by M. L. Ryan
He smiled hopefully at Rexa. “You wished to see me, Your Majesty?”
“Yes. I was going to have you apprise Hailey of your vision for damage control, but upon further reflection, I have decided to give the task to Pixyigthytinmxylazl.”
Right, Pix-whatever. I’d forgotten Pixie’s freakishly long name.
Ryxjat didn’t seem as pleased as I’d anticipated. I hadn’t expected a triumphant “yippee,” in response to the happy news he wouldn’t have to deal with me on a daily basis, but I figured he’d at least smirk. Instead, he seemed almost disappointed, and it took him a moment before he spoke.
“I am troubled that this lofty assignment might give my assistant the wrong message. His efforts in Jjestri were far below expectations.”
The queen offered a withering glare. “Are you questioning my judgement?”
“Of course not, My Liege,” he replied, dipping his head.
Her expression softened at the deferential gesture. “With all the current crises, you are stretched to the limit. He will be under your supervision, Ryxjat. You can reprimand him further when things are back to normal.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. I shall advise him of his new duties.”
As he had at arrival, Ryxjat’s departure included respectful bows for the royals and nothing for me. Well, that wasn’t completely true—he did frown.
Rexa had surprised me. She took full responsibility for the change in duties, never even alluding to my contribution. Between not throwing me under the Ryxjat bus and pushing for a speedy wedding, I had to consider the possibility that the Boklym fiasco wasn’t her doing. I wasn’t ready to take her off the list entirely, however. If I did, the only remaining suspect was Ryxjat, and much as he clearly despised me, I couldn’t believe he’d act against me of his own volition. No, I needed to stay vigilantly suspicious. Today’s performance notwithstanding, a woman who could bed Sebastian as a pre-nup practice run was capable of almost anything.
The queen dismissed us shortly thereafter, but not before reemphasizing the importance of my duties. Truthfully, by that time, I’d pretty much tuned her out. If I’d learned one thing from my life with my own opinionated, bossy mom, it was how to appear transfixed by repetitive babble while actually ignoring it. The trick was to remember to nod periodically. Worked like a charm as long as no one asked you a direct question. Then, you had to say something vague but still enough on topic not to let on that you weren’t listening. When Rexa’s voice rose at the end of her monologue, I responded with, “You can count on me.” Both she and Tannis nodded appreciatively, a good indicator I’d given a proper answer and hadn’t agreed to something I’d regret later.
Once freed, Tannis assured me the meeting went well. “That wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought. See, I told you she likes you.”
“She handed me my ass in there. What would she have done if she disliked me?”
“Believe me; it could have been much worse. She was holding back. I’ve seen her make grown men cry.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I said, not bothering to hide my skepticism.
Tannis frowned. “That she doesn’t hate you or that she can reduce men to tears?”
“Both,” I replied, although I had no trouble accepting Rexa’s ability to render almost anyone into a weepy mass of melancholy.
“And don’t worry too much about the wedding,” she added. “This sort of massive affair requires a lot of planning. I’d be surprised if it happens earlier than eighteen months from now.”
“That’s a relief. I thought she was talking six months—tops.”
“The wedding of a crown prince is a really big deal. It will take that long just to decide on the seating arrangements. Can’t have belligerent politicos at the same table.”
The much-appreciated delay aside, I wasn’t sure the reminder of the event’s global significance made me feel better.
When we reached the main corridor, Tannis went left, I presumed back to her suite and Ulut, while I chose the opposite direction, toward Alex’s office. As I made my way, it occurred to me that a relationship between Tannis and Ulut could have beneficial consequences for more than just the happy couple. According to Pixie’s data, about a quarter of Alenquaians weren’t thrilled with their prince marrying a half-breed, and I figured the percentage would be higher if they knew I was actually a human with borrowed magic. A Courso princess canoodling with a Dekankaran might diffuse some of the spotlight on Alex and me.
