9. Basten
Chapter 9
Basten
N ew city, same damn pageantry.
After six days of travel, we enter Old Coros with all the pomp that a rising king should expect. Golden banners—in honor of the Valvere color—drape from the main gate to dust us with glitter as we enter. Scrolls displaying the Valvere coin emblem hang from every municipal building. The streets are lined with the capital’s residents, so eager to glimpse their new regent that they throw elbows and climb onto rooftops.
I can’t help but let out a snort. Rian, the golden boy, being fawned over as the future king.
He must fucking love it.
I’d like to say that the public’s enthusiasm stems from deep devotion to Rian, but that would be a lie. The Valveres ruled Duren, sure, but that’s a trashy backwoods town to most of these aristocrats—they only care that he’s fresh blood.
Young, handsome, and full of promise for juicy scandal.
I’m sure he’ll deliver all that and more .
I shift in my saddle, pulling at my collar to release the noonday heat. I’m grateful to ride midway through the travel party. Not at the head, where Rian rides Colossus like a conqueror surveying his domain.
It isn’t lost on me that, had fate been different, I would be heading this procession. It would be me the crowds fawned over. Me wearing the golden circlet of the rising king.
Well, thank the fucking gods it’s not.
Still, as I adjust my seat on Dare, there’s a tiny prick of remorse, like a splinter under the skin. A part of me wonders what it would be like to have accepted my rightful title, to have the power to change things. Was it right for me to shirk that mantle onto another’s shoulders? Am I missing my calling from the gods? But then I remember the responsibility, the constant scrutiny, the damn starched collars, and I snort.
Besides, screw the gods.
Every kingdom needs a rogue, and I wear that title like a second skin.
It isn’t my first time in the capital city, but as I ride through Old Coros, I find myself studying everything with new intensity. It’s famed throughout the seven kingdoms as the pinnacle of human achievement. The streets are laid out in a precise grid. Canals with stone embankments transport riverboats from one portion of town to another. Even Hekkelveld Castle’s five towers are named for human virtues—Honor, Wisdom, Faith, Mercy, and Charity.
Sure, the presence of the gods is felt here. Mostly in pubs named “The Fae Charmer” or “Popelin’s Lark,” and in the Red Churches devoted to the ten godly orders.
Still, the lion’s share of the statues gracing crossroads are of human heroes, not gods. During King Joruun’s peaceful days, with the fae deep in their subterranean sleep, it didn’t matter.
But everything’s changed now that Iyre is awake.
I find myself pressing my fingers against the pain blooming in my left temple before I let my hand fall.
I hope like hell Rian knows what he’s doing.
Ferra, riding a few horses behind me, clicks her tongue as she murmurs to Folke, “I miss Duren’s Sin Streets already.”
“Old Coros has a legal vices district, too, my jewel,” Folke replies, his voice light with amusement.
“It’s hardly the same.” Ferra's sigh carries a note of longing. “In Duren, you could be who you really are. Even in the filth, there was a sense of freedom. But in Old Coros, you always have to pretend.”
“Being yourself is a luxury few can afford anywhere,” Folke counters.
The theme of their conversation pricks my ears. I’ve always considered myself an open book, never hiding behind masks like Rian or other politicians. But here, listening to their words, a troubling thought creeps in. Maybe I am pretending. A true king forced to act the part of a soldier, playing a role like everyone else.
The realization settles uncomfortably in my chest.
“Besides,” Folke chides good-naturedly. “No one plays pretend quite as well as you.”
Ferra’s reply is quick, defensive. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Folke strokes the back of his hand down her cheek. “It was only a reference to your godkiss. You can change your face as easily as a new set of clothes. Thriving in Old Coros should be child’s play to you.”
Ferra’s voice snaps with annoyance. “Shifting appearances isn’t as carefree as you think. It’s a curse to always have to change. To never show your true face. You think it’s a gift, but it’s a prison.”
Folke chuckles. “And how many prisons have you been in, my jewel?”
Ferra yanks on her horse’s reins. “One, if you count being with you .” She spurs her horse forward, passing me, and riding ahead to flank Suri’s carriage.
A trumpet blares, making me jump.
Ahead, the limestone towers of Hekkelveld Castle rise above the buildings.
Soft exclamations sound throughout the travel party. It doesn’t matter how often a person sees Hekkelveld Castle—each time, it’s as though for the first.
Old Coros may be an homage to humankind’s achievements, but in those castle walls, the presence of the gods can’t be denied.
Like all ancient fae castles, it’s laid out in a five-pointed star pattern. Sorsha Hall is the same. Likewise, Drahallen Hall in Volkany is well known to have been Immortal Vale’s primary residence and the seat of the fae court.
Correspondingly, Hekkelveld Castle was originally built to honor Immortal Meric, God of Justice and Punishment, during the First Return.
