Thus, Amarande didn’t object. Instead, she carefully cataloged their route. Everything in this place glittered with heavy constellations of quartz. As a little girl she had thought it beautiful, like being trapped inside a star—and perhaps, it was.
A brilliant, blinding asp’s nest of death.
If Luca was having these thoughts, he wasn’t showing it. Instead, he was showering Dunixi with far more politeness than the idiot deserved.
“You have been here the whole time?” Luca asked kindly. Because he was Luca he actually appeared as if he cared to know the answer.
“Since Urtzi bashed me upside the head and I awoke to a tale of yourself and a ragtag group that sounded very much like my former friends helping the princess escape after she stabbed Renard in the chest during their wedding? Yes, since then.”
“And the king has rewarded you for sleeping on the job?” Amarande asked thickly.
“That is one way to put it, Your Highness.”
She expected him to say more—this boy truly believed he was as clever as Taillefer though he had all the wit of a sunburn.
And yet perhaps he had learned a modicum of restraint, because rather than add to his comeback, Dunixi simply pulled up short at the throne room and wrenched open one of the massive doors. The doors, of course, were fitted with full-bodied roaring mountain lions carved in snowy relief and outlined with veins of deep, rich Pyrenee gold. A castle guard stood on either side, staring down the seemingly endless whiteness of the hallway.
Amarande swept in first, while Luca came in on her heels before hastening to walk next to her. The room was massive, with galleries along both sides and high windows topped with filigree of aubergine glass. The effect of shadow and light caused the parquet marble tiles to appear littered with perfect, small dark leaves leading in a path straight to a dais adorned with a gigantic golden throne in the center.
“That will be all, Dunixi.” Renard’s voice entered the room without a body to propel it—strong and confident and seemingly everywhere. “Please leave us be.”
Dunixi hesitated, clearly wishing to stay for the diplomatic fireworks, but also apparently knowing the value of a king like Renardaskingrather thanordering.
As the doors to the throne room crashed shut, Renard appeared from somewhere beyond the dais. He was impeccably dressed in ivory and gold, as if he were the celestial sun within the heavens.
Yet even from afar, it was apparent that the king had a new, nasty gash running across the left side of his face. From his ear straight through the crease where his bottom lip met the top one, and on through to the other side where the inside of his cheek had swollen into a misshapen bulge, bunching worse when he attempted a look of regal amusement to pair with his knowing greeting.
“Your Highnesses, I didn’t expect you until the conclave.”
Amarande and Luca didn’t stop a respectable distance from the dais. No, the queen led her love past the perimeter of the gallery—the traditional spot to greet a ruler in a room such as this—and straight to the base of the structure.
“Which is exactly why you sent a messenger to share news of Ferdinand and Genevaaheadof the conclave?”
Renard raked a hand through his perfect hair and settled straight-backed onto his gaudy throne. “I merely wanted you to be informed. Communication is a great virtue, is it not?”
Amarande bared her teeth. “Communication only works when both parties tell the truth.”
The king accepted that jab with an expression of absurd disinterest, rubbing a thumb over some imagined imperfection on the arm of the throne. Finally, his eyes flicked up—cool, blue, cutting. “It’s good you’ve learned your lesson after so many lies birthed from the halls of the Itspi.”
Amarande’s body was as tight as a spindle, wound and eager to split, cut, shear. Luca gently enveloped her hand in his and entered the conversation—stepping between two brawlers without so much as moving a hair beyond his queen.
“We’re merely here to have a conversation about your letter, Your Highness.”
Renard inclined his attention toward Luca, body stiffening. “My letter was addressed to Amarande, not to you. If there is a conversation to be had, it’s with her.” He gestured, indicating their appearance. “Though, given the pounds of Basilican steel you wear, I very much doubt you truly came here simply to talk.”
Amarande tilted her chin and avoided the bait. “I would like to see my brother.”
Renard leaned forward, misshapen grin upon his face. “I would like to see mine.”
Another provocation.
The king wore his ridiculous bejeweled sword at his hip, a dagger on the other side, and a placid turn to his features that simply egged her to draw her own weapons and come at him.
Luca took a step forward, never dropping Amarande’s hand. “Renard, you should knowIkilled Taillefer.”
“He was already dying,” Amarande cut in. “Of injuries sustained in fighting the Warlord’s men. Shattered ribs punctured his lung.”
“Yes. This is true, he wasn’t long for this world save a miracle. I believe he knew that. Yet, I threw the knife that killed him before his suffering lungs could.” Luca nodded. “It was a mistake, but his blood is on my hands, not Amarande’s.”
