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In my entire rule, I don’t think I’ve ever heard Anrek Loar advise anything but murder, but she’s not the only one to think so in the council today. Several people nod their agreement.
“I wouldn’t say the girl harmed me, as such,” I lie, purposely sounding incredibly bored. “It was simply a little scrape.”
“It didn’t sound like a scrape,” the ancient patriarch of the northern wood clan known as the Alfar says.
Yul Tanaros is usually neutral on most subjects, but my latest assassination is ruffling quite a few feathers.
We share ties, he and I, as his pointed ears and sapphire eyes suggest; he’s one of Lucyan’s ancestors—her great-granduncle, I believe. I know better than to think my injury matters to him. If he’s angry, it’s because Alleans have dared to strike at me and they yet breathe, which in his mind weakens the kingdom.
“Vessorian, what doyousay?” Yul questions.
Vess keeps his expression completely neutral, never showing he saw the wound mere minutes after she inflicted it. It would have killed almost anyone else. But he knows I was in little danger. He’d been right next to me all those years ago, when I buried my heart under the yew tree in the old forest. He left his own nearby, under an oak.
It’s an ancient, dangerous ritual that could have killed us, but it’s saved our lives countless of times. Most people go for the heart. The throat and eyes require better aim; the belly doesn’t guarantee instant death. I’ve survived five assassinations because I divested myself of the cumbersome organ in my youth. Now my blood is flowing through my veins by shade magic alone.
“Disposing of one’s enemies is a show of simplicity, or fear—not strength. The king knows what he’s doing.” My friend’s loyal to a fault. Even when he disagrees with me, he’d never admit it to my council. “If we’d executed the assassin, it would have shown everyone we consider a little girl a threat. What we’re doing now is humiliating her, and by extension, Allea. That’s a much stronger hand.”
Anrek considers Vess’s words, and smirks. “You’re making her suffer, then?”
“Undoubtedly.” I don’t have any inclination, desire, or intention of truly harming Rhea, or any woman, but there’s no denying that she finds letting go of her control and coming all over the cock of a man she hates torturous.
“You should show her off. Dangle her in front of the Alleans’ noses. Let them return to the blessed land of light with news that the best murderess the Kind King could dispatch is nothing but a toy to us.” The lord ruling over the majority of the east is a man of few words. He’s spent countless meetings utterly silent, only placing his token to vote when required to. Now he leans in eagerly. I have to refrain from growling, feeling proprietary.
Nyxar has thirteen provinces in total, but among them, four hoard the bulk of the wealth and power: north, south, east and west. My grandfather established his seat in the north, land of winter, under the eternal starry sky, and all bowed to him, but the three other territories retain a degree of freedom, even after they bent the knee.
South, right at the border of Allea, lies the land of Summer, and whilst it’s governed by the laws of shade, they still have daylight and four seasons. Their might is mostly due to the fact that they grow most of our crops, feeding the entirety of our kingdom. The countess Koraal lords over them. She sends her son in her stead. Daeron’s an old acquaintance, and part of my circle. I trust him more than most.
West is the court of Spring, ruled by Vessorian, though he spends most of his time right here with me. They benefit from some daylight thanks to their proximity to the south.
Rath Vornel rules Autumn, the wildest and most beautiful of all of our territories. He’s resisted any attempt at being seduced into a friendship or close alliance by my grandfather, my father, or anyone else around this table. He relies on his own court and nothing else. His father vowed fealty to Nyxar, and his court’s under my jurisdiction, but I don’t doubt that he’d take my kingdom if I show the slightest weakness.
And now, I suspect he’d gladly take my lady of pleasure, too.
Rath looks almost exactly like Vess: long dark hair, sharp, nearly effeminate features, high, sharp cheekbones, and intense eyes that miss nothing.
“I can assure you, good duke, that’s exactly my intention.”
I am stunned to see a smile curve at the corner of his lips. “Well then, we’ll have an interesting revel.”
My instinct to keep Rhea under lock and key until he’s returned to his gilded throne in the golden orchard startles me. I squash it, seeing an opportunity none of my predecessors was ever given, understanding that I’ll likely never get another chance like this one.
I barely listen to the rest of the council—the talk of moving more men to the border, which seems obvious, an argument about the price of corn, which is tedious, and tentative dates for the next royal hunt. All the while, I watch the silent duke, considering my options, trying to talk myself out of what I know must be done.
At long last, the session is adjourned, and everyone stands to leave the chamber.
“Linger a moment if you would, Vornel.”
The duke halts by his seat, his dark eyes narrowing. Both Daeron and Vess sit back down, knowing I’d dismiss them if I needed privacy.
I don’t miss the rest of the council’s intrigue as they leave as slowly as they can. When all are gone and the doors shut behind them, I say, “You’ve noticed what Rhea is, then.”
He lifts his chin wordlessly.
“There aren’t many of them left,” I hedge, refusing to spell things out for him.
Rath Vornel hesitates, which isn’t like him at all, but at long last, he sits again. “I was wed to one, long before you were born, in the wild days before your grandfather saw fit to unite what should have stayed separate.”
It is easy to forget his age. Rath looks younger than me, just past boyhood, but he’s a remnant from the days of the old gods. He might have been a king’s son then, but he knew the world as it was.
