Mercy, A Gargoyle Story (13 page)

“I promise you this, Madeline,” he says, his whisper as thin as a curl of smoke.
 
“As my Queen, I will give you whatever you desire most.
 
I will give you your death, if you truly desire it.
 
But if you do not insist upon it, I also have an alternative to offer.

“I am trapped, my possible love, and it is why I am willing to beg for your mercy in this matter.
 
I’ve made mistakes, horrible mistakes.
 
Because of them, I have been the King a very long time.
 
I’ve grown wary of the perpetual battle to keep myself from death, in order to avoid my mistakes.
 
Or more precisely, from going on to the next life, where my former Queen resides.
 
I am certain that there is no death, mortal or otherwise, that is more terrifying than answering for the death of the soul who has loved you most.
 
It is fair to say that I am still not prepared to face my past.
 
I could love you, fair Madeline, or I could not.
 
I am willing to follow your whim.”

“I cannot love you,” I say.

“If you should choose that, then I still wish for your hand.
 
Your Queenship adds one more layer between me and my second death.”

“You mean another Slip would need to kill me first, and then you, in order to gain the Kingdom.”

Truce drops his head in agreement.
 
“But I will also assure you, Madeline,” he says,
 
“that I will endeavor with every power at my disposal to keep you with me in this life, if you so wish it.
 
Because even if you do not love me, it does not mean that I cannot love you.”

Moag groans down on his haunches behind us.
 
I ignore the gargoyle.

“Why would you bother?”
 
I ask.

“I find it puzzling,” Truce says with a sad grin,
 
“but there is an attraction about you that moves me, you have a soul that draws me in.
 
I can see it you know,” Truce leans in and his gaze is so penetrating that it makes me blink, as if a blink can cover the nakedness of my soul.
 
He is right, I feel it, and my gaze traces down inside him too.
 
He opens suddenly to his touch and I see things inside him I shouldn’t.
 
If I were still human, I would blush the deepest rose.
 
Truce smiles and sits back again, continuing.
 
“You enchant me and I’d like the opportunity to understand why.
 
And certainly, there are less enjoyable ways to avoid an old love, than to find a new one.”

“I am a gargoyle.”

“You will be transformed, if you choose to be my Queen.”

“And if I choose to be my own Queen?”
 
I ask and for the first time, I see the Gargoyle King squirm.
 
He regains his composure with a smirk.

“As Queen, you will choose your name and revert to human form.”

“I don’t love you, Truce,” I say, but the words break from me like a scatter of birds.
 
I have no idea if it is true or not, now that I’ve felt his soul, but I want him to believe it.
 
“I never will.”

“Spoken as one who believes that love offers options,” he replies.
 
There is a tight ring inside me that cinches tighter with his words.
 
He smiles as if he knows.
 
“But this is why I am quite willing to be your faithful King, and either keep you or kill you, whatever your choice may be, so long as you relinquish any endeavor to murder
me.
”

***

Instead of an answer, I mull over the proposition and search for a topic of distraction.

“Tell me,” I say, and Truce, with charming enthusiasm, replies quickly, “Anything.”

“Why do you wear armor on your fingers?”
 
I ask.
 
Truce holds up his hand, splaying his fingers so I can see each metal covering.
 
I stare at the layers of stones and churning filigree and glinting silver shapes.

“Look closely,” Truce tells me.
 
“Each is part of the territory.”

 
I inspect his fingers, but the jewelry twists and intertwines and I lose one piece in another.

“What do you mean by territory?”

“I mean,” Truce says, moving closer to me, under the premise of my inspection, “the kingdom is at my fingertips.
 
If you look carefully, each finger represents an accumulation of my gargoyles.”

I peer down at Truce’s first finger.
 
What catches my eye are the familiar jaws.
 
They are Trickle’s sharp teeth, although the large, jeweled eyes of Kervus obscure most of the lion.
 
Searching Truce’s hands, I find Moag and even myself, with my small wings curled around the King’s pinky.

“You have these made?”
 
I ask.
 
“You collect us?”

“Not by choice, but by duty to my kingdom.
 
When a soul becomes a gargoyle, another piece of the jewelry grows, to represent the form they are placed within.
 
When a gargoyle passes on, the silver collapses into a knot like this one.”
 
He points one sharp index finger at a tiny twist on his opposite finger.
 
“The knots indicate a statue that can be filled with the next needing soul.”

“I was not placed in a statue form.”

“You are a Slip.
 
Unique.
 
You created your own form.”

“You sent me to rot.”

“I sent you to grow, to learn, in order to reach an understanding of this very moment.”

I jut out my jaw, but it stays tucked away beneath my mask.
 
I don’t understand what he means, except that he trapped me in this body to influence my decision to be his Queen.
 
On this, I keep silent.

“The jewelry,” I say, “is it always changing?”

Truce nods.
 
“The kingdom, while in my hands, constantly changes.”

“And if I become Queen?”

Truce takes my hand, holding it so that the spikes of his silver jewelry are cool against my gray skin.

“Then you will wear these heavy jewels yourself.”

***

From the other end of the roof, Trickle groans from his pedestal.
 
