s his mother, come to chastise him for scaring off the slaves she had sent to help him prepare for the ceremony.

  When the door swings open, he lets out a sigh of relief.

  Elisora smiles at him. The small gesture is so stunning that, for a moment, he forgets to breathe. She leans against the doorframe and crosses her arms over her chest, taking her time as she looks him up and down. “You look like a proper royal,” she finally croons. She pushes off the wall and shuts the door behind her before meeting Ghyslain in the center of the room. Her fingers trace the line of his jaw before slipping down and straightening the gold clasp of his cloak. “Well, now you do.”

  He catches her hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles. “What would I do without you?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s pray you never find out.” She winks, her full lips parting into another heart-stopping grin. When she turns to examine the various bottles and jars of makeup Orson had left on the vanity that morning, her silky blonde hair catches the light streaming through the windows, sparkling like liquid gold. She prides herself on her hair, he knows—in all the years he has known her, she has worn it the exact same way: waist-length in loose curls, with little braids pinned like a crown atop her head. When they were children, she had insisted she would become queen someday despite her family not having a noble title. Little did she know, her dream would one day come true.

  “What will be your first action as king, Your Majesty?” Elisora perches on the edge of his vanity table and cocks her head at him, her blue eyes sparkling.

  “Marry you, of course.” He hooks his fingers into the waistband of her skirt and tugs her closer. She lets out a surprised squeak when she nearly slides off the vanity.

  “Ghyslain!”

  “Don’t you want to be queen?”

  When he ducks to kiss her, she places a hand on his chest and pushes him back. “Don’t you worry what the others will say? Wouldn’t it be more proper for you to choose a bride from one of the noble families? My father is but a merchant.”

  “A rich merchant.”

  Elisora laughs. “If you weren’t the prince, I’d accuse you of wanting to marry me solely for my family’s money.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. That’s only one of the reasons.”

  “Ghyslain, come on. Be serious. You know the nobility resent my father because you had the audacity to choose the daughter of a man without a title. They were livid at the announcement of our betrothal.”

  He raises a brow. “So the king must now seek the approval of the commoners before he weds? What else must he do? Shall I ask their permission every time I must use the chamber pot?” When she makes a disgusted noise and tries to pull away, Ghyslain continues softly, “I don’t care what the nobles say. I love you, my father loved you, and our subjects will learn to love you, as well.”

  “But—”

  Ghyslain cuts her off with a kiss. “You worry too much, my dear,” he murmurs when he pulls back. “You’ll be a wonderful queen.”

  She toys with one of the jars of makeup beside her. “I hope so,” she whispers. Then she spots the time on the grandfather clock in the corner and starts. “You’re going to be late.”

  He looks back and flinches. Seven minutes. His mother must be pacing a hole through the floor outside the throne room. She has always nagged him about being punctual. He steps back and holds his arms out to the side, turning in a slow circle. “How do I look?”

  “Like a king.” Elisora hops off the vanity and straightens his cloak. “Like a king who dressed himself,” she amends as she starts toward the door. “See you in the throne room, Your Majesty.” She offers him a theatrical curtsy, sweeping her long, flowing skirt out wide, before straightening and shooting him a crooked grin. They had long since moved past the need for honorifics and court manners, but she still likes to tease him.

  “I’ll see you there.”

  Elisora pauses on the threshold, opens her mouth, then appears to think better of whatever she had been about to say. She starts to close the door, but Ghyslain catches it before she can escape.

  “What is it?”

  She blushes. “Will you . . . tell me again . . . how you feel about me?”

  He stares at her, dumbfounded, while she sheepishly bites her lip. “I love you,” he repeats, more of a question than a statement. How is it possible that she doesn’t know? How is it possible that she doesn’t see it in his eyes every time he looks at her? How can she not feel it every time they touch? “I’ve loved you since the day I met you.”

  “You don’t remember the day we met,” she scoffs.

  “Of course, I do. We were five. I was sitting by my father’s side at the New Year’s feast when your family walked in. You hid behind your mother’s legs the whole way to your table because you were too shy to talk to anyone. Then Drake pulled the bow from your hair and you immediately forgot everyone else was in the room. You chased him right up to the head table and wrested it from his hands in front of all the nobility.” He grins. “I thought your father might die of embarrassment.”

  “You can’t possibly remember all that,” she objects, but now she’s smiling, too.

  “But I do. You were wearing a gold dress with pink bows in your hair, and little pink slippers with gold beads on the toes. I remember thinking you were the prettiest girl I had ever seen.” Now it’s Ghyslain’s turn to be sheepish. “I still think that. I knew then and there that I loved you.”

  Elisora looks down at her hands, at the shimmering diamond ring Ghyslain had given her when they had announced their betrothal the year before. “Thank you,” she whispers, and she closes the door behind her on her way out. It doesn’t escape his notice that she hadn’t reciprocated his feelings.

