Helpless

by Jacqueline Pawl

  “Yes, my lady.” Liselle curtsies again and slips into the crowd.

  Ghyslain frowns. “I thought you like—”

  “I just needed to distract her. My father wants me to sell her,” Elisora interrupts, “but I don’t think I can bring myself to do it. We’ve developed something of a friendship, you know? It’s hard not to when I spend so much time with her. That, plus I don’t think she’d fetch a fair price.”

  “Why not?” When a group of his father’s councilmembers tries to wave Ghyslain over, he grabs Elisora’s elbow and steers her to the corner of the room, out of sight of most of the nobles vying for his attention.

  “She’s trouble, or so my father thinks. He says she’s too outspoken with her opinions. She’s popular among the slaves in my household, too, which brings its own problems. He’s worried she’ll organize some sort of revolt against us in the middle of the night and escape to freedom.”

  He raises his brows. “Truly?”

  “It’s mostly him being paranoid, but . . . there could be something to it, I fear. She’s . . . not like most. She’s pretty—for an elf—and she’s smart enough to know how to use that to her advantage.” She sighs. “I’d hate to lose her. After a year and a half together, she knows exactly how to serve me. Sometimes I needn’t even speak—it’s like she can read my mind. It would be a waste to start all over again with a new slave, wouldn’t it? Anyway, I’m sorry she was short with you. I’ll speak to her about respect, but I’m not sure it will do much good. You know how the elves chafe against their chains from time to time.”

  Ghyslain dismisses her with a wave of a hand. “It’s fine.”

  “No, it’s not. She can be a little rough around the edges, but I assume that’s because she comes from Beggars’ End. From what little I was able to glean from her, her family still lives there, and she sends what little money she makes seamstressing on the side back to them.”

  He steps closer and brushes a kiss to her temple. “Put it out of your mind. Today’s a day of celebration, haven’t you heard?” He takes her hand and twirls her around so quickly she lets out a surprised yelp. He pulls her close and rests his forehead against hers, staring deeply into her mesmerizing blue eyes. “As much as I’d like to remain here with you, I’m afraid I must see to the rest of my subjects. Pierce will get jealous.”

  She laughs. “We wouldn’t want that.”

  “No, I’m fairly certain that would be embarrassing for every party involved.” He glances to the back of the room. Two guards hold the doors wide open, and the celebration has begun to spill out into the great hall, where the slaves have prepared banquet tables of food and drink. “The band will arrive soon. Save me a dance?”

  “If you’re not too busy with all the pretty little noblemen’s daughters fighting for your attention.”

  “Please,” he scoffs. “My heart belongs to you, my dear. No one could ever change that.”

  5

  As the afternoon drags into the evening, Ghyslain is stopped by noble after noble after noble, all wishing him the same congratulations and the same hopes for a long reign and the same condolences, and on and on and on until the words become nothing but a jumble in Ghyslain’s head, a constant onslaught of meaningless noise. His head aches where the metal rim of the crown bites into his forehead. His neck protests every time he turns his head too quickly and the weighty, ridiculous thing nearly tumbles to the ground. It’s nothing short of a miracle when Pierce suddenly appears before him and clamps a hand around his wrist, excusing him from the dull conversation a half dozen Rivosi dignitaries had roped him into half an hour ago.

  “I’ve been looking all over for you,” he hisses as he drags him across the great hall.

  “Really? You couldn’t spot this thing from a mile away?” Ghyslain gestures to the crown. “Perhaps they should have made it larger. And heavier.”

  “You think you’re clever, don’t you?”

  “Extremely. I’m also charming, and dashing, and funny, and whatever other adjectives the nobles have tossed around tonight. Oh—don’t forget devastatingly handsome,” he adds as they pass a group of young women who blush and smile demurely at him. He waves, and they giggle. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Anywhere that these nobles aren’t is good enough for me.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Pierce steers him through the sea of bodies, and when they pass through the doorway leading from the great hall into an empty corridor, the temperature drops ten degrees. Ghyslain takes what feels like his first full breath all night and removes the crown from his head. He tucks it under one arm as he fixes his hair with the other. “How bad does it look?”

