“By all that is dark and deep and holy, what are you going to do with the human creature?”
I train my gaze on Lady Parh, my minister of war. She doesn’t blink or budge but stares right back at me. Violence and vengeance spark in her eyes.
Once again, my ministers have gathered at the crescent council table to press their many and conflicting opinions upon me. Umog Zu and another priestess sit at the far ends of the table, deep in prayer. The low drone of their voices is meant to sustain us throughout our deliberations, but Zu is perhaps not as far sunk into her va-state as she would like us to believe. Every now and then I catch the glimmer of her eye peering out through a mostly-shut lid.
The other ministers take great care not to look at the conspicuously empty seat which should be occupied by my minister of tradition. Only Lord Brug, my blunt minister of agriculture, dared ask after Rath’s whereabouts. When I offered no answer, he turned to his fellow ministers, his brow puckered, curious. He was met with nothing but blank stares. No one else has dared take up his question. Good. Let them wonder. Let them fester in worry and speculation. For now.
Parh, however, isn’t about to be intimidated by an empty chair. She leans one elbow hard on the table, as though pressing into the throat of her enemy. “You had the right idea to begin with, my King,” she urges. “The blade. The box. And all your court gathered to observe. Now what is it they have seen? A fickle monarch, undecided and easily swayed by a mere slip of a girl. A human, no less. Is that the image you want to project to your people?”
I sit back in my chair, assuming an easy nonchalance which belies the pulse of my heart. I should not let such disrespect stand, but to reveal any fury or frustration will only further compromise my standing in the eyes of my ministers. I must remain untouchable, unreachable.
So, I let the silence last for just long enough that even Lady Parh’s burning gaze begins to falter. Only then do I look from her to Lord Gol, seated on her right, then on to Lady Sha. One by one, I stare down each member of my council. One by one, I silently ask the question: Was it you who poisoned me? Was it you who poisoned Rath? Is it you who seeks to force my hand? One by one, I watch their eyelids flicker until finally they drop in silent submission.
Only one person holds my gaze without flinching. Roh. The dowager queen, my stepmother. She has chosen her place on the right curve of the half-circle table, several places down from her former position beside the king’s own seat. When my father died, and I ascended to my throne, Roh made every show of deference. She removed herself from the queen’s quarters, took a lower place at the table, abdicated all the privileges of her former station as the king’s wife. Instead, she turned attention to the practice of her faith in the Deeper Dark.
Yet I know how dearly she wished to see her own son—a full-blooded trolde, not a half-breed like myself—on the throne.
She sits now with her hands folded, her face a perfect mask. For all her serenity, I know how adamant she can be. Roh was opposed to an alliance with humans from the beginning. When Faraine’s deception came to light, hers was one of the foremost voices urging me to take swift and brutal action. Still, she is my stepmother. Would she really stoop so low as to poison me?
The silence has gone on long enough. Lady Parh’s question still needs to be answered. I blink and turn a measured gaze back to her. “I am still giving the matter some thought,” I say at last.
My ministers wait. Breath held, expectant. I seal my lips, rest my head against the back of my seat, drape my arm easily across the table. Offering nothing. Finally, Lady Parh growls. She’s just opening her mouth to begin yet another tirade when a sudden burst of applause interrupts. Parh starts in her seat, turns. We all swivel our gazes to the door.
There stands a figure leaning one shoulder insouciantly against the frame. He claps his hands with gusto. “Oh, well done, good King!” he says nodding approvingly. “That’s the way to shut them up! Who can question a thoughtful monarch after all? There’s not a fair lord or lady present who couldn’t do with an extra thought or two of their own!”
“Sul.” I lean back in my seat once more, idly rubbing one finger along my upper lip. “So, you thought to join us at last.”
My brother grins, pushes away from the door, and saunters into the room. “Wouldn’t dream of missing a party such as this!” He casts a beaming smile round with a particular nod for his mother. Then he swivels his head to one side, eyeing the guard who stands just within the door. “How now, Toz!” he says, giving the big stone-hided man a once-over. “What are you doing, lurking there? Did our stalwart Captain Hael wriggle out of this dull duty in favor of head-bashing a few new recruits?”
