“Thank you, Highest. Thank you!”
The servants hurriedly climbed to their feet and continued with their preparations as Captain Wellington stood, offered a sturdy bow, and then swept out of the rectory. Velixar felt a swell of pride as he watched the young man go. Deep down he knew he’d made the correct choice.
He heard whimpering beneath the clamor of hustling feet and clanking pottery. Turning to the side, he saw that Lanike Crestwell was slowly moving toward the rectory’s side exit, her hands held before her, her head down. Her wild auburn curls blocked her face. She looked like a woman who thought the whole world would disappear if only she could blind herself to it. It was pathetic.
“Come over here, Lanike,” he said. She froze, her body shaking, and then shuffled forward, the soles of her feet never truly leaving the ground. Velixar reached out and swept the hair from her eyes. Taking a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his armored doublet, he spat on it and proceeded to wipe away the tears from her cheeks and the dried blood from her forehead.
“All of you, leave,” he said, raising his voice, and the servants scurried away. He returned his attention to Lanike. “Why did you run?” he asked.
Lanike opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her sprite’s face caved in on itself in despair, and she broke down completely.
He clutched her chin firmly in his fingers and lifted her gaze to his. “There is no need for dramatics, Lanike. Tell me why you tried to run.”
“I…I…I didn’t want to come,” she said, her voice cracking.
“And why not? Do you not want to see my coronation?”
She shook her head wildly. “No, Velixar. I don’t wish to see…him.”
He knew of whom she spoke. A soft chuckle rattled his throat.
“But he is your husband, Lanike. Do you not love him?”
“No,” she said, her words gaining strength. “No, he is not my husband.”
“Oh, but he is. He is still the one who created you, the one who loves you with all his heart. And he always will be.”
She brought her trembling hands to her mouth, covering her face with them.
Velixar sighed. Here was a member of the vaunted First Families, set upon Dezrel to guide the children of her god with strength and honor, yet she cowered with fear. She was as useless as the rest of them. Yet despite that fact, he couldn’t help but feel for her. With her nymphlike features and agelessness, she still looked like a child, innocent and frail. His fingers gently touched her neck, feeling the softness of her flesh, and those urges he tried so hard to repress resurfaced. A painful face, a damned name he’d sworn never to think of again, entered his mind.
Brienna…
His pity turned to anger, and he quickly drew back his comforting hand and slapped her face. Lanike’s head snapped to the side, snot and spittle flying from her nose and mouth.
“Stop your sniveling,” he told the weeping woman. “You will attend the ceremony, and you will stand at your husband’s side as our Lord presents me to the populace. You will do it, and you will not complain.”
Lanike shrank from him. “Yes…yes, Velixar,” she murmured into her fists.
He swept her hands away, and she gawped at him, wide eyed. “Cease your muttering,” he ordered. “What is it? Do you wish to be free of this? Do you wish to do no more than sit in your room and mourn the loss of your former life like a broken child?”
She nodded while sniveling.
“You will not.” He grabbed her by the front of her dress, ripping the bodice as he pulled her close. “There is so much you don’t know, woman,” he told her. “You don’t realize how important you are to the realm. Your husband is key to everything, and you are the only one who can still reach that shredded sliver of humanity lingering within the beast. Whatever happens, you will live, you will endure, and you will stay by my side when we leave tomorrow to crush the people of Paradise.”
He released her, and Lanike stumbled backward. She ran into one of the countertops, spilling a jar of incense, which tumbled to the marble floor and smashed to bits. She kept herself from falling, hands braced on the counter, knuckles whitening, staring at Velixar in horror.
“Does this surprise you?” he asked. “In a way, it’s almost romantic. Every day, Clovis looks on as the demon inside him warps his body, works his limbs, fills his stomach with raw meat. His hands butcher anyone we place within them, and their flesh is shoved into his maw, feeding the beast. It takes tremendous control for him to sway Darakken’s desires. Even when given his own daughter, he was unable to deny its hunger.”
He rubbed Lanike’s face with the side of his hand.
“That he can control it for you shows just great his love is for his little wife. Like I said…romantic.”
“My poor Thessaly…” Lanike whispered, trembling. “Tell me you lie.”
“I never lie,” said Velixar with a sigh. He stepped closer to her, grabbing her arm and yanking her off the countertop. “Your husband understands what will happen should he fail. Too much rides on the power of the demon. Too much, and therefore I have done everything I can to ensure its obedience. And if it doesn’t obey, well…I will sever all ties that bind him to the beast. The first one to fall prey to it will be you, Lanike. It’s that twisted fate that gives your husband the power to resist. Imagine what would happen if the worst came about. Imagine what it would be like for him to helplessly inhabit the body of a monstrous creature fucking his beloved wife with its twisted cock, tearing her body apart with its jagged teeth.…”
The woman slipped from his grasp, mouth ajar but unable to speak. Without another word to her, Velixar called one of his handmaidens back into the room.
“Get her cleaned up,” he said. “I want her ready for the rite in half an hour.”
The handmaiden led a still horrified Lanike from the rectory. The woman leaned on her as if the muscles in her legs had turned to jelly. Velixar turned away in disgust, then caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Some of the powder had rubbed off his cheeks. He reapplied it, took a deep breath, steadied his nerves, and marched out of the room toward his destiny.
The streets of Veldaren were packed with onlookers beneath an overcast sky. The people stared-women, children, and the elderly-their faces drawn and pale, their expressions blank, much like those of the corpses Velixar had ordered hung from the castle walls. Captain Wellington led a small brigade of troops, fifty in all, down the center of the road. The bannermen in front held their flags high, the lions emblazoned upon them roaring down at the populace. None of the onlookers seemed to notice the banners at all; instead, their gazes were fixed on Velixar, who marched at the rear of the procession, feet landing in time to the beat of the war drum. He was disappointed by their reaction to him. They had no love for him, and no fear either, just simple uncertainty. None of them understood his motives; none realized what he had done to help them realize their potential.
Let them be skeptical, he thought. Karak knows, and that is all that matters. When Paradise burns, they will understand, and they will bow in appreciation.
Lanike walked in front of him. The handmaidens had done an admirable job of making her presentable; her hair was styled in an elegant sidelong swoop, her ripped cobalt dress replaced with a flowing white gown that made her look like a spirit of the wind. She walked with her shoulders held back, a prideful posture, but Velixar knew it was a façade. He saw it in the way her right leg shuddered beneath her weight, the way her left shoulder sagged ever so slightly. It seemed the only thing holding the woman together was the hand of the young soldier who marched beside her.
The most important being in all of Neldar. What a twisted joke.