TMBIPYMEN Chapter 24

The Beast of Kizel

When Layla's eyes opened, daylight had already filled the room. As she rose, disheveled from sleep, she started at the sight of Marchioness Hymierd sweeping past the bed curtain without warning. Reflexively, she pulled the sheet up, heat flooding her cheeks.

"Did you sleep well?"

The Marchioness asked without seeming to notice Layla's alarm. Layla found the question strange—less genuine inquiry and more like confirmation that she hadn't slept properly, a truth the Marchioness clearly already knew.

If the Marchioness's intention was indeed that, she was correct. Layla had not slept a moment all night. She had closed her eyes and tried to think of nothing, but the image of Yustar's grandmother dissolving continued to surface. The screams that threatened to tear reality apart, the sharp malice—it remained vivid. Unidentifiable, small, grating sounds persisted without end.

"I actually didn't sleep," Layla admitted honestly.

The Marchioness smiled as though she'd expected this and gestured to the servants. One was Mel; the others were new faces Layla hadn't seen before.

"A warm meal will help. Wash yourself, dress, and then we'll eat. After that, you are to be brought to him."

Layla asked.

"Brought where? To whom?"

The Marchioness blinked as though Layla should have known.

"His Royal Highness the Prince instructed it. He said you must have an audience with His Majesty. Didn't you know?"

"Ah," Layla said quietly. "Yes, I knew."

"Good. You may have no appetite after a sleepless night, but you must eat well regardless. An audience with His Majesty is not a simple matter."

The meaning escaped Layla's understanding, but the Marchioness had already slipped past the curtain and departed before she could ask. The door closed. Mel directed the other servants to bring warm water and fresh clothing.

They moved with efficient bustle, and Layla found herself subjected once again to the peculiar experience of having her face washed by unfamiliar hands. At least today they did not scrub every crevice of her body as they had yesterday—bearable, if strange.

"Shall I bring strong tea? Or would you prefer coffee?" one of the servants asked as the others helped her dress.

Layla turned her head. She had never tasted coffee before. She knew of it, but had never had the opportunity.

"Coffee, please."

"Very good."

Mel prepared breakfast without further question. An inviting, toasted aroma filled the air—distinctly different from tea.

Once dressed, Layla settled at the table and gazed down at the dark liquid in the cup.

"Is this coffee?"

Mel gave her a bewildered look.

"You didn't know, miss?"

"I know what coffee is. I've just never tasted it. Should I drink it as it is?"

A faint smile flickered at the corner of Mel's mouth—not mocking, which was a relief.

Mel explained.

"Some prefer it plain. Others add sugar. Some favor thick cream generously stirred in... Try it as it is, and if you'd like anything added, just say so."

Layla took a sip of the coffee. It was startlingly bitter at first, but the harsh intensity faded quickly, replaced by a pleasant aroma that filled her tongue and throat, then swept through her nasal passages.

"How is it, miss?"

Mel asked. Layla took another sip, then nodded.

"It's delicious."

"I'm glad. We'll wait outside then. Please, eat at your ease."

Once the servants had gone, the room fell quiet. Layla ate the fluffy egg dish and found herself thinking, for a moment, that she might be back at her house in Ridgecarse.

Not that this place had the creaking chairs or the sound of birds perched on the wooden roof sharpening their beaks, or the smell of drying herbs. But still.

Marchioness Hymierd had waited for Layla to finish her breakfast, and when she emerged, she closed her book—hastily hiding the spine beneath the fold of her dress—and rose. Layla caught it but said nothing. This place seemed to be made of secrets.

"Shall we?"

The Marchioness said. Layla merely nodded and followed.

Her dress today was even more restrictive than yesterday's, and the abundance of dangling jewels and ornaments made her anxious she might damage something. Noticing Layla's dragging steps, the Marchioness ahead glanced back slightly.

"Does the dress bother you?"

"A little," Layla answered truthfully again.

"Bear with it until the audience concludes. After that, His Highness will likely provide you with more comfortable clothing."

Yustar would? That seemed odd.

The Marchioness spoke again.

"Did you have any strange dreams last night?"

Layla answered.

"I think I did, but I can't quite remember. I'm not even sure if they were dreams or reality. Just... strange sounds seemed to go on endlessly."

"That makes sense. I thought as much."

Marchioness Hymierd let out a cold laugh—a shift in tone that made Layla look at her with surprise and caution.

The Marchioness continued.

