Chapter Thirty-Four
The entire court goes into mourning.
The minotaur, whom I merely assumed was a good friend of Arcus, was one of the architects of the palace. He was responsible for the enchantment that has delivered me precisely where I need to go.
This makes me glad that he’s dead. Who knows if he was keeping tabs on me, spying through that same enchantment. Wasn’t he strolling through the garden with Firo, while Firo was spending so much time with Luthian? Did the architect tell Arcus about the mermaids? About my dalliance with Cassan?
One thing that I do know is that he didn’t get a chance to tell anyone about Kathras and I in the library. And I know exactly who doled out that silence.
Does any of it really matter, though? Now that my revenge has been lost to me, now that Luthian has severed our ties? Kathras’s suggestion that I flee the palace haunts me, especially as Arcus has closed me up in my hall of mirrors.
I lose myself in the words of his late queen and find myself greatly sympathizing with her. She endured centuries of captivity under his control. It’s only been a day and already I’m going mad.
But I’m more fortunate than she was; her diary details incident after incident of abuse and humiliation at Arcus’s foul hands. So far, he has not thought to alleviate his anger by attacking me, an indignity that she suffered throughout their union. I have no doubt that such a time will come, if Luthian doesn’t succeed in his assassination attempt.
My heart aches at the mere thought of him. I flip past endless pages about his great love with Parphia, the tender words he whispered to her in candlelit hallways, the danger of discovery heightening their passions.
No romance that begins in the perilous secrecy of the weight of a crown can meet any other end.
I tell myself that over and over when my thoughts stray to Kathras.
Twice now, he has protected me. I want to deny it, to reason that the minotaur posed as much a threat to him as to me. That Kathras killed the architect to hide his own secrets.
That doesn’t explain the cephalopire.
A knock at the door startles me. I’ve been staring at the same page of Parphia’s journal for so long that I don’t remember what I was reading. The sylphs don’t knock, and Arcus would have simply appeared. I approach with caution.
“Your Majesty.” Firo bows at the waist when I open the door.
I almost catch him up in a hug, I’m so relieved to see a friendly face.
The room beyond my door is small, decorated all in frothy pinks, with satin wall coverings and delicate furniture. Gilded ornamentation sparkles from the legs of the chairs to the medallions at the corners of the ceiling. Even the hearth is gold.
“What is this place?” I ask, stepping out of my bedroom.
“The queen’s formal salon, Your Majesty,” Firo says looking around. “You haven’t yet been introduced to it?”
“I haven’t been crowned yet.” If Arcus finds out what Kathras has done and why, I may not have a head to wear a crown. “And you are aware that I am in a delicate position.”
“Indeed, I am.” He rolls his wrist, and a glass pot of amber liquid appears atop his palm. “This might bring you some cheer.”
“What is it?” I take the jar and turn it over in my hands. A bejeweled serpent coils on the lid. The substance inside is thick, like—
“Honey,” he says. “The king’s favorite. Rumor has it that he is in a foul mood. Perhaps this will sweeten his disposition.”
“How thoughtful.” Though, I have no doubt that the only thing the king will enjoy is torturing me. I wonder what it will be this time. An ogre in chains? A tree beast? One of the statues from the library?
I think Arcus would allow a troll to rip me apart for his own amusement if the notion took him.
“Perhaps permanently,” Firo adds in a near whisper.
My gaze whips to his and he holds it, silently willing me to understand.
I do. And rage fills me from my stomach outward, sending a dizzying rush to my head. “You mistake me. I am no longer a part of that plan.”
“That isn’t why I offer it.” He searches my face. “You need this, Cenere. You won’t last long here with his temper.”
I turn the jar over in my hands. “I thank you for the gift. Whom shall I say it is from?”
“You won’t be called upon to divulge that,” he promises. “Just a small taste, and you’ll both be at ease.”
“I’m so careful about what I eat here,” I say, my tone heavy with double meaning. “I don’t wish to consume anything that would disagree with me.”
Firo clucks his tongue and shakes his head. “Don’t worry, Your Majesty. It won’t harm you at all.”
It won’t harm me, but it will harm Arcus.
I fold my hands over the jar, which has become my savior. “I am grateful to you. For such a kind, thoughtful gift in my beloved king’s time of sorrow.”