So caught up with replaying the day’s events in my head, I wasn’t watching where I was going and bumped—literally—into Alex’s father. I ended up on my ass from the collision.
“Are you all right?” he asked, offering his hand to help me up.
I dusted myself off. “I’m fine, but I feel like an idiot.”
“No need for that,” he advised. “I’m just pleased I didn’t hurt you.”
“It’s my own fault for not paying attention to where I was walking.”
Wyx considered me carefully, his denim-blue eyes etched with concern. “I hope the queen isn’t responsible for your distraction. She mentioned she wanted to have a word with you today.”
“Oh, she had many of them.”
His mouth curved into a rueful smile. “She can be rather forceful when she wishes to make a point. But don’t take it too personally; we’ve all been on the receiving end of her summons. And she is under a good deal of stress right now.”
“I know,” I conceded. “We all are. But after everything that’s happened, I don’t understand how she can stay so, so…” I struggled for the right word, but Wyx completed my sentence.
“Orderly? Business-like?”
I was thinking more along the lines of cold and robotic, but his modifiers were considerably less disrespectful.
“It is her way of coping,” he continued. “By immersing herself in her duties, she can better control her grief.”
“It must be tough keeping all that in.” Suddenly, I felt a twinge of remorse for my original, harsh assessment. Her son just died. She now knew he was murdered, and I was bitching about being treated badly.
“Yes, it is,” he agreed, clasping his meaty hands around mine. “It is not easy being a monarch. Less so, I think, for one as deliberate as she. Rexa truly believes any show of emotion is a weakness, a trait drummed into her by her own stoic mother.”
Geez, how the hell did her children—well, Alex and Tannis—turn out so well adjusted?
As if reading my mind, he added, “She used the same style of parenting with Kyzal. As the future king, that is what she thought he needed. Her approach softened with Alexander and Tannis.”
He released my hands and ran his fingers through his golden hair. The resemblance to Alex was uncanny, give or take about forty extra pounds of muscled bulk. “I believe she came to regret her choices with Kyzal, but one always makes mistakes with their first, I suppose. I did my best to help him develop more personable traits, but he was my first as well.
“My point is we are all products of our upbringing, for good or ill. We may make decisions along the way to alter what we can, but some things are more difficult to change than others. Don’t fret, Hailey. She really does like you.”
Why does everyone keep saying that?
22
Klipsylfa wasn’t at her desk. When the prince was in his office, the woman never left her post. I assumed her absence meant Alex wasn’t there, either. On the off chance the woman had normal bodily functions and simply slipped out to the bathroom, I knocked on Alex’s door. As expected, he didn’t answer, but I decided to wait for his return in the comfort and privacy of his office, rather than in Klipsylfa’s domain. When I tried the knob, however, the door didn’t budge.
Still reeling from the day’s events, I shouldn’t have been surprised when, once again, jealousy reared its ugly head. It’s locked from the inside, it whispered in my head. Could he really be with Ziqua this long? It’s been over an hour.
My more rational sid
e beseeched me to calm down. Probably standard procedure when both he and his assistant are gone. They wouldn’t want just anyone wandering into his inner sanctum, so she locked the door.
Klipsylfa would lock the outer door, the green-eyed monster persisted. He’s probably down there complaining about you.
Trusting Me shot back with a determined, Don’t be ridiculous. He’s only pumping her for more information.
He’s pumping her, all right. Up against that stupid crate.
I jerked my head, hoping to knock some sense into it. Or, if that failed, the idiot parts out.
“What the hell is my problem?” I muttered. In frustration, I pulled the pins from my hair and fluffed it out into its usual, curly mess. I wasn’t acting like myself, but I might as well look normal. Along the same lines, I suddenly had the need to change out of my conservative “royal audience” clothes, and into something—anything—more me.
Back in my room, it took a bit of searching to find what I was looking for: my faded, well-worn jeans and a T-shirt Rachel bought me that said I’m Not Always Sarcastic. Sometimes, I’m Asleep. Pixie probably had Myrjix hide them.