  Ghyslain lets out a shaky breath. Three minutes. His mother is going to kill him.

  By the time he opens the door and steps out into the hallway, Elisora is nowhere in sight. I love her, he thinks as he starts toward the throne room. He lets those words steady him, fill him with courage, as he strides down the stairs to the main floor of the castle and across the great hall. Through a short hallway leading to the throne room, portraits of his ancestors frown down at him from the walls. He pauses before the portrait of his father, painted when Alaric wa
s thirty years younger and newly coronated. It strikes him how unlike his father he looks: where Alaric had had a sharp profile and pronounced features, Ghyslain’s are smooth, like his mother’s. The only physical resemblance Ghyslain and his father share is their dark, slightly hooded eyes, so deep a brown they almost appear black.

  When he turns to the double doors leading into the throne room, the guards stationed outside open them wide for him. They bow to him as he straightens his doublet and clears his throat. He’s late, and he’s certainly going to get an earful from his mother about it later.

  “Your Highness?” one of the guards says.

  “Yes, I—Yes.” He frowns, shoots another glance at his father’s portrait and walks into the throne room.

  4

  The room is more full than Ghyslain has ever seen it. He recognizes the Rivosi royal seals on the lapel pins of the dignitaries standing in the corner, speaking to the lesser members of his father’s—soon his—council. They spot him first, and, to his amazement, drop to a knee in one fluid motion, fists pressed to their chests directly over their hearts. The group of nobles beside them notice and do the same, and soon it’s a wave cascading through the room. One after another, the nobles, courtiers, and commoners on either side of the center aisle kneel. It’s remarkable—they move as if choreographed, and it’s all for him. All to witness him become king.

  Ghyslain stands at the back of the room, gaping at his father’s throne which sits atop the raised dais several yards ahead of him. His mother stands beside it in a dazzling gold gown and a smile which doesn’t meet her eyes; she raises her brows and mouths, Move.

  “Right,” he mumbles, then immediately blushes. By the Creator, was Father’s coronation this excruciating? He’s likely to die of awkwardness and mortification before he makes it anywhere near the throne.

  He takes a deep breath and strides toward his mother, reminding himself with every step to keep his head high, posture straight, eyes up, hands loose by his sides. His footsteps echo through the room, which is suddenly so silent that he could close his eyes and trick himself into thinking he’s alone. As he passes, the people in the crowd dip their heads in respect. When he walks up the steps to the dais and stops before the queen, they rise.

  His mother’s smile grows, her pride winning out over her disappointment at his tardiness. “You look so handsome,” she whispers. Her eyes sparkle with sudden tears. “My little king.”

  I’d give it all up if it would bring Father back.

  As if sensing his thoughts, her expression turns sad. She reaches out and squeezes his hand once before stepping back to her place beside the throne.

  A door on the side of the dais opens and High Priestess Ilissia steps through. She has changed from her black mourning gown to one of a deep burgundy. Silver flowers are embroidered across the bodice and hem, and little crystals sparkle on the veil which hangs over her head and shoulders. The end of her thick black braid brushes the floor when she walks across the platform and curtsies to Ghyslain. “Hello again, Your Highness.”

  He clasps his hands behind his back and bows. “High Priestess.”

  A tiny slip of a girl—a priestess a few years younger than Ghyslain, wearing similar garb to the High Priestess—trails after Ilissia, the massive crown sitting on the velvet pillow in her hands. Her arms tremble slightly under the weight. Tucked in the crook of her elbow is a copy of the Book of the Creator. Ilissia takes it from the girl and holds it out in front of her, the gold imprint of the Creator’s holy eye shimmering on the leather cover.

  “We gather on this, the fifth day of Harvestfall in the Year of the Creator 1306, to witness the coronation of Prince Ghyslain Myrellis, soon to be the twenty-third monarch of Beltharos and the fifteenth of the Myrellis name.” Her voice rings out across the room, clear as a bell. Her eyes sweep across the crowd. “Will you, the people of Beltharos, accept this man as your sovereign under the eye of the Creator from this day unto his last?”

  A cheer rises from the crowd. Ghyslain tries to listen for Elisora and Pierce, but the shouts are too jumbled to make out distinct voices. After a few moments, the High Priestess raises a hand and silence falls once more.

  Ilissia’s gaze meets his. She smiles. “Kneel and place your hands upon the Book of the Creator, Your Highness, that you may swear your oath to your country and your people.”

  He swallows painfully and obeys. The leather cover of the Book is smooth and well worn, but the Creator’s unblinking eye is as bright and shiny as a newly minted coin.

  “Ghyslain Myrellis, do you swear to govern your subjects fairly in accordance with the laws of Beltharos?”

  Dear Creator, please don’t let my nerves show. “I swear I shall.”

