Chapter Fifteen #2
It doesn’t take Ziba much time to lace the back of the dress over undergarments that are so sheer and utterly useless that I wonder why I’m wearing any at all.
The corset style of the two-piece gown is different from the loose, voluminous styles that I’m used to.
The heavily pearled bodice is fitted and slightly cropped, so that a sliver of my bare stomach is visible, and the skirt is long and heavy with intricate hand-stitched embroidery and seed pearls along the hem.
Similar designs adorn the fabric in a scattering of silver thread.
Elegant silver slippers complete the ensemble.
When she finishes all the fastenings, Ziba directs me to a mirrored vanity where she combs my thick hair into a topknot of curls, securing it with glass-topped pins.
I squint at the iridescent silver strands weaving through the inky mass.
They seem more pronounced than ever. Bronze powder is lightly dusted on my cheeks, kohl applied to my eyelids, and a swipe of plum stain goes over my lips.
“There,” Ziba says with a pleased expression. “Perfect, my lady.”
I stare at my reflection and admit that Ziba isn’t wrong.
The rich color of the gown uplifts my complexion, which is flawless under the translucent powder.
I reluctantly admit—on the inside—that the king has excellent taste.
I spin, watching as the full skirt flares out.
With a gasp, I realize that the scattered embroidery reminds me of a constellation of stars set against a backdrop of a twilight sky.
Does the symbolism have some meaning to the king, or am I reading into it? Because how would he know that my magic was gifted to me by the Royal Stars?
Someone knocks on the bedchamber door and Ziba goes to answer it.
She glances back over her shoulder after exchanging a few short words with the visitor.
“His Majesty sends his regrets that he is late,” she explains to me.
“Today is court day, when citizens bring their grievances before him.” She pauses with a grimace. “This week there were more than usual.”
“Is the dinner canceled?” I ask, feeling oddly disheartened.
She shakes her head. “No, His Majesty has suggested that you may wait here or go for a walk in the gardens. He will send for you once he’s finished.”
I must admit, I’m more curious to see the supposed nightmare king in action than to take a stroll in the garden.
The idea of observing him, of gaining insight into how he rules his kingdom, is an intriguing one.
So much can be learned about a monarch in the way that he deals with his subjects and how those under his care respond to him.
Ziba’s lack of fear is yet another indicator that the terrible stories I’ve heard about the ruler of Everlea might be exaggerated.
“Is there somewhere I can watch the proceedings at court?” I ask, keeping my expression neutral. “Unbeknownst to the people, if possible. I wouldn’t want to cause distress. These sessions are public, no?”
I add the last sentence so that it doesn’t come across as though I’m trying to do something underhanded that the king might not approve of.
Predictably, Ziba peers at me as if to ascertain my motives, but then she nods.
“There is a small balcony that used to be reserved for the Queen Mother when she was alive.”
“She used to listen to civic grievances from citizens?” I ask.
Ziba nods again, a fond smile crossing her lips.
“Her Majesty was very involved in the well-being of her royal subjects, but when our young king came of age, she preferred to let him handle things,” she explains.
“The queen was the one who opened her court to the citizens of Everlea. She always used to say that a ruler is only as good as the people he or she serves.”
Wise advice. I wonder if her son had listened. I nod to Ziba. “Shall we?” She looks a bit chary, so I give her my best smile. “I promise I won’t be noticed and I won’t make a peep. I just want to observe.”
“Very well,” she says. “I suppose His Majesty won’t mind.”
Unfortunately, it seems that the king of Everlea very much does mind, because the minute I am ushered into the small nook with its single velvet-covered chair meant for the former queen, those pitch-dark, bottomless eyes immediately swing my way, brimming with surprise and then heated ferocity.
The air is suddenly charged with an elemental tension.
I can’t quite tell if he doesn’t want me here or whether that smoldering gaze is a result of some other emotion.
But he has me in a chokehold from that one look, a violent tingling creeping up my spine and that strange, insistent tug in my center drawing tight.
