BEXLEY BRIAR
the heart of the king loves everything
like the hammer loves the nail;
like the hammer loves the nail;
Bexley stands among people who do not see her. None of this is new.
She watches quiet. Not from the shadows like a coward, but from deep in the crowd, invisible to the eyes all around her. It could be a calm and even a pretty day, disregarding… certain circumstances. The sun is high, light streaming down in waterfalls bright enough that Bexley’s grinning magic deflects it near-perfectly. She is nothing more than a chameleon against the dunes. Her skin blurred into grains of sand, her eyes clear as water, all her edges soft and undetectable. Better, even, than a ghost.
And of course she knows all about those.
The spell is strong in her today, made stronger still by her building rage. The only clue that she might be standing among them is the smell of rosewater and the faint whoosh of her breath.
Raum stands among them. Bexley shudders at the sight of him, not in fear but disgust—pure, acid hatred burning in her chest like bile, shaking her now-frail body as the wind does a leaf. The blue of his eyes is unconscionable. The perfect silver of his skin even worse. They are twins in alternate, mirrors and worse. Standing so close to him makes her nauseous. It makes her teeth itch. Oh, to kill him where he stands would be so sweet. To see the desert swallow him whole like the mouth of a monster, as it is within its rights to do.
(She realizes she is starting to drool while wondering what his blood might taste like. When did they all become so feral?) He is such a delicate thing, and anyway Bexley has practice with bones. It would be so easy. So, so good.
But there are too many witnesses.
Bexley is poised just behind the Dawn regent. Watching. Heart soft and stubborn in her chest, slow, silent tears tracking her cheeks. What a pretty Madonna she makes—clear and weeping gilt. Not that any of them can see it, or appreciate it. She recognizes all of faces around her, and as her eyes turn past each, her abhorrence grows. More than a few of these fuckers are Solterrans from her time, Torstein and Senna and Efphion who once pledged their gifts to Seraphina, and yet here they are, the evil rats, showing their ugly hearts as one by one they pronounce their loyalty to the bastard king. Speaking or wordless. Either way, pathetic.
Silent and unseen she picks her way around the edge of the circle. There is an empty space next to Senna of House Hajakha, snake that he is, gleaming with blood, and Bexley fills it with a careful step. Her invisible form stands centimeters from his; she can watch him closely from here, so, so closely. He has nice cheekbones. Good hair. If he weren’t such a skeevy bitch she might have even been into him.
Instead she rises up close to his ear and drawls, quiet and enticing: “Regent, King, Warden. And somehow all your genius hasn’t secured you a useful title.” Her eyes flicker to his, though he cannot know it. “Solterra’s lords are crowned in blood, Senna. It breaks my heart that you think your boot-licking is useful.”
Bexley shimmers oh-so-briefly into view beside him, close and bright and dangerous, and within the blink of an eye vanishes again.
She disregards Efphion and Torstein, circling toward Ipomoea. Her heart is beating quicker now, and something like admiration blossoms in her chest as she looks up at the Regent, warmth in her invisible eyes. She pulls close to his side. “Ipomoea—“ Her voice is little more than a murmur, audible to his freckled ears only. “Someday I would like to hear the song you write about this but first you must escape alive.”
And with that Solterra’s golden girl flickers into vision.
She wears a grin like a scythe, and her eyes burn with obscene pleasure. Every cell vibrates with adrenaline; even the bright-white strands of her hair seem to float. Gold slips like blood from her nostrils. “Good morning,” Bexley purrs, and her voice is as good as a laugh.
(Especially when she throws a wink at Raum.)
