Page 97 of Queen of War and Ruin

The applause is tremendous, a great crashing thunder, like waves against the cliffs. I stand and stare, too stunned to move, until Petrys nudges my foot with his boot.

“Clap,” he growls.

And I bring my hands together, applauding the death of my kingdom.

Malrik drains his glass, then holds his hands out, like he’s begging the crowd for a moment of their time. The applause gradually subsides.

“It has long been my dream,” Malrik begins, “to bring back the wayward territories that once took shelter under the great and mighty arms of Vsenrog. All the wayward territories.”

Petrys makes another sound in the back of his throat, almost a growl. I try not to smile.

“Marion and Ethiria,” Malrik continues, “were like children, headstrong and foolish, wanting to do everything on their own but with no idea how to go about it⁠—”

I let his words wash over me, like the chatter of birds in the garden. Acelina stands next to her husband, a perfect smile on her perfect face, her eyes drifting over the crowd. The spacing of the thrones on the dais seems a bit off, almost like they’re spread too thin on the left side. My eyes drift to the empty space on the far edge.

Is that where Zarek’s throne was? Did they give the hostage prince a place on the dais?

My skin crawls, and suddenly, I feel like I’m being watched. I drag my attention slowly back to the dais.

Acelina stares at me. Her perfect smile hasn’t changed, but her gaze is fixed on mine.

Shivering, I wonder what that gleam in her eyes means.

Chapter 50

Zarek

IT HAS TO BE POSSIBLE

Istand at the window, watching servants lead carriages through the courtyard and trying to ignore the gnawing pull of the thing Varitan left on the table.

Some of the carriages I recognize from the estates of Vsenrog’s far-flung nobility, and some belong to the castle. I even see the one that took Lilias from the temple to the palace after our wedding. It must be one hell of a party Malrik is throwing.

I clench my jaw and try not to think about the torture that comes afterward. I’m sure Malrik will make that equally theatrical. Varitan said something about an illusion, but whatever he’s planning, I doubt he’s trying to spare me anything. I’m damn sure he does not care about my suffering. In fact, I suspect he enjoys it.

An empty carriage rattles across the courtyard, and the low murmur of voices rises through the window. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but it sounds like there’s a huge crowd just out of view. They’re probably gathered by the castle doors, or mingling inside the foyer. Malrik is probably about to make a speech.

I turn toward the table, almost against my will.

Will Varitan be there for the speech? Does Malrik want him in the crowd or, hells, up on the dais with the royal family and their thrones?

So far, Varitan has kept his comings and goings unpredictable; deliberately so, I suspect. Sometimes he attacks me in the middle of the night. Sometimes he’ll appear in the evening, just after dinner slides through the door in the wall, and sometimes it’s first thing in the morning. I have no particular reason to think Varitan will join Malrik’s festivities.

And yet, some deep, instinctive part of me whispers that he will. That a man who would accept that much gold and the deed to an estate that massive, who would save all those letters addressed to Lord Varitan, would want to be seen at an event like this. He would want to stand on the dais, towering above the other noblemen.

I don’t even realize I’m crossing the room until the table stands before me, its glossy surface covered with strange devices and instruments. Blocks of rough wood, empty flasks, and twisted pieces of metal. Bits of leather and silk. The daggers and wine bottles. That godsdamned twist of red ribbon.

But today, there’s something else. Something that makes my skin crawl and my gut twist.

Varitan left one of the silver chains here. With me.

It’s coiled on the far edge of the table, just another bit of junk on a table filled with hundreds of strange bits and bobs. It looks like nothing at all.

My teeth sink into my lower lip as I walk around the edge of the table, approaching the silver chain slowly. A strange shiver skates across my skin, reminding me of the time I stood with my arms wide, draped in measurements and fabric from Malrik’s tailor, while Fyrris stood before me in his blinding white robes and said that I could be quite useful.

My hands curl into fists as I stare at the damn thing. My muscles already feel tight, like I’m expecting a blow. I force myself to breathe, to relax.

I can stop an attack from this thing. I know that. Varitan has proven it time and again.