  “Do you promise to protect, guide, and provide for the people of your kingdom, in times of prosperity and in times of adversity, to the best of your ability for as long as you are able?”

  “I do.”

  “Will you uphold the values of the Church of the Creator and to your power ensure justice and mercy be executed in all your judgments?”

  “I will.”

  The High Priestess hands the Book to the priestess and reaches into her pocket for a vial of shimmering silver oil. She recites a prayer from the Book of the Creator as she breaks the seal and dips a finger inside. Ghyslain closes his eyes, and she swipes her fingertip across his left lid, then his right, then, finally, she draws the holy eye symbol of the Creator on his forehead. “Open your eyes,” she says when she finishes.

  He does, blinking quickly when some of the oil drips from his lashes and stings his eyes. Over the High Priestess’s shoulder, he sees his mother wipe the tears from her cheeks with the sleeve of her gown.

  “Alexia, the crown, please.”

  The priestess scuttles forward and extends the velvet pillow to the High Priestess. Ilissia lifts the crown from the pillow and holds it over Ghyslain’s head. The gemstones cast flecks of colored light across her dark skin. “By my power as most holy servant and hand of the Great Creator, I crown this man King Ghyslain Myrellis, fifteenth of his line and twenty-third sovereign of Beltharos. May your reign be prosperous, your life long and joyful, and your country the better because of it.”

  The second she sets the crown upon his head, the crowd roars, “LONG LIVE KING GHYSLAIN!”

  Ghyslain jumps, nearly knocking the damn thing right off his head. Ilissia grins at him as the younger priestess, Alexia, stifles a giggle.

  “Rise and greet your people as their king,” Ilissia shouts over the cacophony.

  He does as she says and, despite the grief weighing heavily upon his heart, he can’t help but laugh with incredulity. Hundreds upon hundreds of people had come to the castle to see him crowned king, while thousands more had gathered outside the castle walls. They’re celebrating me. His mother disappears into the hallway through which Ilissia and Alexia had come earlier, then returns a moment later with a thick black cloak. Almost every inch of the fabric is covered in gold, red, and midnight blue thread. The Myrellis family crest is proudly emblazoned across the back.

  “Your father would be so proud,” Queen Guinevere murmurs as she replaces Ghyslain’s cloak with the new one. She glances at the sky through the enormous wall of windows behind the throne. “Creator willing, he’s watching us right now.”

  Just as she says it, a bright beam of sunlight breaks through the clouds and illuminates the room. The gold of Ghyslain’s crown glows in the light.

  “See?” his mother says, shielding her eyes. “His grin is so wide we can see it from here.”

  He takes his mother’s hand. “He would be proud of you, too, Mother. You’ve done well without him.”

  “I’ve done my best.” She pulls her hand from his and gestures to the rest of the room. “Go, now, Ghyslain. Celebrate with your subjects.”

  The second after he descends the steps from the platform, Elisora breaks through the clamoring crowd and throws her arms around his neck, laughing. She kisses his cheek.
“I told you that you’d do fine.”

  Still stung by her earlier dismissal, Ghyslain backs out of her embrace under the guise of straightening his cloak. The hurt which flashes through her eyes pains him, but she quickly blinks it away. “I might’ve looked confident up there, but you should have heard my thoughts. I was praying to the Creator the whole time to keep me from doing something foolish.”

  “You didn’t need it. You were magnificent.”

  “Thank you, Elisora.”

  “I sent Liselle to fetch us drinks from the great hall,” Elisora says, frowning as she cranes her neck to see over the sea of faces. “Ah, there she is.” A thin young woman makes her way through the crowd toward them, her white slave sash draped across the bodice of her simple lavender gown. Her black curly hair is pulled into a high updo which leaves the pointed tips of her elven ears exposed. When she reaches them, she hands Elisora and Ghyslain each a flute of sparkling wine.

  She curtsies to Ghyslain. “Congratulations on your coronation, Your Majesty,” she says stiffly, as if the words are being forced out of her. When she straightens, she offers him a perfunctory smile, then looks away.

  “Have I done something to offend you?”

  “No, not at all.”

  Ghyslain frowns. “You know, you look familiar. Have we met?”

  “At our betrothal celebration last year,” Elisora cuts in. “She had been working the kitchens, but my father gifted her to me on my sixteenth birthday. She’s my most trusted handmaid now.”

  “I see. Well, she is certainly lucky to have as gracious and lovely an owner as yourself.”

  “Your Majesty, you flatter me.” Elisora holds up her glass in a toast. “To a long and prosperous reign—”

  “With you at my side,” Ghyslain finishes. They clink their glasses and sip.

  “Mmph.” Elisora makes a face and hands her drink to Liselle. “I don’t care for this. Find me something else—an ale or a red wine.”

  “But you hardly even sipped—”

  “Liselle—”