Page 96 of Queen of War and Ruin

“You are no longer living in your father’s house,” he continues. “You are mine. Your behavior is a reflection on me.”

My jaw clenches. I try to imagine Zarek saying something like this, or even thinking it. It’s impossible.

But what if I’d never met Zarek? The thought whispers through my mind like a snake through the grass. Would Blayne’s words feel loving then? Would I think this is how a husband should treat a wife?

I turn to stare through the window at the city of Vsenrog. Blayne’s voice washes over me, an avalanche of thinly veiled, patronizing threats. I let his words run together, and I don’t even bother to smile and nod when his voice finally falls silent. We’re heading to the palace, after all.

I don’t need Blayne anymore.

Petrys is waiting for us in the courtyard as our carriage pulls through the castle gates. I ignore him, terrified my face will give away some of the wild joy I feel at seeing him again. My heart pounds against the inside of my rib cage as I step out of the carriage. Petrys bows solemnly to Blayne, his hand on the pommel of his sword. I stare at the rough cobblestones beneath my feet as my cheeks burn.

“You’ll need to watch her this afternoon,” Blayne says, waving his hand at me like he’s handing over a pet on a leash. “I’ve been invited to an important luncheon after the king’s speech.”

“Of course,” Petrys replies.

I wonder which part of that statement Petrys agrees with as I follow Blayne through the castle gates. Petrys walks at my side. I don’t dare look at him as Blayne greets various well-dressed men waiting inside the foyer and then walks toward the throne room. I recognize a few of the faces, but not one person in the entire crowd acknowledges me. I might as well be a ghost.

Servants roam the throne room, offering glasses of sparkling wine on silver trays. Blayne talks and laughs, clapping men I don’t recognize on the back as he drains his glass. I slink farther and farther away from him, until I’m almost pressed against the wall behind the banquet tables. Petrys stands beside me, one hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Don’t look at me,” he says, under his breath.

I nod and force my eyes to drop to the polished marble floor. Someone laughs in front of us, high and shrill. There’s the clink of crystal glasses, the sound of silver against tiny porcelain plates.

“How did you find me?” I whisper.

I glance to my side and watch his lips curve into the slightest suggestion of a smile.

“I bribed the idiot who got the job,” Petrys replies. “Zarek would kill me if I didn’t.”

I bring my hand to my lips to cover my smile. I want to tell him how grateful I am that he’s here, but a low murmur moves through the crowd, drawing my attention back to the throne room.

There’s a flutter of motion at the far end of the room, and then a swell of dramatic music. A woman in a beautiful black dress enters with a tall, pale man at her side. They’re both wearing thin crowns. The crowd parts for them as they approach the marble dais in the center of the room.

It’s Dulcia, the woman who married Malrik’s third son. So, the pale prince on her arm must be Jak, the one who cried on his wedding day. The music swells as they approach the solemn thrones on the dais.

One of those thrones is draped in thick black velvet. My chest pulls tight as I stare at the seat that must have belonged to Syvan. The prince who died with blood on his teeth. Reaching for me.

The music changes, and Basili emerges next, dressed in an honestly ridiculous amount of black lace. A man I don’t recognize holds Basili’s arm. He walks with her to the dais, helps her to sit beside the empty, velvet-swaddled seat, and then takes the throne on the farthest edge.

That must be Lucian. Malrik’s only unmarried son.

There’s another flourish of music, and Acelina emerges from the door. She’s wearing a delicate blue gown with a black sash. The man holding her arm wears a crown that’s heavier and thicker than Lucian’s or Jak’s. That must be Girart, the crown prince.

Acelina doesn’t exactly smile as she approaches the dais. Her arm rests lightly on Girart’s, leaving enough space between their bodies for me to see the door behind them. I remember her toast as she raised her delicate teacup. To our dear husbands, she said. Long may they remain at their distant posts.

The crowd applauds politely once Prince Girart takes his seat. He responds with a tight smile that makes him look like he’s eaten something that disagrees with him. Then the music swells again, and the entire royal family comes to their feet.

King Malrik emerges from the door. He’s wearing an elaborate indigo doublet with scarlet and gold piping and a massive cape. His crown gleams, scattering light over the crowd. His elegant leather shoes click against the polished stone floor as he grins at the crowd.

He is not wearing a single piece of mourning black.

“Asshole,” Petrys growls under his breath.

I glance up at Petrys, but his face is perfectly impassive, the consummate guard. Perhaps I only imagined the word.

Malrik climbs the dais, then turns to face the crowd. A servant brings him a glass of sparkling wine, and he holds it aloft, where it catches the light.

“To Vsenrog,” Malrik cries. “And to the former territories of Marion and Ethiria, now returned to their rightful position within our great kingdom. At long last, we are unified once again!”