  “A bit as if you’ve been wearing an extremely heavy bagel atop your head for the past few hours.” Pierce traces the line the crown had imprinted into Ghyslain’s hair with a finger. When Ghyslain sticks his tongue out at him, he claps a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Now, that’s not a very kingly response, is it?”

  “It is when I’m speaking to a fool.”

  “Don’t forget said fool just saved you from a night of listening to ass-kissing courtiers and fawning young women.”

  “Why would I object to the women?”

  Pierce rolls his eyes. “Because your woman is in there, you dolt.” He points to a doorway farther down the hall. The sounds of laughter and partying leak through the closed doors, muffled by the wood. “Drake managed to sneak into the kitchen and swipe some stronger spirits than your sparkling wine. He and the others slipped out for their own celebration as soon as they could.” Pierce leads him down the hall and raps on the heavy redwood door. There’s a bump and a muffled curse, then the door swings open to reveal a slightly disheveled, remarkably inebriated Drake Zendais.

  “Took you long enough,” he says to Pierce. He peers out into the hallway, then opens the door wider for them. “Thought it might’ve been my father coming to chastise me as he so frequently does, but that would have been too predictable, don’t you think? Every so often, he has to change it up a little, find something to pick on besides my drinking.” He closes the door behind them, chuckling to himself.

  Elisora, lounging on the velvet settee in the center of the room, rolls her eyes at her brother. “If you don’t want him to criticize you, might I suggest you stop doing things of which he disapproves?”

  “Where’s the fun in that?”

  “Haven’t you a newborn at home? What does your wife think of you partying so often?”

  “Eydis has the slaves for help. I’m worthless when it comes to children.”

  “And everything else,” Elisora mutters under her breath. “Ghyslain, my dear, have a drink. Relax.” She points to a platter containing a crystal decanter of whiskey and several matching glasses on the table beside her. “You’d better have some before your future brother-in-law drinks it all.”

  “I haven’t drunk that much,” Drake objects.

  “I highly doubt that,” Ghyslain says. He nods to the lit candelabrum on the desk beside the platter. “Don’t step too close to those candles or you’ll go up in flames.”

  “You’ll be reduced to ash before we can do anything to help you,” Elisora adds. “We’ll be sure to give Eydis our sympathies at your funeral.”

  “Oh, lighten up, all of you.” Drake takes the crown from Ghyslain and places it on the desk. Then he drapes an arm around Ghyslain’s shoulders, grinning from ear to ear. “What better way is there to celebrate a coronation than to get obnoxiously, magnificently drunk?”

  Pierce pours a glass of whiskey and hands it to Ghyslain. He raises a brow. “The man’s got a point.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Ghyslain agrees. He tosses back the drink, coughing a bit when it burns the back of his throat, but . . . it’s a good burn—surprisingly enjoyable. Pierce refills his glass when he holds it out.

  “A king who knows how to party,” Drake declares, nodding approvingly. “I like you.”r />
  “Watch it, brother.” Elisora rises from the couch and slips an arm around Ghyslain’s waist, tugging him close. He buries his face in her neck, breathing in the clean scent of her perfume. “He’s mine.”

  “Want some, Oliver?” Pierce asks, startling Ghyslain. Despite Oliver being the largest man in the room—he’s only in his early twenties, but Oliver towers over most of the men in the guard—Ghyslain hadn’t spotted him until then. The guard is standing in the corner of the room, smirking as he watches Drake drink and slur his words.

  “When did you get here?”

  “I was the one who caught Drake raiding the kitchen.” He shrugs his wide shoulders. “I figured someone ought to make sure he doesn’t drink himself into a stupor.”

  “Oh, but I’m so very good at it.” Drake attempts to perch on the back of the couch, but he misjudges the width and loses his balance. He tumbles over the back, bounces off the cushions, and lands in a heap on the floor between the couch and the table. “You see?” he asks, his words muffled by the rug. “Imagine trying to do that while sober.”

  Elisora rolls her eyes, while Ghyslain, Pierce, and Oliver chuckle.