Finally comfortable, I stretched out on the sofa and tried not to mull over my crappy day while I waited for Alex to return.
I didn’t intend to nod off, but nod off I did. It was dark when I awoke, and I was still very much alone. I glanced at the clock. If I hurried, I could just make dinner, but it seemed like too much work to get dressed up again when I could raid the well-stocked mini-fridge. I nibbled on some fruit and cheese, washing it all down with a few glasses of red wine. It wasn’t the gourmet, four-course spread I was missing downstairs, but it was tasty. The constant group meals, with their accompanying requirement for conversation and good table manners, got old, fast. The appeal of a silent, utensil-less repast eaten without concern for posture or gas should never be underestimated.
Alex eventually made it back, although I wasn’t certain when. I finally went to bed around eleven, and despite fractured sleep, at some point, he managed to slip in undetected. He lay on his side facing away from me, the covers resting loosely around his waist. Moonlight filtered through the window, casting shadows that accentuated the expanse of his well-toned back. Each magnificent muscle seemed to taunt me from the opposite side of the mattress; I couldn’t recall a night when we slept without touching. If he’d been any further away, he’d have been on the floor.
To make matters worse, he was gone when I woke up in the morning. He did leave a note, reminding me I had a meeting with Pixie at two o’clock. It began with, “Carisa,” which I took as a good thing, but was signed simply, “Alex.” That worried me; he usually signed with an “A” or, when being particularly rakish, “Blondie.” Either way, he always prefaced it with “love.”
We have to start spending some quality time together, I vowed, tossing the note back on the coffee table where I found it. At least, I hoped our problems stemmed only from being apart so often.
Before I could put that plan into motion, I had more training with Hewlyxnathin. Just like the day before, no matter what creature I visualized morphing into, each time I ended up as a Harris’s Hawk.
“I think this is as good as it gets,” I panted after my third transformation in an hour. “Only one form for me.” It was only seventy-five degrees or so outside, but I was sweating like it was a hundred. I’d never gone back and forth like that, and not only was I overheated and exhausted, a common after effect of any form-bend, but every inch of my body felt like it was on fire. Standing was impossible; I could barely lift my head. When I croaked out a description of my maladies, Hewlyxnathin reached into his pocket and pulled out a small flask.
“Multiple bends within a short period can sometimes result in a rather uncomfortable array of symptoms. I keep this for just such an emergency,” he remarked, handing me the silvery container.
I popped the top and sniffed the contents. “What is this?”
“Gypmiz. Go ahead,” he said, gesturing at the flask, “Drink some. It will relieve your symptoms.”
It smelled sweet, and not overly appalling, so I took a long pull. The stuff tasted okay—tangy and sort of familiar—but while the liquid itself was ambient temperature, it elicited an almost immediate cooling sensation in my esophagus and stomach. The refreshing chill didn’t take long to seep outward, and within a few minutes, the burning was gone.
“Oh god, that’s so much better.” I groaned, clutching the miracle elixir to my chest. “Whatever magic was in there, it was fantastic.”
Hewlyxnathin smiled. “Not much, I’m afraid. I used to brew it myself from scratch, but it took days. Once I realized I could achieve similar results in far less time by adding a few Courso ingredients to a sports drink found in the human dimension, I’ve never gone back to the old recipe.”
I peered at what remained in the flask, its neon green color unmistakable. “You used Gatorade?”
“It is an excellent means to replace the electrolyte loss numerous transformations can produce,” he revealed. “That’s half the reason you experienced such physical distress. My augmentations alleviated the rest of your symptoms. Of course, if I had a knack for healing like Sebastian or Alex, I wouldn’t need Gypmiz on hand. Please forgive me for allowing you to overexert yourself. I forget you’re still new to this.”
Feeling less wretched, I pulled myself to a sitting position. “Speaking of stuff I didn’t know, what’s the deal with thywipiz?
He scratched his scraggly, grey beard. “Did you experience that, too?”
