11. Basten
Chapter 11
Basten
T he first few days in Old Coros pass in a blur of unpacking, coronation planning, and getting lost in a damn castle that rivals the size of Duren’s arena.
My bedroom alone is larger than Rian’s sprawling chambers back in Sorsha Hall. Who needs a bed that could sleep four and two fireplaces? On top of that, my chamber is stocked with peonies that make me sneeze. I immediately give them to the first maid I see with instructions to take them home to her mother.
Whoever the former First Sword was, I hope he appreciated the luxuries bestowed upon him. Because I sure as hell don’t.
Give me a campfire and moss for a bed.
Yeah, it’s no surprise, but I’m dismayed to learn that I loathe the formality in Old Coros just as much as I expected to. These bastards really expect the king’s First Sword to comb my hair daily .
Still, as painful as the days are, the nights are torture .
As soon as half-sleep seeps in, Sabine steps back into my dreams. Between the Valor Bell’s last chime for the night and the first for dawn, it’s a gods-damn orgy of every possible way our bodies can connect. Mouth on mouth, my lips on her perfect breasts, our hips writhing together. In my dreams, she smiles, laughs, and talks for hours about, I don’t know, chipmunks—and I’ve never hung on someone’s words so damn much. Whatever she cares about, I care about, too. Her passion is contagious.
Then, that damn Valor Bell jolts me awake, and before I can even race to a quill or pen to write down the dream’s details, it’s already gone.
“Lord Basten.” A crisp knock sounds on my door. “Rising King Rian has asked for you.”
“Tell him to sit on his spurs!” I groan.
I wrestle with the silken tunic that feels too stiff beneath my armor, pin on the silver sword brooch that marks me as First Sword, and try not to get lost on my way to Rian’s chambers.
The First Sword pin jabs me in the chest as a maid directs me to a balcony leading down to Rian’s private garden, where I find him frowning at a rosebush.
“Joruun loved roses, or so I’m told,” he says as I approach. He plucks a velvety red blossom to run between his fingers. “Frankly, I find the smell cloying. Eventually, I’ll have them all mown down and plant oleander in their place. A more pleasing scent. As a bonus, they’re poisonous.”
I rub my nose, which has been itching from the overpowering scent of roses ever since I set foot in Rian’s apartment. “Always been partial to violets, myself.”
Rian freezes, then slowly looks over his shoulder at me .
“What?” I ask, wiping my jaw for any traces of coffee on my stubble.
“Violets. Little violet. It’s what you used to call…” A cloud passes over his face. “Never mind.”
My hand drifts to my left forearm, squeezing the wrist guard.
He gestures for me to walk with him down a path lined with circular water gardens. According to legend, these pools were once natural springs where Immortal Meric would host debauched orgies of fae and human decadence—but now, they merely hold lily pads.
“I want you at the coronation tonight,” he says.
I start, nearly tripping on a flagstone. “It’s tradition for the coronation to be a private affair between the king and the crown bearer priest.”
“Fuck tradition.” He smooths his fingers over his chin, but the habit doesn’t seem to ease his tension. “I want you and your sword there. I don’t know these damn people yet. And I don’t let anyone near my neck without you nearby.”
I tilt my head. “Of course, Majesty.”
We meander among the labyrinthine walls that Immortal Meric once used to torment criminals. According to the Book of the Immortals, if the jails were full or he felt particularly cruel that day, he would toss a condemned sinner into the labyrinth to face the deadly fae beasts within. Fingernail marks—much too worn away for the regular eye to detect—still scar the stones.
“Majesty.” Maximan strides down the length of the garden walk, pebbles crunching beneath his heavy boots. Beneath his helmet, his face is even more dour than usual.
He takes a knee before handing a rolled parchment to Rian. “A missive arrived from our northern army general. Word has spread to the border towns that Iyre is risen and in league with Volkany. Villagers burned straw effigies of her in protest, and in return, Volkany sent a flock of starleons to rain down plaguedust. They’re saying the casualties are already in the dozens.” He removes his helmet and wipes his sweat-plastered brow. “In retaliation, Astagnonian villagers are attempting to tear down the border wall to attack the Volkish people.”
