Chapter 3 - The King in the Doorway
Caelan’s hand was still resting on the iron latch. His mouth was slightly open, a rare expression of utter, unshielded shock breaking through his usual stoic royal composure.
He looked from Meera—sitting cross-legged on the filthy floor with a tin of salve in her hand—to Sable. The ancient wolf was sitting completely upright, her ears cocked forward, her body relaxed in a way Caelan had never, in seven years of desperate visits, witnessed.
"How," Caelan began, his voice dry and tight, "did you get in here?"
Meera blinked, processing the golden crown, the fine wool tunic, and the stark, deer-antler embroidery on the royal collar. Ah, she thought. The management.
She didn't scramble to her feet. She didn't drop into a frantic, trembling bow. Instead, she carefully screwed the lid back onto her salve tin, wiped her fingers on a clean rag from her apron, and then rose in a smooth, unhurried motion, finally offering a crisp, efficient curtsy.
"The door was open, Your Majesty," she said evenly.
Caelan stared at her as if she were speaking an alien language. "It is always latched. It requires two men and a crowbar to budge when the weather turns."
"It wasn't today," Meera pointed out, dusting off her skirt. "Perhaps the iron is warping from the humidity in the stairwell. I can ask the blacksmith to inspect the hinge if it bothers you."
Caelan ignored the practical suggestion entirely. His gaze flicked back to Sable. The wolf had shifted her weight, her amber eyes now fixed on the king with a look that—if Caelan didn't know any better—resembled mild annoyance at being interrupted.
"Do you know what this creature is?" Caelan asked, stepping into the room and closing the door firmly behind him.
"A wolf, Your Majesty," Meera replied, as if explaining a very basic arithmetic problem to a slow child. "Though slightly larger than the ones we had down in Tallow Mill. Those mostly ate sheep. This one appears to eat raw elk and bad poetry."
Caelan’s eyebrows shot up. "Bad poetry?"
"Well, judging by the state of the floorboards, someone has been trying to sing or recite verse in here," Meera said, gesturing vaguely to a corner where a discarded notebook lay half-hidden under a pile of dust. "Animals have sensitive ears, Your Majesty. Loud noises cause stress."
Caelan felt a strange, hot flush creep up his neck. The poetry incident. That had been three years ago, during a particularly desperate winter when he had tried reading epic ballads to the beast in hopes of sparking some kind of reaction.
"Who are you?" Caelan demanded, stepping closer, his royal authority rushing back to fill the void of his astonishment. "Name, station, and business in the western tower."
"Meera. Laundry maid, third class, though given my recent contributions to the drying rotation, I expect a modest promotion by harvest," she said, her chin lifting just a fraction. "And my business was a scratch on a shoulder that clearly wasn't being tended to properly."
Caelan looked at Sable. Then back at Meera.
"She didn't bite you?"
"Why would she bite me? I brought medicine."
"Kings have brought gold, silver, and slaughtered stags," Caelan said, his voice dropping into a register of disbelief. "Kings have wept on these stones. One brought a basket of moonlooms from the high peaks. She didn't blink at any of them. She has not spoken a single word in two hundred years."
Meera paused, her eyes narrowing slightly as she looked at the enormous silver wolf, and then back at the young king.
"Maybe," Meera said slowly, "they were offering things she didn't want."
"And what did you offer?"
"A clean rag and some common sense." Meera picked up her basket of linens, shifting it comfortably onto her hip. "If you're finished interrogating me, Your Majesty, the midday wash won't fold itself. And I suggest you leave the door latched next time. Drafts are terrible for the joints."
Without waiting for dismissal, she turned, walked past the king, and slipped out of the tower, leaving Caelan standing in the middle of the room with the most ancient mystery of Gravale Castle.
May you like
Slowly, Caelan turned his head. Sable was watching the door close. Then, very deliberately, the wolf turned her golden eyes toward the king. Her ears flicked—once, twice, in a rapid, complex sequence that Caelan had never seen before.
Caelan stood in the freezing silence. For the first time in seven years, he didn't feel like a king visiting a monument. He felt like a boy who had just walked into the middle of a conversation that had started long before he was born.
