Chapter 12: Submission Before the Crown

Orpheia was grateful for her modest dress. It was colored pale as her skin, covering everything from her neck to her shins. She suspected this was purposeful, as she had been given no time to bathe before breakfast. Of course, the king knew nothing of Orpheia’s demonic aid. As far as he was aware, she was still heavily bruised. Orpheia made sure to inspect each button and frill carefully, searching out anymore ancient runes. Yet to her relief, there were none. She refused all jewelry just to be safe. By all accounts, she was comfortable and concealed. Yet, she couldn’t seem to untangle the knot deep in her stomach. Her womb still ached and burned. Lucilia had pinned a heavy fold of cotton between Orpheia’s thighs to try to save the gown from staining.

Orpheia was tempted to ask her maid about the king’s temperament that morning as she was dragged back through the palace to the dining hall. But Lucilia was in an awful mood herself. She kept her thin, cracking lips pinned shut tight and twisted up in spite. Orpheia caught her glancing back over her shoulder every few moments when the queen-to-be’s footsteps grew too quiet for her liking. Avoiding suspicion, Orpheia kept her head raised, but not too high. She was still quite fearful of the king’s wrath. But if her entity had discarded the bodies like it said it would, then he should be none the wiser to her involvement in their deaths. Of course, this revelation went out the window and into a fiery demise when Orpheia’s ears pricked at the sound of Meyrick’s furious voice. His shouts echoed down the hallway, booming through the walls and doors to the dining hall. Even Lucilia was frightened.

“Best present yourself as a model young woman,” Lucilia snarled, holding her voice low as she hesitated to take Orpheia inside. Her gaze narrowed, sharpening like needles pricking into Orpheia’s skull. “The king is in a foul mood today, it would seem.”

“What sort of child is he? Throwing a tantrum because I saw through his wicked spell.” Orpheia snorted out a puff of hot, angry breath. “You may think of me however you wish, serf, but even you can agree that this is inappropriate behavior for a king.”

Lucilia snapped her teeth. “Oh, hush up, girl. This isn’t about you. A very important, very dangerous man has gone missing.” Lucilia shook her head in disappointment. Orpheia shut herself up and chewed down on her cherry lips.

A chill breezed past her face as the jaws of the giant black doorway opened up to invite her inside. Her maid remained in the hallway, where she was safe from the thrall of the king’s furious voice. There was no one to announce Orpheia’s presence as she stepped inside, despite the fact that the dining hall was fitted with guards, standing in pockets of the room that had been left empty and neglected the night before.

“I don’t care if we have to break his goddamned door down!” Meyrick roared. He pounded his fist against the table, trembling the silver dishes that adorned it. Smoked meats and candied eggs greeted Orpheia’s watering mouth, but the flavors of Meyrick’s presence sullied her appetite. Meyrick pointed an accusatory finger in the face of a wrinkled man in a military uniform. Orpheia recognized him. He must have been in attendance at Meyrick’s soiree. “I want the general found and brought to the foot of my throne at once! This is highly suspect!”

“Perhaps he’s off drunk somewhere and forgot about this morning’s meeting with you. I don’t believe he’d truly go through with his foolish fantasies, Your Majesty,” a snide, malicious voice chimed in. It did not belong to the military official, but to the skeletal priest who sat by Meyrick’s side. He was the first to notice Orpheia’s presence. He greeted her with a scowl.

Orpheia nodded her head in acknowledgment. “Grimshaw,” she sneered.

“That’s Father to you, wretched beast,” the priest snarled back.

Meyrick turned to his bride, nearly startled as she had approached him from behind with footsteps as light as a cloud in the sky. Orpheia’s heart pounded as their gazes locked, for she anticipated that she would collapse beneath the brunt of his fury. But instead, he turned from her without a word and went right back to berating the official.

Orpheia hovered awkwardly in the room, for the king’s right-hand seat was being occupied by a demonic man. A male servant suddenly thrust himself into the scene, pulling out the chair to Meyrick’s left for Orpheia to sit. The priest glared at him from above his silver chalice, as if to tell the boy he should not have to wait on a spectre.

The king had not yet begun eating, so his guests could not, either. Thus, Orpheia and Father Grimshaw sat in silence, forced to listen to Meyrick screech at the official until he cast him away with an aggravated flutter of his hand. Once the dining hall doors rolled shut once more, the king let out a gruff sigh and angrily cut himself a thick slice of bread to better soothe his ire.

“General Bronte will be found, your highness,” Father Grimshaw piped up, fixing himself a modest plate of berries and eggs.

Meyrick let out a low growl in disagreement. “All those silly drunken jokes about overthrowing the crown. To think I allowed him to live. I’ve killed a man for far less, you know.”

“He’s a powerful ally to have in our troops. And was a dear friend to your uncle. Though a drunk all the same.”

“Yes, well, Uncle Malachi is dead, Father. All of his friends have been nothing more than thorns in my side. I should start a new army. Liquidate the old one.”

Father Grimshaw nearly choked. His cheeks flushed, catching Orpheia’s amused grin from the corner of his eye. He fought between scowling and breathing. When his throat finally cleared, he blurted out, “Let’s not be hasty, sire! There is far too much to do, and you need those men to remain by your side. What would the people think if you simply rebirthed an entirely new army?”

“Bah!” Meyrick threw his hand into the air. Breadcrumbs littered the ground. “I wouldn’t kill every soldier in my ranks! Just the ones that don’t serve me. Separate the wheat from the chaff. I can’t employ men who slaughter my guards and disappear into the night. Surely a man like you can understand that.”

Father Grimshaw made an odd sort of noise, somewhere between agreement and disappointment.

“What say you?” Meyrick asked. He pointed at Orpheia with the sharpened end of his bread knife. Orpheia’s chest pumped with a heavy heartbeat.

“I don’t understand,” Orpheia whispered. She was not prepared for the king to address her in such a casual tone. Had he already forgotten what he had done to her?

“You saw the general last night at the ... gathering,” Meyrick said. He stumbled on the word “gathering,” catching Orpheia by surprise. Father Grimshaw, too, appeared confused. He paused mid-drink to flash the king an arched brow.

“What gathering?” The priest interjected.

Meyrick’s jaw twitched. “I presented my bride to my most faithful companions. As well as my uncles, so it seemed. General Bronte was among the crowd. That was when he disappeared. Before the guards’ bodies were found.”