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Salas shivered.
Only when the King was called away to some other business, and would then promptly disappear from sight, would Salas halt his “reading” charade, snap whatever dull, dusty textbook was in his lap shut, and go pick out one of the more enjoyable stories Newt had shown him. He could readthosefor hours.
Suscon hadn’t had stories like these, as the fairytales there ended in grief. Here, the impossible was made possible and happy endings were achieved for those who had been born with misfortune. They were children’s stories, he realized this. Yet making his true preference known to the King, who he so wanted to impress, left his chest aching with wariness. He didn’t want the King infantilizing him more so than he already did, and feared that the King would eventually deem him…too unfit as a bed partner.
Too unfit intellectually.
“I will not touch you until you understand.”
Salas had to do better. Be smarter. Then the King would want him.
“The house was made of ston,” Salas read aloud, his fingers tracing the large letters as he spoke.
“Stone,” Newtalia interrupted, correcting his pronunciation.
“Stone,” Salas repeated, appreciating her bluntness. Most people were too polite to point out his Diagorian mistakes when they spoke to him, yet Newt was brutally honest when he sounded out the words incorrectly, helpfully mean in the way only a child can be, and therefore she was his greatest teacher so far.
Salas frowned, for the first time fully observing the painted illustration that accompanied the text on this particular page of the story. “She does not look like a handmaid!” Salas protested, showing Newtalia the picture. “She’s already dressed like a princess. What handmaid wears purple shimmery dresses?”
Newtalia giggled. “Salas! It’s just a story!”
“Not just a story,” he snapped, making Newt giggle harder, finding his seriousness hilarious.
Just then, the door burst open as King Jareth strode in in his official regalia; an outfit that he normally wore when attending to matters of the throne, though never around the residential chambers, which left Salas alarmed.
Salas shot to his feet, immediately on edge. He had been in the company of the princess alone, and it suddenly occurred to Salas that by doing this, he could have very well made a grave mistake that could enrage the King.
“Your Grace, I’m sorry,” Salas began immediately, clutching the book to his chest as he kept his eyes to the ground.
“Hmm?” the King wondered, walking over to assess the reasoning behind Salas’ apology.
Salas risked a glance up. “Newt and I were reading without…supervision,” he explained softly. There would have been outrage in Suscon. Salas had held no interest in acquainting himself with children in the southern country, yet even if he had, it would have never been an option. The courtiers kept their children well away from the birds, and the few times a bird had been caught briefly socializing with one, it had not ended well for the bird.
“What’s all this?” the King mused, gently petting the side of Salas’ carefully combed hair and pushing a lock back behind his ear. Salas took another chance by looking up once more and found the King gazing down at him with that curious gentleness that left Salas craving the man’s undivided attention. “Sit, Salas,” Jareth continued. “Finish your studies.”
“Father,” Newt began, scrambling to her feet as well and throwing her hands into the air, the universal signal that she desired to be picked up. The King obliged. “Why are you in regalia? I heard about the riders! Has something happened?”
“Riders?” Salas wondered as well. There had been some discussion that morning about Diagorian soldiers returning, yet the news seemed to be increasingly important.
Newtalia was already showing command of jurisdiction if she was demanding answers on official matters, before even he thought to ask, and Salas felt oddly proud of her.
“Something has come up,” Jareth admitted seriously. He was never one to sugar-coat things when it came to his daughter, either. Though he would sometimes explain in simple terms, he was not one to lie to her, trusting her competence to absorb the information she was given and take it well. She would rule one day, and the entire Kingdom knew it, more so her father.
“The Malthenians have turned on us,” Jareth went on. “We need to prepare a counter. I have a meeting soon, to convince some foreign dignitaries to help us, as well as landholders of Diagor to fund a campaign.” He paused, looking over to Salas who admittedly hadn’t understood much of what Jareth had relayed.
Yet he had understood one thing.
Malthens.
Salas hadn’t thought of the night of the invasion for some time, yet the knowledge that Diagor and Malthens had been working in tandem was something he had taken to heart. He had been close to Jovack, the Malthenian traitor, whose relationship he considered second to the Emperor’s before the betrayal.
The reminder twisted something cold and buried inside Salas, and it was not simply a feeling of dread. It was a physical sensation, curling like nausea, that reminded Salas of something he had thought died with the Emperor.
The magic was calling to him, reminding him of somethingsecret.
Salas schooled his features, which most likely revealed his pain, and refocused himself, ignoring the twist inside of him as the pain ebbed.
Sometime during the moment, he had dropped the book he had been holding, and snatched it up before the King could get to it and therefore see the cover and title.