It sounds the same way as a house settling, except that we all turn to Trickle, knowing that it means something more.
 
I realize it must have taken him a herculean effort to do it, as he can barely move anything without water running through him.

“Something to say, Trickle?”
 
Truce asks.
 
He strides the length of the roof, halting behind the lion’s mane.
 
Truce raises one hand and flicks his wrist, twirling his silver fingers in a circle.
 
Trickle’s entire body rotates on the ledge, although his limbs never move.
 
When he settles again, Truce says, “Speak freely.”

Trickle’s jaw drops and closes.

“I would like a chance,” the lion says.
 
Truce’s fingers reach up and curl around his chin, the shiny silver spike of his index finger climbing the sharp bones of his handsome face.

“Mmm hmm,” Truce hums.
 
“Another chance?
 
It is your last, you know.
 
That makes it your risk.
 
You know I can not reverse your fate, if you should lose, Trickle.”

“What are you doing?
 
What is this?”
 
I ask, stepping between them.
 
Trickle’s irises seem to open, taking in all of me.

“Nothing, but the kingdom’s game of chance,” Trickle says with a cheer that does little to convince me.

“Every gargoyle has three chances,” Truce explains.
 
“If they can not resolve the lesson they were sent to finish on their own, they can take another option and have three turns at fate.
 
If they win their turn, they will be released from their service prematurely.
 
However, if they lose, they lose the faculty they’ve wagered.
 
But, in he case of their last turn, called
the risk
, the loser not only loses the sense they wagered, but they also have only two weeks to find and heal their current recipient.
 
If they fail, they are trapped in their crippled servitude, until a King or Queen agrees to be the new recipient.”

I turn my head back to Trickle, peering down the tunnels that lead my sight to him.
 
His eyes grit away from mine.

“Don’t do this, Trickle,” I say.
 
“If you are taking this chance, assuming that I will become the next Queen and take you on, you’re playing at fate twice.
 
Don’t make me responsible for your gamble and don’t try to seal my fate with yours.”

“My, it feels good to have a closed mouth,” the lion says.
 
“So good.
 
You don’t realize what a pleasure it is, until your tongue boils for entire weeks in the sun.
 
I have been beaten and baked, and left on this ledge to die a different death.
 
I have no luck in finding what needs to be seen, so I must take what chances I have.
 
My fate is mine to gamble.
 
Truly, how much worse can it be?”

“So much worse,” Truce warns, in a tone that almost matches the echo of sadness.

The lion clasps his powerful jaw for only a moment and then says, “I shall take my risk.”

Truce nods gravely, as he pushes his cape away to squat beneath the lion’s feet, where the roof meets the high brick lip.
 
He produces a tiny glass top from his palm, pointed, with an arrow tip on one end and separated from its rod by a silver shield in the center.
 
There are marks burned upon the shield, too tiny for me to make out, other than to know they are there.
 
Truce balances the top on its point and gives the toy a snapping twist that sends it sputtering away in circles.

"Spin it, spin it,” Truce murmurs as he stands.
 
“Truth was never meant to be a game to play, but here it is, a child's toy, rotating beneath the adult hand."

The top skitters around our feet, but never touches them.
 
"Next will come the wagers, I expect, if your turn does not prove true.
 
But you've already vanquished your credit, haven't you, Trickle?
 
You seem to believe that virtue is as worthless as honesty.
 
Isn't that still the case?"

 
The lion drools rainwater as his stone eyes grit along, tracking the movement of the top.

"Let me, Truce,"
 
the lion pleads, as the top jitters.
 
"Let me down from this pedestal to have this chance again.
 
All you need to do is say the word and I'm free.
 
You have more power than God over me.
 
I would serve you, if you like.
 
Your right hand...”
 
Moag growls from the side and Trickle revises, "An aid to the great Moag, and to you, great King.
 
An assistant."

"I see, I see...”
 
Truce says.
 
“But you understand I had made my choice of gargoyles and I don’t need a spare.
 
I understand too that all you want is to get your hands on the top; give it one more try, with your most clever, losing spin.
 
You are willing to call me God, but make me your Satan in order to play.
 
It's so obvious, how don't you see it?
 
Child's play becomes treachery at a certain age."

The top falls on it’s side and Truce leans down, scooping it up in his hand.
 
He holds it close to his chest; his eyes flicker down, to the top's shield, and back to Trickle.
 
"What was your wager, Lion?"

Trickle laps at the rainwater eagerly.
 
"My sight."

"I suppose you do not need it to complete your task, but it will be uncomfortable without it.
 
How will you cope?"

"I will not lose."

"But what if you do?
 
You've lost your ability to both move and speak with the last two chances you’ve taken."

"Then I will adapt, with my ears and my claws and my senses."

"And what would your prize be?"
 
Truce asks, his eyes flickering between the shield and Trickle again.
 
"If you are correct and you move on to the heavens, what will you gain?"

"Same as ever,” Trickle says.

"Ah yes, your name will be known among the stars," Truce finishes for him.

"Yes.
 
Known."
 
Trickle’s motionless form seems to straighten proudly on his pedestal.
 
"I shall be known through out the world."