Page 17 of The Manticore's Human Queen
My hands, which had been so steady as I tended to Tarek's wounds, now tremble as I fumble with the laces of my gown. I move as if in a trance, my mind a numb, roaring void. I lie on the bed, the fine silk sheets a cold, unwelcome caress against my bare skin, and I stare at the canopy above, my vision blurring as I fight back the tears.
Zisk's hands are as cold as her eyes. Her touch is not cruel in its force, but in its absolute, clinical detachment. She treats me as a butcher would a piece of meat, her examination efficient, invasive, and utterly humiliating. As her cold fingers probe and assess, I close my eyes and flee into my own mind. I think of Tarek. I think of his large, scarred hands, and the gentle, worshipful way they have touched me. I think of his voice, a low, steady rumble that has confessed his fear to me. I cling tothe memory of him, a solitary point of light in the suffocating darkness of my own shame.
I think my rage is a cold, hard stone forming in the pit of my stomach.This is what they think of me. This is what I am to them. A thing. A prize. A piece of property to be inspected and passed from one master to another.
"Acceptable," Zisk finally announces, her voice a final, dismissive judgment. "Though you are, as is typical of your kind, remarkably fragile. See that you do not break on your wedding night. The young lord has little patience for broken toys."
She turns and glides from the room without a backward glance, leaving me in a tangle of silk sheets and shattered dignity. The moment the door clicks shut, the dam of my control breaks, and a single, choked sob escapes my lips. The tears come then, hot and silent, a flood of grief not for my lost innocence, but for the beautiful, fragile moment of power that has been so brutally stolen from me.
It is in this state, curled into a small, trembling ball, that a soft, hesitant knock comes at the door.
"My Lady?" It is Lyra's voice, small and timid. "I was concerned. May I come in?"
The sound of Lyra’s soft, hesitant knock is an intrusion from another world. For a moment, I don’t move, letting the sound hang in the air, a fragile question in the heavy silence of my chambers. My tears have subsided, leaving behind the cold, hard residue of rage. Zisk’s violation has not broken me; it has forged my fear into a weapon.
“My Lady?” Lyra’s voice is muffled by the heavy oak door, laced with her usual timid concern. “I was worried. May I come in?”
“Come in, Lyra,” I call, my voice a perfect imitation of calm.
She slips into the room, her eyes wide with a worry that quickly turns to confusion. She has clearly expected to find medistraught. Instead, she finds me sitting at my vanity, my back to her, seemingly composed.
“I am sorry to disturb you, My Lady,” she begins, wringing her hands in the folds of her apron. “It is just… it is late. I was concerned.”
I turn from the mirror, my own expression a mask of polite inquiry I do not feel. “I was just enjoying the silence, Lyra,” I say.
Her gaze darts around the opulent room, as if expecting to find the source of my distress hiding behind the silken drapes. “You have been enjoying the quiet a great deal lately, my Lady,” she says, her voice barely a whisper. “You disappear for hours at a time. The other servants… they have begun to notice.”
So, the whispers have started. The net is tightening. “Lord Zarren was asking after you earlier,” Lyra adds, her fear for me palpable. “He was not in a pleasant mood.”
I force a light, dismissive laugh. “Lord Zarren is never in a pleasant mood,” I say, gesturing for her to begin the nightly ritual of brushing my hair. “The wedding preparations are… overwhelming.”
I watch Lyra’s reflection in the silver-gilt mirror. The girl’s face is a study in doubt. She knows it is more than that. Her eyes are wide with a fear that is not just for my safety, but for her own. To be the handmaid of a disgraced bride-to-be is a dangerous position in this household.
Lyra takes the silver-backed brush and begins to work on my hair, her movements hesitant, her touch feather-light. “It is just… the menagerie, my Lady,” she finally whispers, the words a rush of desperate concern. “It’s an odd place to seek solitude. It is cold, and… and the creatures there are dangerous.”
I meet my handmaid’s terrified gaze in the mirror. “The creatures in the menagerie are more honest in their cages than the ones who walk these halls freely,” I say, my voice quiet butfirm. “They do not pretend to be anything other than what they are. I find that comforting.”
The explanation is a half-truth, but it is the only one I can offer. I see Lyra’s confusion, the way her brow furrows in a mixture of fear and a dawning, horrified understanding. She does not know the details of my secret, but she knows that her mistress is playing a dangerous game.
“Please be careful, My Lady,” Lyra presses, her fear making her bold. “So close to your wedding…”
“I am quite well, Lyra,” I say, my tone a gentle but firm dismissal. “That will be all for tonight. I wish to sleep.”
Lyra flinches at my tone, her face paling. She gives a quick, jerky curtsy and practically flees the room, leaving me alone with my reflection. The conversation has been a clear warning. My secret is not as safe as I thought. My handmaid, out of loyalty and fear, will not betray me. But she is a weak link. And in this house of spies and whispers, a single weak link is all it takes for an entire rebellion to come crashing down.
The stakes have just been raised. I have to be more careful. And I have to act soon.
21
TAREK
The sound of the menagerie door groaning open long after Annelise has gone is my first warning. It is not her soft, stealthy tread. This is the heavy, arrogant tramp of booted feet, punctuated by a burst of drunken laughter that scrapes at my nerves.
“Look at it,” a familiar voice sneers. Kaelen. My gaoler. He isn’t alone. Two other off-duty guards are with him, their silver eyes gleaming with the same casual cruelty, their breath reeking of cheap, cloying wine. “Still alive. Pity.”
“Lord Zarren wants it kept healthy for the feast,” another guard says with a bored drawl, kicking at a loose pile of straw. “Something about a hunt.”
“A hunt?” Kaelen laughs, a wet, ugly sound. “This broken thing? It can barely stand. It will be a slaughter, not a hunt. Hardly any sport in it.” He picks up a half-rotten piece of fruit from a bucket of slop, its skin bruised and weeping a foul-smelling liquid. “Still, no reason we can’t have a little sport of our own. A bit of target practice to liven up a dull watch.”
