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It came to her as an odd sound.
Sara had to pause for a moment, to look up from her needlepoint. What had she heard? It was obvious too quickly: not a noise, but a new silence in that quiet bedchamber. Orico breathed no more. When had he stopped? It was fitting, perhaps, that his last breath had gone so unremarked. To live a life of helpless misery, and die unobserved... but not alone, at least. Not alone.
She lay her cloth down on the small table and rose. It was the end of a life not just for him, but for her as well, Sara knew. No longer Royina of all Chalion, with the privileges and responsibility of that role. She wondered if she ought to be dismayed. She scarcely had the energy.
Orico, in death, looked much as he had in life. Bloated, ghastly, still. His eyes were closed, as if in sleep. It did not look like Orico to her, but it had been a long time since he had looked like Orico to her. The burden of a wife's love had been too hard for her for some time: companions in captivity they had been instead, sharing what little comfort they could in their own misery.
They had spoken, a little, the evening before. She had read to him – children's stories, from an old book. Comfort to both of them, though her mind skittered away from contemplating that hideous parody of motherhood. All Orico had ever asked from her was a child. She would have given him anything, but in this one, simple task, achievable by the lowest peasant girl, by all the ladies of Chalion, she had failed.
She had read to him the story of the woodcutter's son and the fox, and he had sighed, a low, heavy sound. They had known the time was short. "I would," he said, his words straining, "that I had been born a woodcutter's son, and not the son of the Roya of Chalion. Do you think… that things could have been better? For us?"
Sara had not known what answer to make. "It is for the gods to say," she had answered, and suggested, "Perhaps you should sleep." His physician had agreed, and withdrawn, and Sara had kept her tears silent as Orico let himself fall again out of the world.
And now all the way out. He was gone at last, all the ties of pain and woe now cut. She wondered which god would take him up: poor, abused Orico. He had surely suffered more than any man deserved for his sins of desperation and omission. Now, the burden would fall to another, would fall to – oh.
It felt like a punch to the stomach. It felt like Dondo dy Jironal, blocking the door of her chambers. The word had come – Royse Bergon of Ibra had come over the mountains. Iselle had made her move… but all for nothing. It was too early, by all the gods. A day too early. It was… Orico's life, all over again. One more quiet, desolate failure.
Even in death, he fails, she thought, and her heart bled. Martou dy Jironal would take the reins of Chalion.
At least she was quit, now, of this political tangle. The snarls of the royal family were hers to unwind no more. She could go home, back to her family's estates, and retire quietly. It was not her concern.
One more responsibility was hers. She must inform the chancellor. After that… there was just the funeral, and then home. She bent her head briefly over Orico, but could not think of a prayer. Perhaps it was just as well. The gods had cared little enough for any of them in life. It could do no good to draw their attention now. She turned instead for the door.
"Fetch Orico's physician," she instructed the page waiting outside the door. The boy, attentive to his duties, bobbed a hasty bow and raced down the steps. Sara leaned against the doorframe, feeling cool wood against the back of her head, and closed her eyes.
Chalion would suffer, in the years to come. This generation must surely be the last, for the curse. How much more could Chalion withstand? Her head hurt now, in addition to her heart. She longed for the comforts of home. She longed for an end.
She thought of Mad Ista, safe away in Valenda. What a comfort that might be, for a time. Comforted, cosseted, free from the duties of the world. Surely not free, though, of one's own demons. Her own actions, examined, might reveal more than Sara would want. What, after all, had she done in all of this? What was Sara's place in this whole anguished dying? She sat. She watched. She waited.
Too quiet, she had been through it all. This should have been her death, she mused, slipping as quietly out of the world as she had moved through it. Orico the Impotent and Sara the Invisible. What a pair they had made. What champions for Chalion.
The door to the outer hallway opened, and a heavy footfall landed in the room. She opened her eyes to see Martou dy Jironal, staring at her with speculation in his eyes. "Royina," he said with oily courtesy. His gaze flicked past her, through the open door to Orico's inner chamber. His face stilled, and he abandoned the courtesy to stride past Sara and into the room.
Sara moved aside rather than let him touch her, backing into the room with him. He stared at Orico, dead on the bed. "Oh," he breathed, his face lit with some inner fire. "Oh!" He looked up at Sara, who felt guilt twist inside of her.
"His physician is on his way, my lord dy Jironal," she said, her voice quiet. "I was going to send for you."
He hardly seemed to hear her. Whatever thoughts were spiraling through his mind, they did not touch on her, it appeared. It was probably safer that way. She bent her head.
"There is no time, then," Martou decided aloud, reaching the end of whatever chain of thought he thumbed down. "We ride now, this morning. The royesse is in rebellion, and I will put an end to it." He stalked past Sara out of the room and down the hallway. She was alone again. All alone.
The quiet of the chamber echoed oddly. Sara closed the door with a soft click, then moved to retrieve her needlework. Dawn was lighting the gray skies outside the Zangre. Somewhere below, Martou would be yelling for his horse, riding to whatever army he had assembled. By dawn, he would be with Iselle, dragging her home to whatever captivity he wished for her, and with no co-prisoner to share it.
If only Orico had lived one more week. Two more days, even. Long enough for Iselle to do what she needed. Long enough for Chalion to save itself.
Despair yielded, abruptly, beneath a hot surge of… anger. "No," she said aloud, to that gray sky. "It is unjust. You are unjust. To so taunt us, to give us hope and then destroy us so absolutely. It is not fair." She did not yell, but her voice was tight with her new anger.
It was a new thing, this anger – or perhaps not new so much as… old. She had not always been the Sara she was of late. Where had her will gone, over all those years? Leached away into the stones of the Zangre, perhaps. She had not had enough strength to lend Orico in his last, desperate hours. She had failed, as much as he. All they had needed was one day more of breath. One more day's silent deathwatch. One more day for Iselle to work her miracle for Chalion.
A knock sounded on the door behind her. Sara heard it, but could not register it. Oh. It came to her as quietly as that, slipping into her mind like Silent Sara sliding through the rooms of the Zangre, barely disturbing the dust.
The door opened. "Royina?" Oh. It was not as simple as that, surely. It could not be done. She fancied she heard the clatter of hoofbeats, a madman riding off to claim his royacy – to claim it… prematurely?
"Oh, Five Gods, no." The physician had seen Orico, registered the quiet.
Sara turned at last from the window. The page was in the doorway, still, pale and frightened. "Fetch Archdivine Mendenal," she instructed him. "My husband has taken a turn for the worse. I do not know if he has many hours left."