"No one sleeps comfortably in this place. But being awake makes no difference either. Whether His Highness will keep you at the palace... I cannot say. But if you remain here, it would be wise to devise countermeasures of your own."

"I don't quite understand. What sort of countermeasures?"

Layla pressed.

The Marchioness shrugged and shook her head.

"I couldn't say. Wouldn't you know better? You're a real witch after all. Don't witches have unique incantations and spells passed down among them?"

Spells and incantations. Certainly, some witches worked with such things. But most did not.

Most witches were simply better than ordinary people at finding the herbs they sought, and better at knowing which combinations would produce desired effects. If a witch needed a certain plant, she could find it even without knowing where to look. She could brew a tincture she'd never learned to make. Her mother had called it ancestral memory, but the explanation had never quite sat right with Layla.

After a moment's thought, Layla said.

"I can make a tincture that allows one to fall into deep sleep quickly."

The Marchioness bobbed her head approvingly.

"That would be useful indeed. So long as one can wake."

"It's not poison. It's merely to aid rest."

Without slowing her pace, Marchioness Hymierd stopped before an imposing doorway. The entrance to the throne chamber.

At her nod, the doorkeepers pulled open the heavy doors.

Inside, Layla saw solemn pillars arranged in rows, a deep carpet, and high above, a throne. But nothing captured her gaze as immediately as the work painted across the ceiling.

"Where is His Majesty...?"

"He'll arrive soon."

Layla waited in tense silence. But it was not the king who emerged.

It was Yustar.

His long hair was bound as always, but something about the sharp line of his exposed jaw and neck—the elegant curve of his collarbone—suddenly commanded her full attention.

"You've come, Layla. The Marchioness has done well."

"It was nothing troublesome. Then, Your Highness, I shall take my leave."

At Yustar's nod, Marchioness Hymierd quickly departed the throne chamber. Alone now, Yustar regarded the bewildered Layla with amusement.

"Come this way."

"Aren't I to meet with His Majesty?"

Her voice carried unmistakable alarm. Yustar smiled. Back in Ridgecarse, while lonely, she had possessed a certain independence of character. Here in this strange place, however, she reacted with such careful deliberation to each detail—somewhat exasperating, yet undeniably endearing. He had known her to be guarded when they first met, but...

"You will. His Majesty resides in his private chambers, however. His health is... compromised."

"Is he unwell?"

"Precisely. Come."

Yustar opened a smaller door. The hallway beyond was dim despite the lit lamps.

Layla forced herself to focus solely on the sound of his footsteps behind her, trying not to be afraid, yet whispers emanated from within the walls.

"I hear something," she said.

"Something?"

He apparently couldn't hear it. Layla thought.

"From within the walls."

"Spirits, perhaps?"

"It seems that way. Since you don't hear it and I do..."

Yustar opened a second door, his fingertips brushing lightly against Layla's elbow.

"Sierrow's palace is an ancient place. Which means it is ideal for spirits to flourish. But have no fear. What happened yesterday will not recur. Grandmother was a rather... special case."

"Have you... encountered other spirits here besides your grandmother?"

In the half-darkness, Yustar's mouth curved slightly.

"Perhaps."

It was not the answer she wanted, but Layla could press him no further.

The final door opened, and the scent of medicine struck her so forcefully that even Layla, accustomed to herbs and tinctures, felt momentarily dizzy.

Yet she quickly realized the vertigo came not from the medicine itself, but from something else—something barely perceptible, less than the blink of an eye, but unmistakably felt. Something sinister dwelt in this room...

The terror of stepping even an inch wrong and plummeting into a trap bristling with blades rose in her chest.

The feeling intensified the deeper into the room they went. When she glimpsed a faint silhouette beyond the bed curtain, it became almost overwhelming. Layla nearly stumbled backward, but Yustar's hand caught her arm gently.

"Pay your respects."

Layla found his touch repellent now. Until this moment, he had touched her only to protect. But this felt different. Protection mingled with something stronger—the sense that he was keeping her from leaving.

As Layla approached the bed, a servant who had been standing motionless as stone swept the hanging curtain aside.

A man lay before her, wasted thin from illness, his skin ashen. The only spark of life remaining in his entire frame lived in his eyes—brilliant, piercing.

"Good day to you, Your Majesty. My name is Layla Chrysrad."

The man—King Ode—studied Layla's black hair and crimson eyes for a long moment, then made a weak gesture once or twice.

"Come closer."