Rian snatches the missive hard enough to crumple it in his fist. “That wall has stood for five hundred years. Ropes and pulleys aren’t going to budge a brick.”
The damn First Sword pin jabs again into my pectoral. I shift, trying to dislodge it discreetly, and Maximan slides me a disapproving frown.
Rian crumples the letter. “Tell the general to send two battalions to the border villages. One each of archers and infantry. Keep the calvary on hold. If this is the start of war, then our soldiers should be fighting it, not farmers and woodsmen.”
His order hits me like a strike to the solar plexus, knocking the wind right out of me. I swallow hard, my throat as dry as sandpaper, and force myself to breathe. War? Already? The word echoes in my mind, a relentless beat that portends dark times ahead.
Maximan gives a crisp nod. “Yes, Majesty.”
His footsteps crunch over gravel long after he’s out of sight.
Rian pulls in a deep breath, gazing at a point somewhere amid the darkening clouds. The weight of the sky seems to press down on him, the first few raindrops splashing on his cheek.
“Damn it all, maybe it should have been you, Wolf. This kingdom deserves a good man on the throne. And I’m not a good man.” He wipes away the rain.
This rare flash of vulnerability sends a shiver down my spine.
Guilt is not the first—hell, not even the twentieth—sentiment that Rian Valvere is known for.
“You think I’m any better?” I bark. “You must not remember the debauchery we got up to in the Sin Streets.”
He laughs flatly, turning back to the roses.
I know better than to ask questions of a man who plotted his own father’s murder. I’m not sure there’s a soul alive who holds more to himself than the future king standing before me—and I can’t help but wonder what has him feeling so guilty.
The coronation ceremony is blessedly brief. A smear of holy oil on Rian’s forehead, a prayer from the priest, and Rian’s recitation of the sacred vow.
Boom .
Crown? On head. Throat? Intact.
The celebratory banquet, well, that’s another story. If the coronation itself was small and sacred, the banquet is anything but that.
Hekkelveld Castle’s Grand Hall is filled with tables laden with roasted peacocks, succulent venison with herb oil, and pies bursting with fresh berries. Nobles bedecked in silks and velvets mingle, and some already take to the dance floor. It’s a more restrained form of opulence than Sorsha Hall’s balls, where a fistfight was a common sight. The fashion here isn’t fae-inspired, with no pewter earpiece or asymmetrical hemline.
My stomach growls. The assault of so many smells on my senses makes me wonder when I last ate. Yet, as I saunter over to the head table to take my place at Rian’s right hand, my stomach revolts.
A roast peacock sits on my plate, drowned in orange glaze with a fat hunk of walnut bread, a practically overflowing glass of wine reflecting the candlelight.
All I can think is: Today, an army marches on the border. Villagers are dead from plaguedust. And we’re fucking eating peacock .
Rian smiles as he holds court at the head of the table, looking resplendent in the steel crown cast to look like raven feathers.
Not six hours ago, he gave the order for war.
Now he’s laughing?
The last thing I could do was smile after issuing a death sentence. But as I tear into my bread, there’s a gnawing guilt that won’t let go. Some senseless part of me almost wants that damned throne, if only so that Astagnon gets the moody, scowling king that it deserves.
Decorum? No, I’d fail at that.
But pure bloody strategy? I’d fucking dive in.
Lady Suri sits to my left, taking such small, birdlike bites that midnight will toll before she finishes. Kendan sits across from her, refilling her water glass after every sip she takes. He makes sweeping hand gestures as he describes his latest diplomatic mission to Kravada.
The rest of the table is filled with distant Valvere cousins, the white-haired councilors I can’t tell apart, and nobles whose names I’ll have to eventually learn .
“I’m glad someone’s having a good time,” Suri whispers to me when Kendan gets up to speak with a general. She subtly points her butter knife at the dance floor.
Folke and Ferra are among the couples, though unlike the graceful Corosian couples, their movements do not convey polite restraint.
Folke has one hand clasped firmly on the globe of Ferra’s ass beneath her feather-adorned gown, holding her so flush to his hips that I think we might be toasting a baby in nine months. Ferra’s long tresses are colored gold in honor of the coronation, and they boldly spill down her back in loose waves. Their giddy faces are red-cheeked, eyes glassy, feet stumbling as they catch one another.