  “Anyhow, I don’t know how you aren’t drunk twenty-four hours a day, Oliver.” Drake stands and flops onto the couch. “If I had a face as ugly as that, I’d be drinking my body weight in liquor each morning.”

  “Don’t be rude!” Elisora crosses the room and places a hand on Oliver’s arm. “I think he’s very handsome.”

  “I think you’d better keep an eye on your betrothed, Your Majesty,” Pierce says. “Seems she has a fondness for the guard.”

  “Apparently.”

  “Never could resist a man in a uniform,” she teases. She reaches up and traces the puckered scar which runs along Oliver’s jaw. Then she lifts onto her toes—even with the extra few inches, Oliver must bend down for her to reach—and presses a kiss to his mess of a nose, broken and reset so many times that even he has lost count. “He received these injuries in service to King Alaric. How can you fault him for that?”

  At the mention of the late king, they fall into a mournful silence until Drake groans, throwing an arm over his eyes. “Way to ruin a party, sis.”

  “I’m sorry, I . . .” she trails off and looks at Ghyslain helplessly. “I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s all right,” Ghyslain assures her. When no one speaks, he glances around the room. “Seriously. Today’s a day of celebration, isn’t it? Well, my mother is going to track me down eventually, so I say let’s not waste another minute feeling sad.”

  “Hear, hear!” Pierce clinks glasses with Ghyslain and Elisora, then throws his head back and downs his drink in one gulp. He coughs and sputters. “By the Creator, Zendais, how do you drink this stuff?”

  “I’ll give you a hint, my friend: most people don’t drink it for the taste. You know—the ends justify the means, that sort of thing.”

  “If the end you seek is liver disease and an early grave, you’re well on your way.” Elisora frowns, then gives up and giggles when Drake raises his arm and makes a rude gesture. “Now, that’s not very gentlemanly, especially in front of a king.”

  “I’m sure he’ll regret it tomorrow, along with the massive hangover he’ll have to endure,” Ghyslain responds, grinning.

  “Uh-uh. I have a surefire hangover cure. It works every time.” Drake props himself up on his elbow and gestures for Pierce to hand him the whiskey. Pierce obliges, and Drake smiles at the new king before pulling the crystal stopper off the decanter with his teeth, then spitting it onto the ground. He makes a grand show of taking a long swig. “The key,” he announces when he finishes, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “is to drink more.”

  Thirty minutes and several glasses of whiskey later, Elisora opens the door an inch and peers into the hallway. The party is still raging in the great hall, a few lingering notes of whatever song the band is finishing hanging in the air over the voices, and Ghyslain is certain it’s a miracle that his mother hasn’t found him yet.

  When the band starts a new song—a slow, sweet melody—Elisora bounces on her toes and claps excitedly. She whirls around, her eyes wide and excited, and holds out a hand to Ghyslain. “Oh, I love this song. My mother used to hum it when I was a child and couldn’t fall asleep. Dance with me, won’t you?”

  “Of course, my dear.” He takes her hand and leads her to the center of the room. With Pierce and Oliver’s help, the four of them push the furniture out of the way, including shifting the couch on which Drake is snoozing to the far wall. Drake merely grunts, shoots them a drowsy glare, and reaches again for the now-empty whiskey decanter, tucking it into his side as if he were a child with a teddy bear.

  “You useless oaf,” Elisora mutters, frowning down at her brother. “How he convinced a gem such as Eydis to marry him will forever be a mystery to me.”

  “How he plans to teach his son to become an upstanding, hardworking citizen is the real question.”

  “Let’s hope the kid takes after his mother.”

  “I’m drunk, I’m not deaf,” Drake murmurs, throwing an arm over his eyes. “You two are terrible.”

  “Says the man who couldn’t walk a straight line if he tried,” Pierce shoots back, nudging Drake with an elbow.

  “If I desired to do such a thing, I would be magnificent at it—as I am at everything.”

  Pierce rolls his eyes at Oliver, who still stands stoically in the corner. Despite claiming to stay to watch over them, he doesn’t look the slightest bit concerned about Drake’s condition.

