Page 19 of Bride of Ash & Dust

“How can I be of service?” I reply with a grin.

“His Highness wishes to see you,” Mortimyr replies. Something in his tone suggests the faintest whiff of disapproval for the king’s choice of company.

Good. I love pissing this guy off.

“I’ll see him as soon as I’m decent,” I reply.

The palace bathhouse isn’t quite as comfortable as the private bathing room in my quarters, but I don’t want to go back to my private room. Not ever, if I’m being honest, and especially not when I stink like a distillery.

Mortimyr’s frown deepens slightly. “He wishes to see you now,” he replies.

I shrug and smile, but something cold claws through the haze of my hangover. I pushed things too far last night, didn’t I? No one outshines the king, and I dared to flaunt their fear of me without turning it back to serve Malrik. Did I really think public humiliation would be my only punishment?

My footsteps echo through the feast hall as I stalk after Mortimyr. It’s still damned early, and the few servants I see scurrying about the place look as hungover as I feel. Mortimyr leads me to one of the king’s lesser rooms, then opens the door slowly.

King Malrik leans back in his chair and squints at me, a mug of steaming willow bark tea in his hand.

“Ah,” he says, with a vague undertone of disappointment. “Come in.”

He waves at one of the empty chairs. I sit. There’s an entire feast spread out before him, but it looks like the king hasn’t touched it. My stomach makes a sad little grumble, reminding me that I hardly ate anything yesterday.

Malrik stares at me. He does not offer me anything.

“Such a shame your new father-in-law is in such ill health,” the king announces.

I blink. This is the first I’ve heard anything about the king of Marion’s health, but I know better than to object.

“I’m sure he was sorry to miss the wedding,” Malrik finishes.

I swallow. My mouth still tastes awful.

“I’m sure he was,” I reply.

The king of Marion missed his daughter’s wedding because it was scheduled two godsdamned weeks after he agreed to the betrothal, of course. But it sounds like Malrik is once again bending the truth to his will. Yet another aspect of royal life I should be used to by now.

“It was a lovely ceremony,” I offer.

Malrik snorts. “It got the job done.”

With that, he finishes his tea and bangs the mug down on the table. I try not to wince at the smack of ceramic against wood.

“You’re going east,” he announces.

I raise my eyebrow. My head throbs.

“Tell Syvan it’s time to come home,” Malrik finishes.

I stare at the table. It’s beautifully polished, this table, and the plates of bacon, sausages, tiny roasted potatoes, and delicately buttered toast spread before the king are truly lovely.

The back of my throat burns. I force myself to smile.

“Yes, sire,” I reply.

Syvan is Malrik’s second son. He inherited all of his father’s ruthless cunning and none of his charisma. He’s been working with the eastern battalion, where he’s almost universally despised for his cruelty.

And so, my punishment continues. Well, shit. I can’t say I didn’t know it was coming.

“When shall I depart?” I ask.