Toz pulls himself a little straighter. He’s a big man, more troll than trolde, and obliged to wear customized armor. It creaks as he offers a quick salute. “I’ve been promoted, sir,” he answers in his deep, rock-hard voice.
“Promoted?” One eyebrow slides slowly up Sul’s brow. “And what of Hael herself? Has she finally decided to take that holiday to Hoknath she keeps going on about?”
“Reassignment, sir.”
“Is that so?” Sul’s head turns sharply. His pale eyes flash as they catch hold of mine. “Is that so.”
I keep my expression a careful blank. “Was Lady Lyria safely given into Prince Theodre’s keeping?”
A muscle in Sul’s cheek twitches. “Aye.”
“And what of my message for Larongar?”
“My man Hurg is to journey with the prince’s party to Beldroth where he will deliver the message in person. He’ll return to the Between Gate in seven days’ time with Larongar’s answer.”
“So that’s it then?” Lady Parh barks, her big hands clenched. “We wait at the leisure of human kings now?”
I tilt my head, narrowing my eyes at her. “We must allow for the message to travel to and fro. Even I do not control the passage of time.”
“And yet time works against you, my King. Time which leaves you bound to a human’s whim.”
“I am bound to no human.” My voice drops an octave, a growl as low as the droning prayers of the priestesses. “The alliance is not sealed. Larongar holds no sway over me.”
“It was not Larongar of whom I spoke.”
Ice pulses through my veins. I stare at my minister of war even as my hand slowly slips from the table down to my belt and the dagger sheathed there.
Parh leans across the table again, her eyes burning with the intensity of her words. “You must follow through on your original intent, my King. You must free yourself, once and for all. Send the girl’s head home in a box. Rid us all of any further dealings with humans.”
Ice in my limbs. Ice in my head.
But down in my gut, fire burns. My hand firmly grips the dagger hilt. The council chamber fades from view, lost in shadows that close in tighter and tighter until I can see nothing but Parh and her hideous, leering face. I want to lunge across this table. I want to plunge this blade into her throat. I want to watch her blue blood gush as her eyes widen in shock and her purple tongue protrudes through her teeth. It would be so easy. My knife is halfway drawn already. I could—I should—
“Where is Lord Rath, by the way?”
I blink, give my head a quick shake. Dropping the dagger back into its sheath, I turn to my brother. He’s taken his seat beside me, propped one foot up on the table, and laced his hands behind his head. He tips an eyebrow my way.
My throat is tight, dry. I clear it roughly. “Lord Rath is currently recovering in Madame Ar’s infirmary.”
“Oh? Did the old guthakug meet with some accident?”
“He was poisoned.”
The air in the room tenses with a collective intake of breath. Every member of my council looks at one another then away again quickly.
I smile, a grim, hard curl of the lips. “And I will soon find out who did it. So, you’d best ready your excuses, my friends.” With those words, I look into each of their eyes, one after the other. Brug and Sha barely hold my gaze for the space of five beats. Gol cannot look up from an earnest contemplation of his own hands. Lady Parh tries to be strong, but even her eyes skirt away at last, her brow stern, her jaw hard. Only Roh remains unaffected. My stepmother, who has spoken not a word. Her face is strangely vacant, as though she, like the two priestesses, has sunk into her va-state. The only sign of life is a single, slow blink.
I rise. My ministers push back their seats and stand as well, inclining their heads respectfully. “We shall convene again the lusterling after next,” I say, “at which time, we will not discuss the matter of the human princess. Until we receive Larongar’s response, that subject is forbidden.”
Something in my tone and demeanor must have struck a chord, for each minister holds his or her tongue in check as I step away from the table and stride swiftly from the chamber.
Once out of their sight, I allow my shoulders to bow. My jaw relaxes just enough to exhale a long, slow breath. Members of my guard stand by. I cannot let them see me as anything less than strong, stern, and commanding. Guards are the worst gossips in the kingdom by far, and I don’t want them carrying tales. So, I pull my head a little higher and stride down the passage.
“Vor!”
I pause, look back over my shoulder. Sul hastens after me, his expression wry as always. “Well done, my brother. You’ve got the old stone-feet shaking in their boots. I liked that bit about readying their excuses. Very nice indeed. Granted, it’ll make my job rather more difficult when it comes time to question them and their households. But juk!” He shrugs. “Such is the life of a spy master.”