However, in the two thousand years since then, the original fae style has been covered up by human additions. The carvings of Meric’s knot symbol are worn away, visible only in the castle’s ancient foundation. The sections where the fae stonework meets newer human additions are largely obscured by greenery. Meric’s original maze, used to punish criminals, is now a carefully manicured garden.
A welcome party awaits us on the front steps. The banners here are notably not Valvere gold in color. They’re gray, emblazed with silver ravens, and the message is clear: It doesn’t matter where Rian came from—now, he is a servant of Old Coros.
I can’t help but smirk to see the downturned corners of Rian’s mouth, as though he just ate undercooked cod. Gods help the King’s Council if they think they can tame Rian Valvere into wearing gray.
A white-haired man in slate-colored robes announces, “Your Grace, Rising King Rian, future regent of the great kingdom of Astagnon, it is with profound honor that the King’s Council welcomes you today!”
I stifle a yawn, noting the nine other equally white-haired men, their faces a blur of indistinguishable wrinkles. It seems that the members of the King’s Council aren’t so far away from joining Old Joruun in the grave.
The spokesperson continues, “Though untested and new to the burdens of leadership, we recognize the unique tools at your disposal to forge a path through tumultuous times ahead. With your rare assets, you stand poised to lead Astagnon through its challenges. May your reign be marked by unwavering success. Long live Rising King Rian!”
Rian’s face remains as immovable as the castle’s limestone bricks. As innocuous as the welcome sounded, it was what the advisor didn’t say that stings.
Not one word about the Valvere family name. No praise for Rian’s integrity. Not a mention of wisdom, valor, or compassion .
“ All they care about ,” I overhear a soldier whisper to the man next to him, “ is that he has a monoceros.”
Damn, if I don’t smile to think of how Rian is going to show all these white-haired asses how a Valvere gets things done.
A valet bows deeply as he holds Colossus for Rian to dismount. The crowd at the castle’s steps—lords and ladies, dukes and counts—is noticeably better dressed, not to mention better smelling than the ones we left in Duren. Here, it’s all rose oil and sandalwood, not the cow manure scent of the masses.
Whatever . They still piss in a pot.
Rian bows to the King’s Councilors, though not as deeply as is customary. I can hear his molars grinding in his jaw as he forces a proud smile. Until the crown rests on his head, he isn’t their king yet—he has to ingratiate himself.
“My deepest thanks,” he says steadily, casually resting one hand on his sword and closing each finger slowly around the hilt, which melts the smirks off their faces. “It is with great honor that I accept the role bestowed upon me by gods and men alike. I vow upon Immortal Popelin’s sacred chalice to serve the kingdom with honor.”
I roll my eyes before thinking better of it. Immortal Popelin might be his family’s patron god, but Popelin would sooner watch a kingdom burn just for the entertainment factor.
The travel party begin the arduous task of unpacking. While the bulk of Rian’s staff disperses to be assigned their new castle roles, the Golden Sentinels parade off to the royal barracks. The Valvere family and other courtiers are ushered into Hekkelveld Castle’s cavernous entryway.
Rian pauses at the grand brass double doors, which are cast with the twin city mottos of brAVERY and FORTITUDE. Looking around, he hunts me out from the crowd and beckons.
“Wolf. Come.”
“Great,” I murmur under my breath. As First Sword, I can’t slink off to the barracks in peace.
Inside, the castle is blessedly cool after the midday heat. A round mosaic of a raven surrounded by olive branches is set into the floor. The foundation rocks are thousands of years old, so ancient that my heightened vision can pick out the fossils of tiny fae sea creatures trapped within the pressed siltstone.
Absently, I clasp the wrist guard over my left forearm, rubbing my thumb over the bandage’s soft edge.
A voice calls, “The Lord of Liars makes an oath, and we are to believe him?”
A ruggedly handsome man in royal armor and a silver chainmail sash descends the steps toward Rian. That sash marks him as Lord of the Iron Banner—the envoy bridging communication between the royal family and the kingdom’s army.
My hand goes instantly to my sword. Before the Lord of the Iron Banner comes to a halt, I sweep to Rian’s side and draw my weapon.
“You dare to insult the Rising King?” My voice cuts with the same promise as my sword. Glaring through my loose hair, I ready myself for a fight. I might have only been named First Sword a few days ago, but I’ve spent a lifetime defending Rian.
A metal ring echoes in the air as the royal guards flanking the entryway draw their swords.
Like a thunderclap, electricity sizzles in the air .
My ears pick up the agitated murmurs from the crowd of servants and King’s Councilmen, speculation about who the man is who dares to draw a weapon in Hekkelveld Castle’s Raven Hall.
“…they call him the Lone Wolf.”
“The one Immortal Iyre robbed of memory.”