“Looks like they partook of the wine early,” I observe. “And often.”
Suri muffles a laugh. “I’m just glad they made up. It’s like springtime with those two, isn’t it? A storm overnight, sunny skies by the afternoon. The next day, the same thing all over again.” She sighs, twirling her fork in a delicate waltz through the air. “It’s heartening to see a true love match.”
“Speaking of a match,” Lady Eleonora interjects from the other side of the table. “Now that you are crowned, Rian, it is time you find a queen.”
Rian sips wine with a wry, indulgent half-grin for his grandmother. “So eager for a great-grandchild?”
“Producing an heir is the duty of every king.” Lady Eleonora dabs at her wine-stained lips, and I have the uncanny feeling her wine intake began even before Ferra and Folke’s.
Hell, probably at dawn.
“To ensure the kingdom’s succession,” she continues. “ Why, look at all the chaos caused when Joruun died without an heir. The Grand Cleric was within a god’s whisper of wearing that crown.”
“Mmm,” Rian observes, swirling his wine glass. “Speaking of, I can’t help but notice that our dear Grand Cleric Beneveto is not in attendance tonight.”
Suri sets down her water and pipes up, “The previous Castlekeep informed me that the Grand Cleric is unwell. Matron White, of the Convent of Immortal Iyre, is here on his behalf to represent the Red Church.”
My attention shifts to a dour woman sitting two tables away with a small gathering of Sisters, all dressed in stiff red cassocks. The Matron glares down her hooked nose like a hawk, her eyes as cold and stiff as a prayer stick.
The moment I lay eyes on her, my muscles tense like a bowstring drawn tight. An instinctive wave of revulsion surges through me, making my skin prickle, though I can’t place why.
“ That old witch?” Rian slams down his glass and leans over his plate, his dark eyes spitting venom. “She must have the balls of Immortal Vale himself to show her face to me after what she did to Lady Sabine.”
I jolt at the name. My jaw clenches hard enough that I bite my tongue, the metallic taste of blood overwhelming my senses. I rub a hand over my face to hide the panic rising in my throat.
That old woman hurt Sabine? That’s what Rian is saying?
Even though I couldn’t tell you the color of Sabine Darrow’s eyes, I still woke this morning moaning her name.
She means something to me—something I can’ t put my finger on.
Something that’s sliding into obsession.
Lady Eleonora snaps, “Do not speak that girl’s name. You’re a king now, Rian. Your former fiancée is a traitor. It doesn’t matter if Matron White tied her up for the vultures to pick clean. She’s none of your concern.”
For a few tense moments, they all pick at their peacock and feign interest in the harpist’s solo. I use the time to tune in my ears to the gossip circling around the Grand Hall.
At the end of the table, the army generals are discussing the movement of the troops they dispatched that afternoon. At the next table, a count and his wife are speculating about the real reason Grand Cleric Beneveto is absent.
“I heard he hasn’t been seen in Old Coros for weeks ,” the countess whispers. “ They say he is still plotting against Rian.”
“Nonsense. The truth is nothing so complicated. The crown was almost his ,” the count says, “ and he couldn’t bear to see his rival wearing it.”
“Lady Suri.” Rian cuts sharply into his peacock as he says matter-of-factly, “As much as Astagnon has greater concerns, my grandmother does have a point. I will need a queen soon to produce an heir. As Castlekeep, it falls to you to find me a match. I want you to locate the kingdom’s best women for me. Arrange a…parade, let’s say.”
Suri’s eyes simmer with indignation as she sputters, “A parade of women?”
Rian jabs the bite of peacock into his mouth and mutters around it, “For simplicity’s sake. I’d like to see them all together to compare their qualities.”
Suri’s dark cheeks positively catch fire. Her chest rises and falls in her bodice as she says tightly, “You forget that I was there when you sent the order for Sabine to parade naked across half of Astagnon. I was the one who arranged her hair to cover her body. I saw her trembling in the courtyard, trying to be brave. You think I would voluntarily encourage any woman to spend a lifetime with a man like you?”
The table falls so silent that I can hear the soft woosh of the candles’ flames.
Lady Runa leans in, practically salivating at this scandalous comment. Kendan shifts in his chair, eyebrows knitting together as he carefully sets down his silverware to keep his hands free—for what, I can only imagine.
