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“Like this?” the silversmith asks the king.
He studies me from across the room, head tilted, eyes narrowed. “Yes. Although a little longer, I think, to trail halfway down her back.”
The silversmith adjusts the length, then glances once more to the king, who nods in approval.
A part of me wishes to yank the rutting thing from my neck, throw it in the smith’s face, then ask the king to explain what he thinks he is doing. But the other part, the part that chose to protect Sybella from the king’s version of justice, is genuinely curious as to what game is being played here.
Besides, penance is not meant to be easy. I am lucky his idea of punishment does not extend to scourges or hair shirts, as many in the Church prefer.
Behind me there is a tug and a twist, followed by the sound of a tool snipping, then the entire thing comes to rest against my neck. It is surprisingly heavy. Carcanets are the height of fashion, the sheer weight of the precious metal involved adding to their prestige.
I slip my hand behind me to grasp the loose end of the necklace, smiling at how sturdy it is. It is truly a chain, which means it is also a weapon if I so wish.
At the look in my eye, the silversmith steps away and packs up his tools, not bothering to call for his assistants. When he has quit the room, the king comes over to study me appraisingly. It is so plainly a move to gain control and make me squirm that it loses any power to do so. But there is more than one way to play with power, so I remain silent, forcing him to speak first. Truthfully, serving in Angoulême’s home has trained me well for these stupid games.
“Why are you smiling?”
“I am admiring your gift. It is remarkably generous and an undeserved sign of your favor.”
“It is not a gift,” he snaps, “but a punishment.”
“You have given me a necklace a third of my weight in silver as a punishment?”
He grits his teeth. “It is a chain. A chain to keep you in your place.” He takes a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. “I told you to avoid Sybella, and you didn’t listen. Three times you snuck to her room, and during the last of those visits, you killed someone.” He folds his hands behind his back and nods his head in a grave manner. “I can no longer trust you, Gen. I cannot let you run free anymore.” The words please him more than they ought.
“You should feel grateful,” he continues. “I thought about branding you—we do that to some criminals, you know.”
“I do know, Your Majesty.” My words work to calm his ruffled feathers, and his features relax somewhat. I move to stand in front of the mirror. “It will show.”
The king drinks heavily from his goblet before answering. Another move intended to intimidate. “Not if you keep the back of it underneath your gown. To everyone else it will simply appear as if I have given you a most generous gift.”
My eyes meet his in the mirror. “So what am I to be chained to, Your Majesty?”
His smile is filled with pride. “That is where I have chosen to show you mercy. I will not chain you to anything yet. But if you cross me again, I will do it—and gladly.” His voice holds a note of eagerness that is faintly unsettling. Then, so quick that I do not see it coming, he hurls his goblet into the fire, where it shatters loudly, the wine hissing as it is consumed by the flames. “Do not look at me like that.” His cheeks are flushed, the true depths of his anger rising to the surface at last. “Not when I have had to stand before my council and declare Fremin’s death an accident even as they howled for Sybella’s head. Not when I have hidden your crimes from my closest advisors. Spared you from a trial that would cost you your life. Do not dare to look disappointed in me.” As he speaks, I realize that some small part of his own self—the hidden part I had been reaching—is also disappointed in him. That is all the spark of hope I need.
“I wasn’t disappointed in you, Your Majesty, but that I have ruined the trust between us.”
“Trust can be rebuilt,” he says, sounding like a priest beginning a Sunday mass. “But it takes time, and much effort on the part of the one who has broken it. Because I care for you, I am giving you that chance.” With that pompous proclamation, he nods once, then leaves the room.
Because I care for you, I am not strangling you with this rutting chain, I want to say to his retreating back, but of course I do not. The entire point of willingly submitting to this farce is to make him feel powerful and less threatened by me. The less threatened he is, the greater the chance he will continue to confide in me so that I may in turn try to sway him from the influence of his late father and General Cassel.
I grip the silver chain and tug on it in disgust, wincing at the memory of how I forced Maraud to wear a chain of his own, only his was made of thick iron and held no pretense of fashion or favor. And yet he bore it good-naturedly, and I can as well. Besides, I am a far better target for the king’s wrath than Sybella. Not only is he willing to indulge me more than her, I am fairly certain she would have killed him by now, and that would only complicate everything.
Chapter 32
Maraud
Saints, Maraud hated the mud. Slimy, gritty, soul-sucking sludge that threatened to pull them down to the very gates of the Underworld itself. It was so deep in some places, they’d had to dismount and squelch alongside their horses, their boots disappearing into the foul stuff.
And it was everywhere: In his hair, his eyes. Even in his damn teeth.
The others were no doubt regretting their decision to come with him.
They finally managed to slog their way to the crest of a small hillock—more of a pile of mud, really—the only one they’d passed in the last four days. Below them, like a child’s wooden blocks cast down in a fit of temper, lay Flanders.
“It’s probably nicer than it looks,” Jaspar said.
Tassin grunted. “Probably worse.”
Andry reached up and scratched his beard. “You know they’re going to overcharge us.”
Jaspar’s voice was glum as he pointed out, “That’s if we’re lucky enough to find a room.”
In spite of the drizzle, in spite of his friend’s melancholy, Maraud felt a sense of triumph deep in his chest, his heart nearly swelling with it. He’d waited for this moment for over a year now. Dreamed of it, plotted it, fed off of it. The idea of confronting Cassel had sustained him through those first awful days after Ives was killed. It kept his resolve firm during his initial captivity and imprisonment. It had fed him during the long, bleak months in the oubliette—the sustenance provided by this need for vengeance filled him even when his hunger was gnawing its way out of his belly.
Lucinda had been right about one thing. It was long past time he saw to justice for his family.
Chapter 33
Sybella
It has taken three days, but finally the castle feels quiet once more, as if things have returned to normal. I dress with care, wearing a somber, modest gown. I kneel down to lift the corner of the feather mattress, then huff in annoyance as
I remember. I loved those knives. We were old friends. I will have to see about retrieving them somehow.
I head for the thick tapestry against the wall and pull it back, revealing a half dozen other knives, hastily stitched into the backside of the fabric. I slip them into the sheaths hidden under my gown. Since they did not search me bodily that night, I will have to hope that they will not today either. If they do, the fact that Cassel missed these will make him look foolish before the king.
And I would very much like to make Cassel look foolish. I would very much like to hold one of these knives at his throat and press—slowly—until his eyes bulge with fear, blood trickling down his neck and piss down his leg.
That thought puts a faint smile on my lips so that I will not have to fake the pleasant greeting I intend to give my guards.
Except there are no guards in sight. Surprised, I step all the way into the hall, expecting to hear them call out to me to stop, but they do not. The guards at the queen’s apartment do not make any move to stop me either. They simply nod a greeting, then step aside to open the door.
But the queen is not in her room. Instead, I find Heloise, overseeing the airing of the queen’s mattress. “Where is she?” I ask.
Heloise glances over her shoulder. “Since the sun decided to come out today, the king invited her for a short stroll in the garden. We all thought the fresh air would do her and the babe some good.”
“That is pleasant news.”
Heloise nods. “The king has visited every day and is most solicitous.”
“Have they announced the pregnancy yet?”
“Not yet. They have decided to announce it at the coronation.” Heloise tilts her head. “You have not heard, have you?”
Startled birds take flight in my stomach. “Heard what?”
“The king has decided Fremin’s death was an accident.”
