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“I need a list of everyone who might have known about the hidden door in the room he disappeared from,” I told the four silent councillors still seated at the table. I could tell from their uneasy expressions that they understood what I was implying, but there was no objection to the insinuation that the palace may be harbouring a traitor. Apparently it hadn’t been only my mind that had reached such a conclusion.
“It will be done,” Councillor del Olmo assured me. “I will have Elías look over the list as well.”
I dipped my chin, appreciating the gesture. It would mean I could trust the list to be accurate, and not fear the councillors had omitted any names from the document.
“The Lukian delegation gets here tomorrow,” I reminded them all in a low voice. “If they realise our king ismissing?”
“Indeed.” Morales’ mouth drew into a thin line. “It would greatly compromise our position and any hope of restoring the friendship we had with Lukia before Duke Welzes perished.”
Perished. That was a kind way of saying impaled on my knife in a desperate, muddled mess of a half-fight when he’d tried to hurt Ren by killing me. I’d done little more than angle it towards his heart: Welzes had achieved the rest with the force he’d used to throw himself onto it while attempting to get to me.
“As such, time is more precious than ever,” said Councillor Zapatero, the most recently appointed of Ren’s four-person Council. “We believe you should open His Majesty’s Letter of Last Instruction, king consort.”
I opened my mouth. Closed it again. Internally screamed and howled at the man for suggesting such a thing because Renwasn’t fucking dead. Took a breath. And another.
“Very well,” I conceded after a long moment of struggling to keep my expression in check.
Although usually intended to only be read in the event of the ruling monarch’s death, a Letter of Last Instruction was sometimes opened upon them being rendered severely ill or injured, and essentially contained what the heir would need to take the throne when their king or queen was unable to communicate their most closely guarded secrets in person. It was a slim hope, but perhaps the letter might shed some light on what had happened to my husband: a mention of an enemy I hadn’t known he had, perhaps, or a threat to Quareh he’d been trying to manage alone?
I forced myself to remain seated as Zapatero left to retrieve the letter, staring at the worn-down wood of the table before me. Generations of Quarehian kings had sat here with their Councils, making decisions that were capable of affecting hundreds of thousands of people. It was what Ren thrived at: navigating the complexities of politics and economics and all the other things that went over my head because, as he always put it in that exasperated yet fond tone of his when I insisted we had to help someone,it’s not that simple, Nat.
After half a day of dealing with pleas from desperate citizens where every decision had a huge and sometimes hidden cost and there was no one to blame for getting it wrong but me, I was beginning to understand.
The envelope that was laid before me was far heavier and thicker than I’d expected, but the knife tucked into my boot made quick work of slicing it open. The councillors watched me silently from their places at the table as I scanned my eyes down the first page of flashy handwriting.
My dear Nathanael Mathias Velichkov Aratorre, brightest light of my soul and deepest core of my heart.
If you’re reading this, then I’m either dead or incapacitated. Or you’re being a nosy prick, but as that’s nothing new and my Council are under strict instructions not to disclose the location of this letter but for anything less than a catastrophe – namely, the loss of my esteemed company – I’m guessing it’s more than mere curiosity that has led you here.
Unless you used those puppy dog eyes of yours. You, begging, is truly impossible to resist, and I would not blame anyone for surrendering to it.
I tried to hide my smile. This was meant to be serious correspondence, damn it.
So. Dead. I’m not happy about it, believe me, because although I expect heaven has the ripest, freshest oranges, miles of soft silk sheets, and an eternity of naked angels to frolic in the clouds with, it doesn’t have you. Not because I don’t think you deserve to be here: hell, Mat, underneath all that sarcasm and sulk you’re the bravest, sweetest, most compassionate person I’ve ever known, but because you better not have fucking died before me. No amount of safe words will save you from my wrath if I find you already waiting for me up there.
So with my loneliness assured, I turn to wallowing in melancholy at the knowledge that I will never again get to touch you on the earthly plane. Never again taste your soft kisses or breathe in your wintry scent or trace the shape of your hands. Never again run my fingers through your hair, or feel the way you writhe and scream when I’m inside you.
That is the true tragedy of my death, Nat. Even as I write this, I grow morose despite knowing I’m still yours, and you mine, at least for a little while longer. When I am finished with thisletter, I think I will seek you out and smother you in kisses until you’re laughing and protesting in that contrary way of yours, and then wrap us both in a blanket so we can watch the sunset by an open window. I shall feed you wine, and kiss you some more, and fall asleep in your arms.
If I could choose a way to leave this life, mi sol, it would be like that.
But I expect, knowing me as well as one tends to do when one has spent two decades in one’s own company, that my end was something rather more dramatic and grandiose. Perhaps I threw myself into the ocean to repel a huge wave that would have torn down half the country. Or maybe I was struck down by a thousand arrows as I defended Quareh from whatever bastards wanted to destroy it this time. I’m sure it was glorious, regardless.
I grimaced, fairly sure that quietly disappearing from a dusty little room for no apparent reason would not have met his definition ofglorious.
“King consort?”
“Just some…private words,” I mumbled without lifting my head. I fear my voice trembled, and was glad when none of them called me on it.
I skimmed my eyes over the next two paragraphs until I found something referencing instructions, knowing my tears were close to falling. I’d savour the passages of heartbreaking tenderness when I had the chance to re-read the letter alone.
How had I not realised how difficult this would be? Of course Ren’s Letter of Last Instruction would not be the formal missive it was meant to be, for he infected everything he touched with his distinct personality.
There are things that will be expected of you in my absence, Mathias, and I know you’ll perform them admirably. You may be abysmal at following instructions normally, but I have faith that you’ll honour a dying man’s wishes because it seems the type of pointless, honourable thing you’d do.
Yes, I thought, hoping it would reach him wherever he was.I’ll do anything you ask. Just be alive, you impossible prick.
I read on eagerly, seeking the wisdom he could provide in how to manage his fucking country while he was gone. With his guidance, maybe I would have an actual chance of keeping our people happy, the Council satisfied, the Lukians from discovering our king was missing, the…
