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“She blames herself,” Cyara said, so softly I knew the words were for me alone.
I flicked a glance over my shoulder.
Osheen was picking through the rubble of what might have been a stable.
“It is not her fault.” None of it—the wild, intractable magic she’d been gifted with, the destruction here, whatever might be happening back in Baylaur.
Once, I’d called her selfish. A waste of the crown atop her head.
As she walked, the last shreds of the daisy crown she’d worn fell away to the ashy ground.
“No,” Cyara agreed. “But Igraine did her work well.”
My gaze snapped to the handmaiden, ready to demand what she meant by that.
But Veyka’s scream stole all thoughts from my head.
39
PARYS
It was a little pitiful to still be taking his meals in Veyka’s antechamber. But he’d never spent much time in his own room, even before Arthur’s death. And after…
Being alone was hard, even with the wine and aural and sleeping teas.
It had gotten easier in the last few months.
But with Veyka and the rest of the Round Table gone… sometimes he ate in the throne room, with the other courtiers. Sometimes the idea of sitting through another meal with those insipid vipers threatened to boil his brain.
So, mostly he ate alone in the library or in Veyka’s antechamber. Except today, the antechamber wasn’t empty.
“What is this?”
Guinevere stared at him from one of the arm chairs. There was a new table—higher than the one that had been there before—positioned between her seat and its matching, high-backed twin. High enough to make eating easy. No plates on laps. A civilized meal.
“There is one thing you are never late for,” she nodded at the empty seat. “A meal.”
He understood her intent instantly.
“So you intend to ruin my meals with politics?”
“If that is what it takes to get you to do the job that the High King and Queen have set for us, then yes.” Guinevere didn’t wait for him to sit to start pouring the wine.
Good wine. Parys could tell instantly from the rich burgundy color and the way it filled his nostrils. Full-bodied, fruit-forward, hints of cocoa that he could already anticipate lingering on his tongue. She was more observant than he’d given her credit for.
As he stared her down, the doors behind him opened. Servants bore in trays of food, the scent thick and warm, wafting into his senses. Making his stomach growl.
“This isn’t fair,” Parys said, even as he dropped into the chair and grabbed his wine unceremoniously.
Guinevere’s composure didn’t crack. She did take a sip from her own glass.
“Battles can be fought in many ways,” she said. “And won.”
Parys dismissed the servants with a ‘thank you’ and started serving himself. He’d never even seen her eat, and he certainly wasn’t going to let the food get cold while waiting for that to change. “We are supposed to be working together. Not battling one another.”
She watched him fill his plate and take several bites before reaching for her own. But she didn’t take a bite. She left her fork untouched as she pulled out a thick stack of envelopes.
Parys pushed past the slight nausea at the sight. Smashed potatoes with cream and thick onion gravy helped with that.