My lungs feel airless, and every hair on my body stands at nervous attention.
Grinding my teeth, I steadfastly refuse to yield to his overpowering dominance.
What can he do? Order me to leave in front of everyone in the middle of proceedings?
Punish me for overstepping? I hardly think I’m that important.
And yet his glare is unrelenting, urging me to flee.
With a pointedly raised brow, I gather my skirts and sit.
He tears his gaze from mine, that stern mouth of his twitching at my show of defiance.
While the king’s attention returns to the affairs of his court, my traitorous eyes surreptitiously take notice of his commanding position on the dais.
His throne is massive, the back seemingly constructed of sharp-edged scales, but his large body still dwarfs it as he sits indolently like only a sovereign can, with complete confidence in his status. Self-assurance bleeds from him.
He’s dressed in black from head to toe. Charcoal epaulets adorn his shoulders and an onyx crown with spikes that look pointy enough to skewer a person sits on his head.
My breath catches at how regal he looks with that bright silver hair loose and flowing to his shoulders, and his golden-brown skin glowing with an almost otherworldly luminosity.
One booted foot lifts to cross over the opposite knee, and I can’t help noticing how his fitted breeches pull taut against those heavily muscled tree-trunk legs.
Forcing myself to stop ogling him, I focus intently on the ongoing discussion of bride prices and dowries—is arranged marriage also practiced here?
—overcrowding in the capital city and feeding the homeless, deploying the king’s army, the scarcity of healers, and magical testing as each person takes their turn.
The deliberation of petty crime, farming tithes and land taxes, the encroachment of the horse clans on crown lands, trade deals and treaties, and marriage proposals and alliances are fascinating.
As I listen, I parse the large hall with its marble pillars and polished floors.
To the right of the king, I spot Ani furiously taking notes like a scribe.
She doesn’t look over to where I’m sitting, preoccupied with her duty.
A handful of guards line the perimeter around the remaining crowd of Everlean subjects waiting to take up their issues with the king.
As he efficiently deals with each of them, I grudgingly concede that there’s something to be said for a monarch who doesn’t prioritize his time over his people’s.
One small thing in his favor then . . .
It’s common knowledge in Oryndhr that King Zarek has not encouraged communal sessions, at least according to my father.
The monarchy has never truly cared about its citizens, and I’m certain that a tyrant like Javed won’t rule differently.
The king’s word is law and the people simply have to deal with it. I blink. Wait, not all the citizens.
A sharp reminder of the rebellion—the Dahaka—hits me like a kick in the teeth.
I’d been . . . part of them? I’d fought with them against the Scavs, the bands of nameless outliers hooked on Jade, a very addictive and dangerous drug.
My lungs contract as I fight for air, the pressure to remember everything making me feel lightheaded.
My vision starts to tunnel as nausea pools in my unsteady belly, and I brace myself on the marble balustrade in front of me.
I feel the king’s eyes crash into me again, only now his gaze is rife with concern.
Because of what’s happening? How can he know what I’m feeling right at this moment?
Outwardly, I’m perched elegantly on the edge of my chair, a hand on the rail, sitting in privacy in the small nook and invisible to everyone but him.
But inside, I’m a roiling, chaotic mess.
Unable to breathe . . .
My skin tightens with awareness as a light sensation brushes over me, and I instantly recognize it as the same magic—the king’s magic—I’d felt before pressing against my mind that first day in the healing wing.
Only now, it’s softer . . . concerned, like a soothing balm over my scattered, rioting senses.
All my senses.
Magic strokes over my shoulders and down my spine like butterfly wings, making the throttled air hiss out of me on a protracted sigh, and suddenly I can breathe again.
I preen like a pet being stroked, wanting to arch my back and lean into the exquisite sensuality of it.
Who knew magic could feel so . . . decadent?
To my mortification, my nipples tighten in my bodice, warmth pooling between my thighs.
I cross my legs and gasp with alarm as the king’s eyes widen, the ephemeral touch retreating as fast as it had come.
Sands, please tell me he hadn’t sensed that!