“You’re not a spy master, Sul.”
He pulls a face. “Informal gatherer of delicate information then.” Tilting his head, he studies me narrowly. “You look terrible.”
“Thanks.” I fold my arms. The shadows on the edges of my vision retreat somewhat. I wonder if my brother knows just how close I was to murdering Parh in cold blood right there in front of my entire council? “I’m glad you’re back.”
“I know.” My brother claps me on the shoulder, turns me around, and marches me down the passage with him. “Tell me, brother, when did you last eat? Or sleep? Or”—he sniffs loudly, his lip curling—“bathe?”
I scratch the back of my neck. “Um . . .”
Sul groans. “Too long, dear King, too long! Come. We shall feast. We shall snore. But first, away to the baths with you!” With a quickening step he guides me toward the bathhouse, a series of rooms full of steam, hot-springs, masseurs, and crystalline cool bathing pools. I consider protesting but why bother? I’ve not properly slept in a full turn of lusterling and dimness. Not since ensconcing Faraine in the Queen’s Apartment. My own chambers connect to hers via a conjugal door. Somehow, I cannot relax knowing she is so near. Knowing nothing but a single door separates us. That I could simply walk through, and none would know save her and me . . .
So, I’ve filled the hours with work. Of which there is always plenty. I stopped once to try to catch an hour of sleep in my private chancery, only to be rudely awakened by the stirring. This left my household in a state of mild upheaval. Much of my attention has been taken up with reports of minor damage both within the palace and in the city abroad, not to mention our nearest sister cities. Prior to meeting with my ministers, I spent several hours walking the palace foundations with my chief engineer. Before that Chancellor Houg carried a report that the sacred statue of Saint Hurk the Rock-Smasher had been damaged by a falling stone, before that . . . the list goes on.
Yes. A bath sounds good. Wash. Food. Sleep. The cares of the kingdom can wait until then.
“Tell me, brother, what has happened to our friend Hael in the short time since I’ve been away?” Sul asks before we’ve taken more than a few steps. His voice is light, but I hear the tension underscoring his words.
“Hael has been reassigned.”
“To what?”
“To guarding Princess Faraine during her stay in Mythanar.”
My brother considers this for some moments. I know better than to hope he’ll let the matter drop, however. “You’re punishing her,” he says at last.
“See it as you will.”
“You shouldn’t, Vor.” Sul stops, turns to face me. His expression is uncharacteristically serious. “She doesn’t deserve it. You know she doesn’t.”
I fold my arms, set my jaw hard. “Hael had one task to accomplish: make certain I did not carry the wrong bride across the boundaries of the worlds. A task she failed.”
Sul mimics my stance, arms crossed, chin tucked. “As I remember, it was you who climbed into bed with the girl without checking first. Hael didn’t make you toss off your trousers and—”
“Nothing happened between Princess Faraine and myself.”
My brother snorts. “And has nothing continued to happen? Because from what I’ve heard, the princess is no longer in the holding cell where she belongs.”
“No. She is where I can be certain she will be safe. She must remain alive until I can decide what’s best to be done with her. Hael is the best person for that job.” I tilt my head slightly. “If you have a problem with that, you may as well come out and say it.”
Sul’s lips curve in a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. But he says only, “What I have a problem with is a malodorous monarch. Come! Let’s deal with the most pungent matter at hand, shall we?”
Relieved to have the topic dropped, I allow my brother to guide me to the bathhouse door. We step inside into the warmth and steam. Servants appear, help us out of our garments, and we move into the hot spring water. Taking seats on the submerged benches, we rest our heads back against the lip of the pool. Sul holds his tongue for the time being, much to my relief. Sometimes my brother is capable of surprise. Slowly, my muscles begin to relax. I feel both stress and impurities purging from my pores.
“I saw signs of a stirring when I was coming back,” Sul says after a time.
I grunt. My eyes are closed. I don’t care to discuss city matters just now.
“Any serious damage?”
“No.” I sigh, wait a moment, then add, “The palace foundations are strong, and reports from the lower city have all been positive—”
The words have scarcely crossed my lips when I hear it: a high, trilling giggle. I open one eye. The atmosphere in the room is so dense with roiling steam, I can scarcely make out my brother’s form across from me in the bath. “Sul?”