“He’s spent a lifetime at the Rising King’s side…”
The Lord of the Iron Banner merely blinks, perfect calm. “No greater dare, I should think,” he says, “than drawing a sword in Raven Hall. This is sacred ground. Deemed by the late King Joruun to forever be a threshold of peace.”
“Well,” I point out, “Joruun is dead.”
Rian laughs, masking it with a cough, and rests his hand on my shoulder in a calming gesture. “Relax, Wolf. If one person in the world is allowed to insult the Rising King, it’s Kendan Valvere.”
Kendan Valvere?
I haven’t seen Rian’s eldest brother in fifteen years, not since he and Lord Berolt had such a violent disagreement that Kendan stormed out of Duren and never returned. Rian has met with Kendan over the years, when traveling or in Old Coros, but I wouldn’t have recognized him.
At first glance, he has none of the Valvere elegance. The Valveres are all polish and precision. Even Rian, known for his restraint with adornment, is partial to a swipe of smoky blue kohl on his lashlines. Gods know his hair and beard are tamed within an inch of their lives.
Kendan, in contrast, has all the lean angles of a falcon, both deadly and striking but also plain in its feather coloration. His hair is as raven black as Rian’s, though at ten years Rian’s senior, a touch of gray dusts his temples and the stubble hugging his chin. Though his armor is carefully polished, it doesn’t hide a constellation of knicks and dents. Apparently, the Lord of the Iron Banner title doesn’t mean his hands don’t occasionally get dirty.
Slowly, I sheath my sword, and the royal guards follow suit.
Kendan’s mouth lifts in a calculated smile, and there . I see it now—a hint of the famous Valvere ability to perfectly contain one’s emotions.
“Welcome.” He grips Rian by the shoulders in a hearty embrace, but his eyes shift to me over Rian’s shoulder, alight with a cryptic gleam. “ Brother .”
I jolt enough to rattle my armor.
Kendan might as well have splashed a bucket of water on my face. It’s a struggle to stay impassive, to wear a mask like the two of them do so effortlessly.
By the fucking gods, does he know?
As soon as the words are uttered, Kendan switches back to the perfect role of teasing older brother. He gives Rian a heavy pat on the shoulder, all genuine smiles now.
But my heart races, and my mind buzzes with unease.
“Rian—and I’ll call you that until the crown is on your head, eh? You have no idea how proud I am to have my little brother about to warm his ass on Hekkelveld’s throne.”
Rian chuckles deeply as he rubs his hands together. “Well, a fine ass it is. Best in the family.”
“Let the ladies of court be the judge of that.” Kendan leans in devilishly to murmur for only Rian’s hearing, “You’re going to have your hands full of women clamoring to be queen now that your previous engagement is null.”
A lump forms in my throat as I flex my left hand, drawing my attention to the bandage beneath my wrist guard. I ache to peel back the bandage, to see the letters etched into my flesh.
But I can’t. Not here, not now.
“Cousin Kendan!” Lady Runa makes a point of fluttering her peacock feather fan as she inserts herself into the conversation. “What a dashing man you’ve grown into. Is that gray in your beard?”
“Silver,” Lady Eleonora interjects, leaning on her diamond-tipped cane. “Valveres don’t gray, we silver .”
“Grandmother.” Kendan steps forward to place a kiss on her wrinkled cheek.
Lord Gideon Valvere and the rest of the cousins preen for his attention, but Kendan only has eyes for the young woman trying to sneak off toward the stairs—Lady Suri.
“And who is this ?” Kendan asks.
Suri jumps, spinning around with a forced grin as she smooths out her gown. In the sunflower dress with golden trim, she shines brighter even than Eleonora’s diamond.
Kendan looks gobsmacked. Once he recovers, he continues, “Brother, if I’d known you had such beautiful maidens in Sorsha Hall’s court, I would have returned home more often.” He bows to Suri, offering his hand. “My lady, I do not believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting. I am Lord Kendan Valvere, Lord of the Iron Banner, and I will be devastated if you tell me we’re distant cousins.”
A laugh bubbles out of Suri’s throat before she can tame it back into a polite handshake.
“This is Lady Suri Darrow.” Rian makes the introduction with a breezy flick of his hand. “The recent widow of Lord Charlin Darrow of Bremcote and the stepmother of my former fiancée.”
Kendan’s eyes twinkle with mischief as he turns back to Rian. “Ah, yes, your former fiancée. Didn’t she end up being the kingdom’s greatest traitor? I always knew you had a knack for picking women with a flair for drama, Rian.”
The words strike a nerve in me, an instinctive surge of protectiveness flaring up like wildfire. My fingers twitch at my side, aching to defend this woman I don’t even know. I clench my jaw, forcing the impulse down.
Rian's laugh is forced. “Yes, well, everyone needs a scandal in their life, don’t they? Keeps things interesting.”
