by Kate Kelley
Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness and the moonlight was like a bright blue flame in the sky. The King’s features were stoic, unreadable, but when she looked at him, she sensed anger and determination. With the way his eyes glinted in the moonlight, he looked like a wild animal, his irises like black voids. Lyra repressed a shudder.
Ahead lay the giant gates she had entered on her way onto the grounds. Behind the gates was the town she had passed through to get here. She knew just beyond this was the shore, and must be the docks and the shack she needed to find to drop off her letter.
“Will we be entering the town gates?” Lyra asked innocently. She glanced at the King who didn’t return her gaze.
“Yes, he lives near the shore.”
Lyra breathed a sigh of relief. “Near the docks, perhaps?” She kept her tone light, though she felt anything but.
The King pulled out a key and unlocked the gate before slipping through. Lyra followed. He gave her a suspicious glance before replying a beat later. “No, a bit to the west of that area.”
Disappointment dropped in her gut but she didn’t give up hope. Maybe they would pass by it.
“Will we be walking along the shore?” She asked.
“I suppose.” He definitely sounded suspicious. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, I, uh, was hoping to walk along the beach. I love to feel the sand under my toes.”
“You plan on taking your boots off?” he asked. Lyra almost choked. She was terrible at lying.
“Perhaps,” she lied, her face burning. As they entered the quiet town, boots hit cobblestone in smothered clacks and Lyra surveyed the softly lit houses. Torches lit in finely crafted lanterns attached to stone walls separating houses. The firelight danced along the planes of the buildings, washing them in a pale orange glow. Most houses were the same--stone, two stories, finely constructed. Others were three stories high, with balconies at each level. She guessed that many families could live in such a building.
Too many people crammed into too small of a space. I would hate to live here.
A few times, they passed people who stood outside their houses, huddled closely in conversation or couples embracing. The King pulled his hood further over his face and Lyra swallowed. She realized he was trying to protect his identity. The people they passed didn’t seem all that interested in them, and Lyra hoped it stayed that way. The walk was long, the passing of houses becoming a blur of sameness. Firelight faded as they entered the market street. Shops lined the street, glass windows displaying various goods--clothing,medicine, toys, swords. The moonlight became their source of light, coating them in cerulean, celestial light.
Her arm threatened to separate from her shoulder as she was abruptly yanked into a side alley, pulled against the rough brick of a building and shielded with a bulking arm. The King’s arm burned across her middle through her silk; he flattened himself against the wall. Lyra mimicked his pose.
“What are you--” Lyra’s whisper was but off by the King’s hand gesture.
The click of boots on cobblestone indicated someone walking toward them. The King was impossibly, preternaturally still. Lyra tried to breathe less hard, and failed. Staccato beats thumped in her chest. Abruptly the King lunged, grabbing a black cloaked man by the throat and slamming him into the building. The man procured a dagger--something short and wickedly sharp. The King head butted him and grabbed the knife in his free hand before the man could even think about using it.
He threw it to the side.
The man kneed the King in the groin, and he faltered with his hold, leaving the man to grab and twist his arm--or at least try. The King recovered, and threw a punch to his jaw, knocking him to the ground.
The man stayed down.
The King crouched next to him. The man groaned and turned to his back.
“Stay down,” the King said, his voice flat, bored.
“What do you want?” the man croaked, his voice strained. He looked to the side where his knife lay, glinting in the moonlight.
“For you to turn yourself in tomorrow to the magistrates. Tell them you’ve been stealing coin from Genevieve's shop--”
“Why should I listen to a son of a bitch like you?” The man heaved, rolling out of the way, grabbing his knife and leaping to his feet. He tried to run, but the King was faster, grabbing him easily and putting him into a chokehold. The man struggled, slicing across the King’s arm, cutting through fabric. The King let go, spinning him around and slamming him against the building again. The knife clattered to the ground. The man’s head hit the stone and he slid to the ground. Lyra stepped forward on quick feet and grabbed the knife. “Get back,” the King snarled at her, eyes wild.
