Page 31 of The Castle & the Cloister

“Miciah,” Orden clipped out. “Bring Glora to me.”

He tried not to think again of Afon under his roof, or the foreign king’s hands on Ariana’s throat. Worse still was the way Ari had looked in the audience hall—pale as death, and unspeakably weary, though nothing ever seemed to damage her preternatural calm. Perhaps the page boy’s disdain had been right. Perhaps this time, one heir would suffice to secure the Inver line, no matter how Ari protested. If Orden could keep the child safe from some petty assassination, it would simplify things. There’d be no need for one of his offspring to dispatch the rest in order to seize and hold the throne. Only he himself would remain in the way, and the idea of dying at his son’s hands filled Orden with both dread and pride.

Would he could raise the infant to become such a man.

Glora appeared in the doorway and crossed the room as Orden beckoned to her. She stood stolid and unabashed at witnessing her king disrobed.

“Glora,” Orden said. “I’m sorry about Ataxis. He was an asset to the army, and I know he shared your bed while in Inverlyn.”

Glora nodded without feeling the need to speak. She was one of the castle fixtures and had earned the right.

“Were you attending Ariana before she went down to the audience hall yesterday afternoon?” Orden asked.

“Yes, my lord.”

“What was it that made her decide to come? She was meant to be resting. I’m not out of humor, mind—her presence is always welcome, but I’d have spared her seeing Afon for as long as possible.”

A frown crossed Glora’s face briefly before she regained her composure. “We received a summons from you, my lord. It was brought up by one of the staff. I looked it over carefully, and all was present and correct. A quick note, in your script, matched with your seal.”

Forgery, from someone who wished to toy with Ariana, no doubt. He’d need a new seal, and a thorough investigation of the scribes and secretaries, as well as any guards who oversaw his private chambers and study. It was not even close to the first time one of his people had attempted to tamper with the queen, though Orden generally managed to head them off at the pass, ensuring they met with a fatal accident or were dispatched to the frontlines in Vesper.

“For the remainder of summer council,” he said, “do not deliver a summons to the queen unless it comes to you from my own hand, or my own lips. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly.”

“You’re dismissed.”

There were, mercifully, a few hours to spare before court obligations would require a king’s attention again. Throwing himself down upon his bed, Orden slept, a sluggish torpor he could not seem to pull himself out of, during which he dreamed of tense voices—Ariana’s, rising and falling, and another woman’s. When he woke with a crushing headache, half the dream was true. Beside him lay his infant son and Ariana, the queen curled protectively around their child. She was ghost pale, her breath shallow and rapid, and the sight of her cut Orden to the heart. She only came to his bed if she was troubled and in need of reassurance, like a finely bred hound who could not resist creeping to the side of an unfit master.

Though he could not see that she bled, Orden smelled the metallic tang of it, heavy on the air. What she needed was a Vesperin physician, he decided abruptly. Though Vesper lacked any truly desirable trade goods, they made up for it with knowledge. No other nation had learned so much of medicine, or mathematics, or the arts. It was Vesper’s cunning strategies and ingenious war machinery that had staved off Honoria’s greater and stronger army for two centuries.

But much as Ariana might need a Vesperin healer, and badly though Orden might want one, they would get no such thing. The Vesperins were proud, and loath to share what they knew with their invaders. Any of their people with a useful trade took capsules of poison and died upon capture. Prisoners of war were few and far between. Perhaps Lucian could be dispatched to spirit away a physician from behind Vesperin lines, Orden thought as he sat up and found the spymaster seated at his desk,toying with an armillary sphere. That would both rid Orden of an annoyance and serve his queen.

“When did Her Majesty arrive?” Orden asked quietly, so as not to wake his bedfellows.

Lucian shrugged, his lip curling as he cast a look at the queen. He made no secret of his disdain for her, the sentiment born from a general disgust for all Corrinians and all worshipers of Lyria, coupled with a self-interested dislike of anyone else who could sway the king. “I don’t know. She was already here when I came in.”

Getting to his feet, Orden went to the wardrobe and pulled on clothing. Breeches. Boots. Loose shirt. Doublet. He felt as if he would stifle, and his head throbbed mercilessly.

“What do you want, Lucian?” he asked, the words coming out muffled as he cleaned his teeth with a damp rag and vericin paste at the washstand.

“Nothing,” Lucian said. “But the purser for the Solis Plains is waiting for you, red in the face over a levee the farmers refuse to pay. They’re hiding behind Dolenza’s skirts as usual, saying she’s tightened her fist when it comes to her holdings. And Prorex Cassius is here from the Levire Mountains—he’s had a border dispute with Legate Marek, who ordered the assassination of Cassius’s only child and heir. Cassius demands the king’s justice. There are a few other petitioners, but those are the most noteworthy—they all want your attention before council business claims you for the day.”

Orden finished cleaning his teeth and beckoned to Miciah.

“Bring me whatever is left of the venison pie they had at the lower tables last night,” he said. “And bring cut fruit and spice broth for the queen, as well.”

Only once Miciah had gone did he turn to Lucian, frustration tightening in his chest.

“Cassius and the purser ought to be ashamed of themselves,” Orden ground out. “Crawling to the throne for assistance like kicked dogs. We were greater than this, once. We handled our own problems, and the king was free to set his mind on conquest and battle.”

“I agree, Majesty,” Lucian said smoothly, spinning the armillarysphere. “Shall I have your petitioners hung from the castle wall? That is what your father would have done. It is what Afon would do, as well.”

Damn. If the Invers in general were less than their sires, so was Orden. It wasn’t mercy that stayed his hand, but impatience and lack of time. If he made an end of Cassius and the purser, their families would come clamoring to him for restitution, which would have to be doled out via appropriate means and measures. Orden could not stomach the thought of one more drawn-out task.

Nor could he stomach being compared to Afon.

“Did you find the Caervallin ambassador?” he asked. “Or is there still a wolf roaming unchecked among our sheep?”