The air feels so tense I could prick it with a needle.
Rian leans casually on his elbow, stroking his chin as he looks studiously down his long lashes at her. “Are you aware you’re speaking to a king, Lady Suri?”
Her hands tighten on the edge of the table. Biting her tongue, she says carefully, “I will not arrange a parade of women for you, Majesty.”
Lady Runa pops a grape into her mouth as her attention volleys between them.
Rian sits back in his heavy oak chair, his steel crown aglow from candlelight, as he appraises Suri with newfound interest. I don’t need my godkiss to see the mischief dancing behind his eyes.
He loves this—loves her hatred.
He stands and walks slowly to Suri’s chair, then grips the chair back and leans in to purr in her ear, “Very well. If you do not find me an acceptable bride, then I suppose I will have to marry you .”
Suri doubles over, coughing into her cloth napkin. It takes her a moment of composure before she can eek out, “Majesty, surely you jest!”
Rian shrugs one shoulder as he returns to his place to take a long drink of wine. “I am quite serious, in fact. You’re young. Healthy. Of a noble line. I believe that checks all the boxes. Not to mention, it would save me an immense amount of time.” His eyes jump to her with a dark, cruel kind of triumph. “Of course, should you not wish to wear my ring, I’ll expect you to present the top candidates next week.”
After tipping his glass to her, he strides off to speak with the generals.
Suri is left trembling with rage to the point where I can hear her fingernails clicking. She murmurs, “He truly is psychotic.”
Resting my hands on either side of my plate, I murmur, “You’ve done the worst thing you could, Lady Suri. You caught Rian’s attention.”
“I insulted him!” she hisses.
“That’s the problem.” I tuck a loose strand of my hair behind my ear. “Rian has only ever known hatred. His father did terrible things—things you couldn’t imagine. His brothers abandoned him. His grandmother—well, you know Lady Eleonora’s wrath. And so, the fact that you, also despise him? He likes it, if only because it’s familiar. Love and hate—they’re all mixed together in the Valvere family. The more you hate him, the more he’ll enjoy torturing you back.”
She presses a delicate hand on her neckline to clear a tremor from her throat. To her credit, she faces this news bravely—with a thoughtful head tilt—instead of blanching.
“What does that mean for his feelings toward Sabine?” she asks.
I jolt again, hearing the name. Hot candle wax on my balls couldn’t make me writhe with as much pleasure and pain.
“W—what do you mean?”
“Did he ever love her?” Suri asks softly, eyes hunting out Rian in the crowd as he whispers low into a general’s ear. “Or was it a confusion—love and hate?”
I pause, hanging on the verge of answering, yet my thoughts go blank. The truth is, I have no idea how Rian felt about Sabine. Like all memories that surround her, it’s a void.
Across the hall, Rian signals to me.
“Excuse me, Lady Suri.” I push my chair back.
Rian motions me to a quiet corner of the Grand Hall, where he says in a low voice, “Someone needs to shadow Kendan.”
I try to hide my surprise. “Your brother?”
“There are stirrings that he’s been meeting with the wrong kind of people.”
A chill creeps up my spine, because I’m usually very good at sniffing out traitors. And I haven’t gotten so much as a whiff of suspicion from Rian’s older brother.
Arrogance? Oh, yes. But not deceit.
I give a curt nod. “I’ll do it.”
Rian rests a hand on my shoulder, shaking his head. “No, Wolf, you’re above that now. You’re First Sword. Send Folke instead.”
Folke?
I spot the man in question swaying drunkenly on the dance floor, his face buried in Ferra’s ample chest, much to the affront of the elegant Corosian ladies watching.
I’ve been friends with Folke long enough to know that he can sober up quickly. One word from Rian, and he’d be stalking the shadows as the best spy in the city within the hour.
But seeing him lovingly tuck a strand of Ferra’s hair back does something to my damn hardened heart.
For a second, I almost remember what it was like to love someone?—
Before those thoughts drift too far, I cross my arms over my chest, staring at the dark city beyond the banquet hall’s glass windows, shifting as the First Sword pin once more jabs me in the chest.
“I’ll do it,” I repeat, and then add, “I miss getting my hands dirty.”