She returned to her spot along the wall, clutching the hilt of the knife. Her heart beat wildly.
“Having your whore fight for you, eh?” the man slurred, blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth. His eyes closed in pain.
Lyra winced.
The King crouched again, grabbed his hood and lowered it. The man looked at him and blinked slowly, staring at him until recognition hit him and his face twisted into shock and horror. He raised his hands and bowed his head.
“Your Majesty, I--”
“Tomorrow at first light, Tommen. Turn yourself in. Or I will find you. And I won’t let the magistrates deal with you. I’ll deal with you myself.” The man’s eyed widened at the sound of his name and he nodded shakily, like a shook doll with a broken neck. The King replaced his hood, satisfied, stood, and walked out the alley.
“Give me the knife,” the King growled. Lyra handed it to him, and he sheathed it underneath his cloak. Blood covered his hand.
“You’re bleeding!” Lyra cried.
The King kept walking. “Not anymore.”
“That’s a lot of blood. He could have hit a thicker vein--”
“A scratch.”
Lyra eyed his hand again but remained quiet. They walked in silence.
Finally they crested a hill and Lyra saw the unmistakable glint of moonlight off of the sea. A few minutes later they reached the sand. The black granules reflected the moonlight, like glistening ink, and the shush of the waves mesmerized her, like a forced hypnosis. Rocks jutted out near the grass, and Lyra adjusted her course to avoid them, so that they were walking closer to the water. Nervousness crawled up her spine. She imagined the waves reaching out to her, enveloping her in they’re biting chill and plunging her under.
“How much farther?” She crossed her arms and rubbed. The wind was turning sharp, biting at her exposed skin. A fine mist of sea water sprayed her from a particularly violent wave. The King gave her a sharp glance before crossing her path and forcing her to switch sides with him. Perplexed, Lyra just stared at him.
“Why did you do that?”
The King was silent, eyes ahead. He stopped and dipped his hand in the water, washing the blood away. They walked ten more minutes, and Lyra’s legs began to burn. She rubbed her arms again. She didn’t see a single shack out here. Where was she supposed to deliver her letter? She’d forgotten with the excitement of the thief in the alley. She’d have to have Poppi do it in the morning after all.
“How much farther?” She asked again, utterly exasperated. She was freezing, and tired. Her hair was probably all sorts of tangled. The King then nodded to a barely perceptible jutting of rocks nearer to the grass about ten feet away. As they drew closer, Lyra saw a stone dwelling to the right of the rocks up on a crest over the beach. Tall palm trees hid it partially.
“Thanks the gods,” Lyra breathed, and she jogged the rest of the way up to the dwelling, holding her gown up so she could have better range of movement. The King reached the house just after she did, and quirked an eyebrow at her.
“I’m about to freeze to death,” she mumbled as she stood as near as possible to the wooden door. A soft orange glow emanated from the curtained windows. She could practically hear the fire roaring. The door opened before the King could knock and Lyra smiled in relie
f.
A tall man, almost as tall as the King, stood beaming at them. His skin was the color of chocolate mixed with cream, his eyes a deep, warm brown with flecks of gold. His hair was short, curled in tight springy spirals. His features were pleasant, handsome even, and he looked to be about thirty years old. He exuded an easy charm and Lyra felt herself drawn to him immediately. He held a hand out to Lyra, and she took it without hesitation, grateful.
“You must be Lyra." His baritone was pleasing, and his tone intimate, like a warm hug.
“I am,” she said warmly, meeting his gaze. The chill was already thawing from her bones.
“I’m Oriel,” he returned, and ushered her into a warmly lit, cozy bungalow. Richly weaved rugs lined the wooden floors, a decadent couch decorated with fur throws sat across from the hearth, and a small mahogany table separated the two, a tray with three steaming tea cups already placed on it, awaiting them.
Oriel held her hand as he lead her to the couch. She sat easily, gratefully, sinking into the lushness before raising her hands to the fire for warmth.
