Azalea held it tightly, praying he wouldn’t ask for it back.
He did not. Instead he said, “What did you promise? May I ask?”
Azalea traced the embroidered letters with her thumb. She hadn’t even told her sisters this.
“That…I would take care of the girls,” she finally said.
There was a moment of silence, but not awkward silence.
“I’m not doing a very good job of it,” Azalea mumbled.
The King’s firm, heavy hand rested on Azalea’s shoulder. It was such an unexpected gesture of affection that it rendered Azalea speechless. The King removed it, quickly, but his voice was gentle.
“You’ve done a fine job,” he said. “You cannot expect it to be as powerful as the sword. But I should think your handkerchief harbors a deep magic nonetheless. You have made it so.”
Azalea focused on her bread and cheese to keep from making a scene. She thought of Mother, hand over Azalea’s heart, sitting next to her in the ballroom, and telling her about the deepest sort of magic. The warm, flickery one. Azalea knew it wasn’t the common magic, nor was it the cold, shivery prickles of Swearing on Silver.
“What of the other magic?” said Azalea. “The one Mother used to speak of? The one without a name?”
There was a pause, the longest yet. The King stroked his well-trimmed beard, looking at the drapes across the hall. His eyes were bright, but sad.
“Yes,” he said. “They say there is a third sort of magic.”
Azalea waited, her food forgotten in her lap. The King shifted, stiffly, and considered the fire poker in his hand.
“It is,” he said finally, “the deepest magic of all. So deep, and rare, it doesn’t even have a name. It needs no silver. It has to do with the piece of you that is you, inside. Your soul. A promise so deep, it blurs the line between mortal and immortal, souls that have passed on. This unnamed magic has caused many strange things to happen. So it is said.”
“Such as?” said Azalea.
“I don’t know.”
“You…haven’t seen any evidence of it?”
“No.”
“Do you believe in it?”
The King sighed. “I don’t know, Azalea. I truly don’t. But your Mother did. More than anyone I knew.”
Azalea gazed at the glow of the fire flickering in the hearth next to her, thinking about the warm flickery bit. She hadn’t felt it for days, even when she danced. It was easy to believe in things, when Mother was here. Now, thinking of Mother, images of white lips and red thread passed through her mind, and it was as though a bucket of frigid stream water poured through her lungs and stomach. Azalea stood quickly, upsetting her cheese and bread, and hurried to the glass case that held the sword.
“Earlier this year,” said Azalea, “I broke this, at least in part. Would the magic be strong again, if it were mended?”
“I expect not. It would have to be sworn on again, many more times after it was fixed,” said the King.
“Oh.” The gush of ice-cold water coated her inside again, and Azalea shivered so hard her teeth began to chatter. She jumped when the King placed her shawl over her shoulders.
“It is late,” said the King. “I’ll stoke the fire in your room, if you like.”
“Sir,” said Azalea as he led her out of the gallery, “the blood oath the High King made—to not die until he killed Harold the First…didn’t Harold the First die of old age?”
“Not to die until he killed the Captain General, I believe it was. No, he unfortunately lived to be a great old age.”
“Unfortunately?” said Azalea.
The King sucked in his cheeks, as though loathe to tell her. In the faint light, he looked like the first king’s portrait hanging on the gallery wall behind him; same jaw, light hair, close-trimmed beard.
“He went mad,” said the King. “Our first king. It is…a bit of a family secret. He overthrew the High King, unmagicked the palace with the sword, but—” The King shifted. “He thought the High King was still here. In the palace.”
The blood drained from Azalea’s face.
“He believed the High King’s essence, or something of the like, still existed, in the foundation or paneling or such. It is silly, of course, to consider it now. Even so, when he passed the title of Captain General to his son, Harold the Second, he fell into madness. He wandered the halls at night, certain the High King would return to murder—”
“The Captain General, the Captain General!” Azalea cried. “That would be you!”
“Miss Azalea, it was years ago! Your color—it is only a story!”
“The first king! He was telling the—”
Azalea was bludgeoned.
When she was seven, she had been thrown from a horse and had the air knocked from her. It left a hollow space of nothing, and she heaved for air to fill it. This was much the same, but with a great rush of hard prickles. It took her breath away and choked her throat, stole air from her lungs. A great wave of icy tingles flushed to her fingertips and feet, and over her head. She gasped.