Kendan’s smirk widens. “True, but not everyone marries theirs.” Kendan turns back to Suri. “Widow? Did I hear that correctly? I’m so sorry for your loss.”
His broad smile negates his words.
Suri’s eyes sparkle with amusement. “With those kind words, my lord, you have already proven yourself more of a gentleman than your brother.”
“And why is that?” Kendan asks. “Did my little brother speak ill of your late husband?”
“Actually, he murdered him,” she answers sweetly.
A scowl plunges Rian’s face into shadow.
Kendan chokes on his next breath, doubling over to mask his surprise as he turns briefly to face the wall, pinching his nose to stop from laughing. “Dear lady, we are lucky to have a prize such as yourself in this fair city.”
Rian taps his foot, unamused with their flirtation.
“Lady Suri is here at my invitation,” Rian emphasizes, eyes sparking with jealousy over their instant comradery at his expense. “She will be a great credit to my leadership of Astagnon. In fact—” His eyebrows arch sharply, “—I’ve decided to grant her the position of Castlekeep.”
A murmur breaks out from the senior staff lining the wall, who have been silently waiting to be presented to the future king.
An elegant older woman with a cherrywood cane pinches her lips, fingers twisting on the cane. The current Castlekeep, I assume, given her obvious displeasure.
Suri’s cheeks darken. “What?” she sputters, eyes round as the moon. “I’d sooner clean a pig barn than take a rag to your castle?—”
“You deny a direct order from your Rising King?” Rian challenges, tipping his chin so he can look down from his full height.
She juts her chin defiantly, but she’s still a head shorter. My ears detect a rustle as she pushes herself to tiptoe, a fact hidden from everyone else by her skirt. “You invited me here as a member of your court, not a servant.”
“Lady Mildred is Countess of Edgewood,” Rian says as he motions toward the current Castlekeep, grinning as he enjoys the irritation pinching Suri’s pretty lips. “Kendan is Duke of Gwendolyn in addition to Lord of the Iron Banner. Even Wolf has a title now! And yet they all serve Hekkelveld Castle.” He adjusts the set of his circlet crown atop his skull. “Some would say I, as king, am, in fact, the realm’s greatest servant.”
“Perhaps the realm’s greatest ass ,” she mutters.
“Pardon?” Rian says, touching his ear.
She presses her lips together.
I stifle my snort behind my fist.
“Besides.” Rian softens his tone. “The Castlekeep doesn’t scrub or scour—the position merely oversees the castle’s junior staff. I assure you, you won’t be dirtying your pretty hands. ”
Suri balls her small fists, but with so many witnesses, she can hardly expect to deny her king a direct order.
Kendan strokes his long chin, observing her like a falcon, waiting to see if she proves herself predator or prey.
Before I realize what I’m doing, I step in. “As Castlekeep, Lady Suri will have keys to every room throughout the castle, isn’t that correct? The storerooms, the attics, the library ?”
Suri’s initial look of confusion shifts into understanding as she gazes up at the second-floor hallway, where the top of the library door is barely visible. If she wants that book Sabine was looking for, here’s her golden opportunity.
Both Rian and Kendan cock their heads in identical curiosity. Maybe they aren’t brothers by birth, but they both have the Valvere curiosity.
“Well? Is that true about the keys?” Suri blinks her bird-like eyes at Rian, waiting for an answer.
“Why?” Rian asks slyly. “So you can sneak into my chambers and slit my throat, as I did to your odious husband?”
“Murder would not be the first thing on my mind, Majesty,” she says sweetly.
“Oh?” he leers.
Her cheeks pinken as she blurts out, “Neither is your bed!”
Rian’s grin only stretches wider.
“Keyguard is one major responsibility of Castlekeep,” Kendan offers as he strides over to the current Castlekeep, and, after a brief exchange of words, returns with a jangling keyring balanced on one finger.
Rian swipes it from him with a glower, then offers it to Suri.
No sooner have her fingers closed around the clattering iron keys than a sudden crash of metal from outside makes everyone jump. It comes again, clanging louder than that damn Valor Bell.
A fine layer of dust rains down from the wooden ceiling joists as the ancient foundation groans.
Suri shrieks, and Kendan sweeps forward to offer her a steadying arm. She gazes up at him with round-eyed appreciation. Lady Eleonora nearly loses her balance, too, but no one rushes to her aid.
A sense of foreboding snakes over my skin as I turn toward the great brass doors.
The crash comes again, followed by an unearthly shriek like a thousand banshees.
“What,” a pale-faced Kendan enunciates, “is that ?”
Just visible through the open double doors inscribed with brAVERY and FORTITUDE, the monoceros’s prison rattles the chains lashing it to the wagon as Tòrr slams his metal hooves against the walls, hard enough to dent iron.
“That,” Rian says proudly, his velvet-brown eyes simmering with dark delight, “is my prize.”