Page 91 of The Huntsman's Heart
He runs a hand over his face. “I do not know, and I do not like it.”
“But will it work?” I insist.
His expression hardens. “It might. And you are right, we have to try. By the gods, I hope we are doing the right thing.”
Alaric
The banging on the door of the crypt ceases the moment we open it. The body of the dead king staggers out. He looks worse for his weeks in the crypt. Though his body was cleaned and embalmed, it is showing the wear of decay, his cheeks hollow, his skin too tight and dry. His mouth hangs open in an awful grimace that makes him look as if he is in pain.
I hope he doesn’t suffer. I have to believe what I’ve always taken to be true—the soul of the things I inhabit left long since.
With a whispered prayer, I shut my eyes and reach for the vessel. There’s an impediment in the way. He’s empty. I can sense that, but a shining power surrounds him, cutting me off from entering. Guin’s power. The familiar thread spreads from the corpse back along the corridor toward her.
I concentrate, pushing against the barrier. “Let me in, princess.”
There’s a wobble, a movement, and then I’m in, opening the king’s eyes, blinking around at the worried faces of Corvin and Raban and my own lifeless body.
I hope to the gods this works, because if it doesn’t, I may never break free of this vessel. Guin’s power is too strong.
With an awkward shuffling step, I direct the king toward the stairs and the queen’s solar. Raban and Corvin follow behind and we leave me—my body at least—in the corridor outside the crypt.
It’s no less agonizing to see Guin in this state through the lens of her father’s body. My only pleasure in this is the horrified look and the muffled cry that tears from Melantha when she looks up to see her dead husband ambling toward her. Her eyes widen, and she struggles against her bonds, but she can’t break free.
If I thought it was worth the waste of time, I would stop now and torment her further, but the princess is more important. There’s no time to spare.
I move to the bed and force the stiff joints to bend until I’m sitting beside her. I place the king’s hand over hers. His throat is dry. The muscles do not wish to cooperate.
I force the sound out anyway. “Guinny, can you hear me?”
Her eyelids flutter, and I think for a moment she’s about to open them.
Raban and Corvin rush over and we all hold our breath.
There’s a long pause. When nothing else happens, I try again. “Guinny, there is something I have to say, but I do not have long. It is time for me to say goodbye.”
This time her eyes open, but the rest of her is still frozen. Taking this for a positive sign, I continue. “You have to let me go. You have to let all of them go. Can you do that, Guin?”
She doesn’t move.
I forge on, not knowing if this is doing any good. “Let them go, Guin. I love you, but it is time to say goodbye.”
A low sound escapes her and her eyes close again. I wait, unable to bear the tension, but there’s nothing more.
Then suddenly I’m forced from the body of the king and flung back into my own below the keep. I blink my eyes open in the dim light and stagger to my feet. Has it worked?
I run up the stairs and nearly collide with a serving maid in the corridor. She screams, but I’ve no time to stop and apologize. I run on until I’m back at the queen’s solar. Inside the room I stop, looking for movement, for change.
Raban, Corvin, and Évandre sit frozen in their positions around the bed, their warmth transformed into stone as the dawn light invades through the open window.
I curse.
Guin lies as still as ever with the body of the dead king collapsed on top of her. I sigh. Gently, I lift the king and carry him back to rest inside the crypt. At least he’s at peace now. He was a good king. He never deserved any of this.
I return to Guin’s bedside to keep vigil over my lovers. From her chair, the queen stares at me with baleful eyes, but she’s a cat with no claws now that she no longer has my heart. The silver box rests beside Guin on the bed, and I smile to see it there.
I’ve spent so many years dreaming of the day I could take it back, of opening the box to take it and hold it in my hand and command my own destiny. Now that thought is far from my mind. Because it means nothing if she’s not here to hold it for me.
I watch over her as the sun passes across the sky outside and the gargoyles watch with me, even if they can’t move. I’m glad they’re here. Without them this would feel lonely.