Oriel turned to the King, clapping his back and ushering him in as well. Lyra thought it was interesting that he didn’t bow. She liked that about him.
The King lowered his hood and shook out his dark mane before tucking loose strands behind his ears. He then untied the cloak and slung it on a hook near the door before sitting directly next to Lyra. His weight made her side of the sofa perk up and she glanced at him, annoyed. Lyra eyed his arm. It was undamaged. Confusion hit her.
He caught her gaze and she stilled, matching it. He hadn’t looked at her since their heated encounter in the library this morning. Her stomach flipped, a swarm of butterflies erupting in her stomach.
What the hell?
Anger at her reaction overtook her, and she set her jaw, leveling her stare at him, refusing to look away. His eyes narrowed slightly as his eyes dropped to her dress. His gaze swept her form, his jaw slightly slack for a fraction of a second before tensing tightly. His eyes flitted from her cleavage to her bare leg slipping from the slit. He tore his eyes away from her, searching for Oriel.
Oriel sat diagonal from them in a loveseat, hands folded on his lap contentedly, eyes twinkling. Lyra wondered if he was always cheerful. He looked like he was stifling back a hearty laugh as he looked between Lyra and the King. Finally, he spoke, his eyes resting on Lyra.
“Lyra, do you know why Terrin brought you here?”
“Yes. Well..not entirely, no.”
“I brought you here because you wouldn’t listen to me--” Terrin’s gravelly voice started before Oriel interrupted him.
“To study with me, to learn your magic, to bring it out of you.” He leaned forward and took Lyra’s hands in his. His hands were soft and warm, and Lyra relaxed. She met his gaze, melting into his mahogany eyes.
“You are an extraordinary person, Lyra. I can sense that in you. You are humble, but you know your worth. You are cautious, but not cowardly. You are kind, but you are perceptive to dangers. Besides all that, you have this incredible source of magic..” He hesitated, eyes dipping to her chest, as if searching for something. Lyra felt no unseemliness from him, but wondered if he noticed the outline of her letter. Maybe a corner was sticking up through the lace.
Oriel then slowly raised a palm and touched it flatly to the center of Lyra’s chest. Lyra felt a melting inside her being, but her body leaned into the touch. She heard a harsh sound to her left and realized the King had made a sound that sounded like a growl. Ignoring that, she focused on Oriel.
“Yes,” Oriel’s wide smile was back, his pearly teeth showing his delight. “What a powerful being you are.” Lyra swallowed, unsure.
“How do you know?” She asked suspiciously. She inherently trusted this man with everything she had, but she was still confused how she could be a powerful.
“I can see the aura in you. It’s bright and hot, and just below the surface. It’s ancient, it’s churning and it wants to rise and fill your centers.” His expression and words were serious, even reverent.
“How can you see it?” She breathed the question, literally on the edge of her seat. His hand rose from her chest but hovered near, then began slowly moving to different spots along her body, lightly grazing her shoulders, arms, then to her belly, knees, and shins. Lyra felt the king move closer to her, his heat blaring into her side. Oriel finally returned his hand to his lap. “I can sense an awakening in your energy points, your magic wants to fill each point, but they are burdened too.” His eyes slid to the King briefly before returning to Lyra.
“Did you use magic recently? It feels as though you used magic without your energy centers being prepared. It can happen when your magic is ready to rise and strong emotion forces your body to push it through you, even when you aren't ready.”
Lyra shook her head, not understanding. Oriel turned his attention to the king again. “Did she use her magic with you?”
“I believe she had a vision shortly after we met. I was telling her about Alec, and how he was trapped--”
Oriel cut him off with an upturned hand. He placed a long finger on a strong chin. “Let's not broach that subject again. Lyra is powerful, yes, but her spirit is sluggish. She's bogged down with negative emotion and her magic is fighting for her, to control. To right wrongs.”