“Yeah, big time. I only knew it was normal because my lady-in-waiting’s mom can change into a horse.”
“Again, I apologize for my poor mentoring,” he said as his face fell. “I don’t know how I could have forgotten to mention the repercussions of not bending.”
“Hey, there was a lot of information, and I didn’t take any notes. I might have just forgotten.” I was almost positive I hadn’t, but Hewlyxnathin looked so distraught, I felt bad for bringing it up. “Anyway, I know now,” I added with a cheery grin.
He nodded, but his expression was still grim. “I hope I didn’t leave out anything else of importance.”
“Really, don’t worry about it.” In an attempt to lighten the mood, I recounted my surprise when I realized tattoos didn’t survive changing forms. “If I’d thought about it, it would have been obvious.”
“Yes, just like injuries heal during transformation. The same mechanism slows the aging process as well.”
That made sense, as aging was a consequence of accumulation of cellular damage over time. Much like wound repair—or tat removal—the more bends, the less accumulation of funky DNA or proteins. His comment made me wonder. His long, salt-and-pepper hair gave him the appearance of a middle-aged human; somewhere between Sebastian and Karttyx, I’d guessed. Now, I wanted a more specific number. “How old are you?”
“Four hundred and eighty-three,” he answered. “Oh, wait. That’s not right. I’m four hundred and eighty-four. When you get to be my age, it’s easy to forget.”
I expected three hundred, maybe three-fifty—tops. I wasn’t prepared for born during the reign of King Henry VIII. “That’s…”
“Ancient,” he finished for me. “Chronologically, yes. Physically, I’m much, much younger. The added benefit of being Yterixa. It’s difficult to know how you will age, given you are not Courso, but there is every reason to believe you will live far beyond the normal lifespan of a human.”
This revelation wasn’t a complete shock. At one time, when pondering the wisdom of a relationship with Alex, I’d worried about the difference in our aging. I’d be lucky to make it another sixty years, while Alex could expect two more centuries, at least. However, both he and Sebastian assured me their healing abilities would allow me to avoid the ravages of diseases that might otherwise kill me before my time. I expected a Yterixa-produced additional forty or fifty years, but if Hewlyxnathin was any indication, I might far exceed tha
t. That was a nice perk, and if I aged as well as Hewlyxnathin, I was off the hook for all those years in my teens and twenties when I skipped using sunscreen.
“You know, since we are on the subject,” he said, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “A meeting with your attendant’s mother may be wise. There are aspects of Yterixa that you may feel more comfortable discussing with another woman.”
The only question I could think of that only a female might be able to answer was how to deal discreetly with feminine hygiene products that, like clothes or jewelry, remained after a bend. I wasn’t sure what that had to do with what we’d been discussing.
“How is my enhanced longevity something only a female would understand?”
“Not that,” he countered. “Excuse my wandering mind. I was referring to our earlier conversation regarding thywipiz.”
I waited for him to continue, but when he didn’t, I egged him on. “And?”
Hewlyxnathin blinked. “Well, it is just that I am not afflicted with deleterious side effects from too few bends.”
“What has that got to do with you not wanting to talk about girl stuff?”
Heaving a generous sigh, he admitted, “I am not accustomed to delving into topics concerning feminine physiology, and thywipiz can be a particular problem for a woman.”
I had no idea Hewlyxnathin was such a prude. We’d seen each other naked, for fuck’s sake.
“Come on, out with it.” I snapped my hands to my hips. With mock dismay, I scolded, “Don’t tell me I can’t climax if I haven’t bent recently.”
Hewlyxnathin’s cheeks flushed a brilliant crimson. Good thing I didn’t bring up the tampon conundrum. He’d probably pass out.
“No,” he sputtered. “Nothing like that.”
“Well, then whatever it is can’t be too embarrassing,” I said.
That seemed to make him feel less ill at ease, because he sat beside me and started talking.
“Thywipiz can be a particular problem for a woman, because during pregnancy, transformations must be postponed.”