“It wasn’t me!” he protests.
Movement in the water. I turn, peer into the steam. A soft, warm body presses up against my side. I whip my head around, and stare in shock at the naked woman seated on the pool bench beside me. She’s young, lovely, with a delicate, almost demure face, which contrasts starkly with the voluptuousness of her figure. She smiles at me and flutters her eyelashes shyly even as she trails a hand across my chest and down my abdomen.
I grip her wrist hard. She gasps, and I push her back. With a growl, I wave steam from my face, only to see my brother grinning at me from across the pool, flanked by two more naked women. One of them toys with the tips of his pointed ears, while the other giggles and bats at his hand as he tickles her under the chin. “What is this, Sul?” I demand.
“What do you think it is?” Sul eases back into the water, snugging an arm around one of the girls even as the other drops kisses on his cheek, his neck, his shoulder. “You’ve not eaten. You’ve not slept, you’ve not bathed. And according to you, nothing has happened between you and your little bride, which leads me to think you’ve not—”
“And I’m not about to!” I push the girl’s hand away again as she tries to catch and cup my cheek. She pouts prettily and sits up on her knees so that the water is no higher than her navel, displaying her large breasts directly in my line of sight. My mouth goes dry. Quickly, I avert my eyes. “Sul, you know perfectly well I don’t . . . I don’t hold for bathhouse girls or their work.”
“And whyever not? They are an industrious lot. Come, Vor, let the poor girl do her job. She’ll scrub your neck for you if you like. I swear, you’ve never been so clean!”
The girl, voiceless but insistent, runs her fingers along the back of my neck and shoulders. I shiver, pulling away and yet . . . my gaze drags back to her revealed form. Gnawing hunger gapes in my gut, a hunger which has gone unsated since my disastrous wedding night. A hunger which has only grown since I discovered Faraine in the crystal garden. I look at the girl again. This time I let my gaze linger. She is not Faraine. But she is here. And she is soft and warm and so very willing.
She slides closer to me. One long leg drapes in my lap, hooks behind my knee, pulls me toward her. She leans in. I close my eyes, let myself envision Faraine’s face. I let myself believe it is Faraine’s breath which tickles my ear, warms my neck. Faraine’s hand which cups my cheek, turning my face toward hers. Faraine’s lips planting against mine, forcing my mouth open, tangling our tongues. Faraine, Faraine, Faraine . . .
“No!” the roar bursts from my throat. I yank back and push the girl so viciously, she falls off the water bench with a screech and a splash. “Vor!” Sul shouts, sitting upright. The two girls with him both let out screams and scramble from the pool, their naked bodies glistening. I surge up from the water in a stream of foam, snatch up a nearby robe, wrap it around my body. The fabric clings and does nothing to hide my arousal. Enraged, I stagger to the door, ignoring my brother’s voice as he shouts after me.
The cold air outside the bathhouse hits like a slap. I gasp and sag against the wall, shuddering, breathing heavily. Pressing my fingers into my eyes, I try to drive sense back into my brain. But I can’t. When my eyes are closed, I see only her.
Her.
Faraine.
Lying on the bed, her gown askew.
Her knee upraised, her skirt falling open to reveal the long, limber form of her bare leg.
Her eyes, gazing up at me. One gold. One blue. Her smile. Slow, seductive. Dangerous.
She knew.
She knew what she was doing, gods damn her.
She intended to humiliate me. All along.
She wanted to take me, to break me. To unmake me.
I am king. But she made me her fool.
Another roar strangling in my throat, I push up from the wall. My lips curl back, bare my teeth in an animal snarl. My body feels as though it’s on fire, as though my skin will burn away the thin cloth of this garment and leave me naked, burning, a demon of passion incarnate. My shoulders hunched, my head low, I swing my predatory gaze around.
Then I’m in motion. Staggering but gaining speed with each step, until I’m loping along like a predatory beast set upon my quarry’s trail. My footsteps carry me through the palace, straight for the royal wing. Straight for the Queen’s Apartment.
I’ll make her pay for what she did to me.
I’ll make her beg forgiveness.
I’ll make her beg for mercy.
I’ll make her beg for more.