  “Oh, whatever,” Elisora says, tugging on Ghyslain’s sleeve. “Dance with me—we’re going to miss the song.”

  “It would be my honor, my lady.” Ghyslain bows, then slips his arms around her waist and tugs her so close they’re standing flush against each other—closer than they’d ever dared stand before. His breath catches when Elisora leans her head on his chest and begins to sway to the music. He can feel his heartbeat racing, his palms sweating, his intoxicated mind fixating on every tiny detail of their dance—the way her hair tickles his cheek, the sweet yet smoky scent of her breath, the way her soft body feels pressed against his.

  By the Creator, this woman will be the death of me.

  Elisora looks up at him. “What are you thinking right now?”

  “Nothing,” he responds too quickly.

  “Your hands are shaking.”

  “No, I— It’s just that—" He pauses, uncertain whether to continue. How can he possibly begin to tell her how crazy she makes him? How he holds his breath every time she looks at him, waiting to see that special, intimate, indescribable thing he had seen pass between his parents in her eyes; how he waits to see her smile shift ever so slightly when she grins at him, like they’re a part of some inside joke no one else knows; how he wonders when, after all their years of friendship, she had finally seen him—really, truly seen him—as more than an acquaintance. How can he tell her that he isn’t sure any of that has ever happened, that he’s still waiting for that invisible bond to tighten between them? How sometimes, when she tilts her head and watches him with that slight smirk on her full lips, her eyes glittering with mirth, he feels like they’re the only two people in the world, and how other times, like earlier that day, when she had said a simple ‘thank you’ to his declaration of love—she’s never actually said it back, a doubting voice in his head whispers—makes him feel like he had just plunged headfirst into ice-cold water. How can he possibly voice his fear that she had only said yes to his proposal because, after so many years of being inseparable best friends, it had felt like the next logical step in their relationship?

  I can’t, he realizes. I can’t say any of that. Not to her, not to anyone. Ever.

  “Ghyslain?” she whispers, searching his face for an answer.

  He shakes his head and forces his lips into a smile—which he’s certain misses the mark completely. “It’s nothing.”

  “You shouldn’t lie to yo
ur future wife.”

  “I didn’t.”

  She buries her face in the hollow of his neck and sways with him to the faint strains of music which slip through the crack of the open doorway. When the song ends, Ghyslain drops his arms to his sides and steps away from her so suddenly she stumbles. Confusion flickers across her face, but her attention is—thankfully—diverted when Pierce stands up and asks her for the next dance. Ghyslain takes his place sitting on the floor, his back against the front of the couch upon which Drake lies, and watches as Elisora and Pierce spin and laugh along with the fast, jaunty song the band plays.

  “Something on your mind?” Drake mumbles. Ghyslain glances over his shoulder to see Drake peering at him from under the arm he had slung over his eyes. “I thought you said it’s a day to celebrate.”

  “I’m trying.”

  He scoffs. “You Myrellises are so serious. Liven up a little, okay? Have another drink.” He hands Ghyslain the crystal decanter of whiskey, inside of which only a few drops of the amber liquid pool at the bottom.

  “I would, if someone hadn’t drunk it all already.”

  Drake lifts his head, frowns at the empty decanter, then swears under his breath. “That wasn’t me.”

  “Sure, it wasn’t.”

  “Well,” he says, “I guess I’ll just have to go find more, won’t I?” He pushes to his feet and sways, dangerously close to crashing back down onto the couch—or Ghyslain—before straightening. He waves away Ghyslain’s steadying hand. “I’m good, I’m good.” He strides right through Elisora and Pierce’s dance on his way to the door. He waves away his sister’s objections and steps into the hall, swinging the crystal decanter as he whistles in time with the band’s song.

  Ghyslain turns to Oliver. “Go with him, won’t you? Make sure he doesn’t break his neck on the way to the kitchen.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Oliver nods and starts after Drake, the metal of his light armor clanking with each step.

  Ghyslain sighs and stands. He crosses the room and picks up his ridiculously heavy crown, tucking it under one arm as he smooths the wrinkles in his tunic and straightens his gold cloak. “I’d better head back to the celebration.”