“Yes, I told you she was immature and chaotic. She's letting her emotions fly. She can't control herself at all.” His rough voice accused.
Lyra's face reddened in shame and anger and she turned her head to look at him. He avoided her gaze and added, “Her 26th birthday is tomorrow.”
Oriel nodded, smiling. “I thought she was close. Perfect.” He lifted a cup of tea from the tray and sipped gingerly, leaning back casually, his soft eyes landing on Lyra again. Lyra barely heard Oriel as her anger at the King's words boiled.
Doesn't he have a sympathetic bone in his body? He seems to have forgotten my brother could be dead. And it was his fault.
She wanted to hurt him like he hurt her. Rake her nails across his face, beat at his chest, kick him viciously. Unable to look away, she studied his profile, his sharply cut jaw covered in what looked to be a week's worth of a beard, his strong nose, his harsh brow, and the dark hair that hung behind his ears. She could tell he was avoiding her gaze on purpose, his lips a tight line. Her breath rose fast and the anger blossomed into rage. Her hands began to shake and she felt chaos in her blood, in every dark recess of her body. Turning more fully toward him, their knees almost touching, Lyra challenged him.
“Look at me.”
Slowly his eyes slide to hers, the contempt plainly etched into his features. He feigned comfort and threw an arm across the back of the sofa, a smirk twisting his face. Lyra's nostrils flared and she tried to steady her feelings.
Calm down Lyra. There's nothing to be done. He's the damn King and you're a peasant. You can't touch him, even if you could hurt him.
Her thoughts began forming on their own accord, and she stood up, hands clenched to her sides.
He's using you, and will kill you when he's done with you. You saw how he treated that thief in the alley. He’s vicious. He probably killed Alec and just wants you to find his sister before he's done with you.
Oriel sat still, head quirked, watching Lyra with interest. The King sat, feigning calm with his smirk and posture, yet his eyes and fists betrayed him. He glared up at her, as his knuckles blanched white from his clench on the sofa. It felt like tiny particles of heat were rising in her chest, prickling her nerves and demanding an outlet.
“Stand up and face me when you speak so disrespectfully of me. Have the courage to look into my eyes.” Her voice was guttural, almost a growl. It was so unlike her, but she couldn't stop herself. She almost bared her teeth.
Oriel sipped his tea.
The King stood slowly, towering over her in his full height, the smirk remaining. Something sparked in his eyes. A warning. Every warning bell that a predator was advancing went off in
her head, and yet her body wouldn’t obey.
“I will speak to you as I wish, little girl.” He took a small step forward, his face so close, his nose almost brushing hers. His breath was hot on her lips. Lyra felt her center blossom suddenly into a hot flower, reaching far and wide to all the corners of her body. Her hands itched.
“You forget your place so easily, don't you?” he ground out, “I'm. Your. King. You are nothing. You should be bowing to me, peasant.” White heat exploded through her body and before she could control it, she struck upward, her fist connecting with the flesh of the King's jaw.
Chapter 10
The strike sounded with a dull thud, the King's jaw like flesh-covered stone. Before Lyra could register her actions, he had Lyra backed into a wall, his hand at her throat. He wasn't squeezing, but the threat remained. His eyes darted to her breasts and he licked his lower lip. He brought his mouth close to her ear, grazing her neck with his stubble. “I could end you right now and no one would bat an eye.” His voice was barely there, a deep vibration through her, spilling into her centers. Her body hummed. Their chaotic energies mixed, feeding her power, and it was delicious. She just needed more. More contact.
She panted, giving him more access to her neck, silently begging him to put his mouth on her. She shivered in anticipation. Abruptly his hand was gone and Lyra blinked before quickly darting away from him to an opening to her left before slipping through the nearest door and slamming it closed. Leaning back against it, her breathing came heavily and she noticed her right hand ached.
Her body felt like it was on fire, the kind of burning that leaves the skin cold and numb.
I have to leave now. Maybe I can can find a place to hide, send my letter, and wait until Edwin comes to get me.