Thread of Darkness

Ch. 7: a game of chess

Camille looked around the room.

She'd expected it to be dusty, she thought, like a tomb. But Isaac's things were polished: a pair of black boots; a folded red jacket; a blade, covered in what looked like golden rust. A servant must have been cleaning the room. She crossed to the fireplace, running a finger over the mantelpiece; shadows flickered in the grate like ghostly flames.

"It's odd," a voice said. "To see it like this."

Camille didn't turn. "You might as well come in."

Ryne stepped forward. Moonlight flickered across his face, and Camille thought of a chessboard they'd once owned, all black-and-white with emeralds that glimmered on the king's crown. Ryne picked up the knife. Examined it.

"You put on quite the show tonight," Camille said quietly. "Our archery instructor would be proud."

Ryne set down the knife. "I've arranged to have another hat made for Eris. I'll present it to him publicly, along with an apology."

"Do you think that'll be enough?" Camille asked.

Ryne didn't answer. He crossed to the open window, resting his arms against the sill. He'd stripped down to a white shirt and waistcoat — his usual evening attire — and the sleeves billowed in the breeze.

"It's becoming worse." His voice was low. "My hands, my lungs, my heart... all of it feels like it's burning up. I find myself in the middle of the corridor at night with no memory of how I got there." The night breeze ruffled his hair. "It won't be long now. You must prepare yourself, Cami."

A lump rose in her throat. "Don't say that."

"This is what you agreed to," Ryne said.

She shook her head. "I can't do it."

"Yes, you can."

"They don't respect me."

"They will," Ryne said, turning. "Give it time." His face softened. Or maybe that was just a trick of the light, Camille thought, melting away the harsh angles. "You'll be a good queen, Camille. Kind. Fair. Don't let them change that about you."

A sour taste filled her mouth. Camille touched her necklace, feeling the cool stone slide between her fingers. You don't know, she wanted to say. The things I've done. The people I've hurt. She dropped her hand.

"And then what?" Camille asked. "What happens after you..." She swallowed. "After I take over? What happens when Eris challenges me? I have no legitimate claim, Ryne. No reason why I should be allowed to sit on the throne."

"No," Ryne said. "You don't. But our child will."

She stared.

Blood roared in her ears, and Camille had to grip the wooden bedpost to keep from swaying. Had Ryne just said... did he think...?

A child?

"Did I...?" Her throat felt dry. "Did I hear you correctly?"

Ryne's mouth quirked. "Don't worry, Camille. It'll be a child in name only. I don't mind who you choose as the father."

"You want me to...?"

She couldn't bring herself to finish the sentence. Ryne's smile faded.

"Surely you knew that," he said.

She hadn't.

Camille sunk onto the bed. She thought of that chessboard again, of lazy summer afternoons in the garden when she and Ryne had sprawled on their stomachs in the grass and moved the pawns around the checkered squares. Ryne would always fetch a lemonade ten minutes before the game of chess ended.