“I thought you would be.” Firo again bows to me. “I will leave you to your mourning.”
He vanishes, and I head back into my room, gripping the jar tightly. I need to hide it. If I’m caught in position of a poison that will only work against faeries, it will all but seal my guilt in the deaths of both the architect and the cephalopire.
The sooner it is out of my hands, the better.
Which means that I must act immediately.
* * * *
I do not await Arcus’s invitation. Judging by Parphia’s journal, it may be weeks or months before his bad mood passes and I am called to him. I can’t hold onto such an incriminating object for that long. So, I bathe and perfume myself, bedeck myself in gold jewelry with amber stones to match my weapon, and go to him otherwise nude. My door helpfully opens directly into his bedchamber.
I spy him sitting in a chair before the hearth, staring into the flames. His back is to me. I see only his chestnut curls, lined with gold from the firelight, and his hand draped morosely over the arm of the chair.
“I wish to be alone, Cenere,” he says, without sparing me a glance.
“As I expected. But your sorrow is so heavy. I felt your very spirit crying out to me, urging me to come to you. To comfort you.” I move slowly to stand beside him, placing the honey carefully on the table. “To distract you.”
With a long, slow exhale, he leans his head against my chest, that limp arm rising to rest across the small of my back as he pulls me closer. “You are a dear human, my love, and well-meaning, but naive. I am your king, and I will have your obedience.”
I swallow my fear and say, “I am to be your queen. And I will not have you suffer so great a loss alone.”
Only now does he look up, a wonder written across his features that does not match the gravity of his words. “You would defy me?”
“I defy anyone to keep me from comforting my beloved.” I fall to my knees beside him. “But I know of only one thing I can provide to alleviate your burden.”
He turns away again.
I glance back to the honey on the table. If I try to persuade him to eat it and he refuses, he will suspect me if I bring it up a second time. I must be sure, but it also has to be now.
“It is past midday, and the plate set out for you is bare and untouched. Have you not eaten?” I ask.
“I have no desire for food at present,” he says boredly. “As I said, I wish to be alone. I will come to you if I need your aid.”
“Of that, I have no doubt. But to put my mind at ease...” I go to the table and pretend to look over the food that is laid out there and grown cold. I pick up the jar as if I’m noticing it for the first time, acting out my part even though he cannot see me, and go to his side again. He’s annoyed with me, and I know I’ve pushed him too far already. “Ah, this will do.”
I lift the lid from the jar, and the ruby eyes of the golden serpent seem to wink at me. I sweep my finger inside. “Just a taste,” Firo instructed. The shining glob on my finger is all it will take to free me.
And, I realize, to get another, less satisfying revenge. Arcus’s death will pay for the one he robbed from me. It will not be as satisfying as killing Cadwyn Thrace, but it will wash away some of my bitterness, knowing that the faery who stole my justice has died at my hands.
“Just a taste,” I murmur, echoing Firo’s words. “Then, I can go back to my chambers and know that you’ve had something to eat, no matter how meager.”
I offer him my finger and the honey that has begun to run down to my hand. His eyes lock with mine and my breath halts painfully. Can he tell? Am I too conspicuous in my urging? Does my intent show on my face? He opens his mouth, and I’m sure his next words will be, “Seize her!”
Instead, his gaze grows hot, and he grabs my wrist, drawing my hand to his mouth. He sucks my finger in and swirls his tongue around it.
My knees buckle with arousal. Though I find him detestable, the relief I feel at watching him slurp his death from my hand is almost strong enough to make me climax where I stand.
When he’s licked my finger clean, he says, “I would rather taste your honey, Cenere.”
I grin down at him, something truly wicked unfurling through me like Luthian’s vines. Arcus has sealed his doom. I do not know how long his death will take, but the thought of it cutting him down while he ruts inside of me is as erotic as my fantasies of tearing Thrace’s wings off.
I want to ride Arcus while he suffers his death throes. I want to whisper that it was me who killed him while he gasps for breath and tries to call for help.
The honey is still on the table. I go to retrieve it, and his hand lingers on mine as I walk away.
I return to him, that jar of his doom glowing beautifully in the fire light. “You are king. You may have both.”