story - part 23 - irrational - 1539 words

I am awake for ten minutes, blissfully aware of the fact that Tumaire has no classes today and I do not need to get out of bed for a few mor hours, before the strangeness of the room starts to get to me. I should be spread out in the small bed in my drafty room, not sprawled sideways in an unfamiliar chair. Somewhere surprisingly warm and comfortable, except for my bent position.

Wings are bared to the open air; this is what brings the party and my stupidity coming back to me in a rush. They have not given me back my cloak, and i do not know if that is a good thing or a bad thing. I would be more comfortable with it on, if only because I hate the sight of those bend feathers, the feeling of a draft stirring through them.

Something is settled cold about my wrist. It is a heavy weight, dragging my hand down against the arm of the chair, pinning me there, keeping me from slipping off. There are no guards around me, no hawk like eyes and angry attention, but a quick pull on the cuff and a rattle of chains makes it very clear that I am not going anywhere. I tricked every noble in the city, and now I imagine they are angry.

Where am I? the room is swathed in deep colors, purple and black and rich royal blue. It is huge, a good three times the size of my chambers, and I can see another room off to the side and through a doorway. There are soft voices coming from that direction, too quiet to be recognizable or for me to pick out words, but I believe I can guess who at least one of them is. There is something deep and familiar about that tone.

My mouth tastes thick and cottony. I try to swallow, to summon the courage to call out and coax someone out into the room. I do not like to be alone, waiting for another person to pan my future for me again, I do not like being left out of the loop. I do not like the secretive way they whisper back and forth in the other room, or the fact that they have forgotten me here.

"Is anyone there?" Rough and harsh, even to my own ears. I sound so close to panic, so young and abandoned. I feel twelve again, forgotten and sent away into unfriendly hands. I wonder if my expression has shifted toward something equally nervous and excitable, and try to school myself toward calm.

The voices have puttered to a halt, but no one comes slinking through the door to check on me. I can imagine their heads lifting, perhaps I can hear someone whisper a question [did you hear that?] and a deep response I clear my throat, an attempt to recapture my voice, but my throat still feels rough and harsh. I need water.

"I can hear you talking." Somewhere between an accusation and a plea. I want it to be sharp and unforgiving, I want to sound like the young Prince when he carelessly orders people around and assumes they will obey, making them feel like monsters when they do not. I cannot quite pull off that tone.

A scuffing noise, someone rising up out of a chair and moving across the soft rug. It is a matter of seconds before he appears in the doorway, tall and strong and golden. Of course these are Corbin's chambers; no one else would have curtains this richly violet, or a backless chair designed carefully for someone with wings.

Not a word out of his mouth. He stands in the doorway glaring in at me, lips set into a line that is tight and angry, challenging. It makes my stomach leap up into my throat, drives away any confidence I have in myself and transforms me back into his young and disobedient child. I have never gotten over my awe of him, he will always be intimidating to me.

More slow steps, picking his way across the room to come to rest in front of me. Even barefooted and dressed in simple clothing, as op posed to elegant court costumes, he looks regal. It is something in the way he holds himself, or the expression on his face, or the huge, golden wings sprouting from his shoulders. It is the solemn way he stares down at me.

A hand settles under my chin, tilting my face up toward him, to meet flashing blue eyes. Absently, he swipes several strands of hair out of my face and behind my ear. There is something thoughtful and familiar about it. He recognizes me.

"You look like your mother." Hard to read tone of voice. I cannot tell if he is angry or exasperated or if he honestly does not care. But I do not like the way he studies me, takes me in, compares and judges. I would look away, but those fingers are too tight about my jaw.

"You tickled something familiar in my mind, when you first arrived, but I passed it off as my imagination or as paranoia. I thought there was something sneaky or underhanded about you." Finally releasing me and shifting in place, arms folding across his chest. He looks severe and disapproving. I cannot meet his eyes any more, I look away toward the door, wondering who he was talking to in there.

"It seems you really have taken after her. You come sneaking into my palace, you spend time with my son, who knows what else you have done to him." Touched with anger, now, He speaks as if I am a dangerous criminal, as if his trust has been betrayed. The fact that he refers to Tumaire as his son, but treats me as a stranger, drags my head back up and summons that dull burst of passion, frustration.

"Why did you lie to us, Corbett? Why did you come in with a false name and story, when you could have just come to me? What were you trying to achieve?" Sarcastic and condescending. He treats me the same as he did when I was young, he still expresses no interest in me until I do something wrong.

I assume he is going to continue his rant, I do not think he truly wants an answer - but the moment fades into silence, and when I blink up to his face there is something exaggeratedly patient on his face. He is waiting for me to respond. Anger bubbles again, my lips twitch into a frown and words spring unbidden to my lips.

"Who are you to lecture me on rational behavior? The last time I was in the palace was when I was twelve, and you were packing me up with every garment and every book I owned, delivering me into the hands of half a dozen heartless priests and...and to her..." Tugging on that cuff again. I have a sudden urge to stand up and storm out of the room.

One of his eyebrows twitches upward, lips curve into a smile that is vaguely amused, as if he is merely humoring me. He casually disregards that as too emotional to be serious, rolling his shoulders in a slow shrug. When he shakes his head and makes little of me like this, even I have a hard time believing what I have to say.

"No. No, do not shrug this off. You pretend that you sent me away for my own good, or for the good of the country, but you know that is not true. You did not want me; you were ashamed of me and of yourself, and you were afraid of what it all meant. Why would I want to come back here to face more sideways glances and snickers, more thin-lipped glances from you? Especially while that creation of yours, that spoiled brat, is in line to be King." Not mentioning the fact that I do not want Altair to know where I am, that I am terrified of her coming to find me and turning me against him. I let this boiling rage, this anger of more than a decade, boil over instead.

He has gone silent and still. I realize that it is a mistake to bring up the topic of Tumaire half a beat after the words escape past my lips; but by then it is too late. Corbin looks furious, expression cold and posture rigid. I let my eyes wander toward that doorway, the other room, and I am suddenly overcome with the certainty that the young Prince is in there and that he has heard every word.

I am not given time to apologize, or retract. He is too furious to settle into a calm line of questioning, or even to stay around and speak to me. I take it as a good sign that he bites his tongue at all, that he does not cut into me, pick me apart. Although, as I am left alone again, I wish that I had some company, even be it angry.