54 #3
“No need to lie, darling. We’re here now.” Verlana spread her arms as she stepped forward, then dropped them. “Goddess, what is that color?” She made a face. “Olive?”
Celestine grabbed her frilly skirts and curtsied. “Spring green.”
Concern pinched Verlana’s golden brows. “Whatever it is, it fails you terribly.”
Cidon took his wife’s arm. “We’ll discuss this later.”
Verlana seemed inclined to ignore him, but her mouth closed when the high priestess joined us before the dais.
All quieted once more.
As if unwilling to show subservience, my father stayed in the middle of the room. “May I at least know where the crown is?” he asked. “That it’s safe?”
“The crown is where it always is, Raldin. In the iron chest.” Voran spoke with cold calmness. “And we have not gathered here to return the crown to Cloverleaf.” His head tilted. “But you already knew that.”
“Except you must, new king. Deem it payment, if you want,” my father said. “Reparation for the wounds inflicted by your kingdom.”
“Wounds?” Voran eyed him. His upper lip curled. “The only part of you wounded from the war is your pride.”
Outrage reddened my father’s cheeks. “You have some nerve, usurper.”
“Oh?” Voran’s tone remained calm—eerily so. “Would you rather my uncle had lived?” He then glanced around the throne room. “Would any of you?”
My father huffed. “For all we know, you are far worse, given what you’ve spent most of your life doing to those who so much as said Raxon’s name in the wrong tone.”
“Yes.” Voran shrugged. “I am far worse.”
Silence again.
Voran took a single step forward. “You know I am, yet you dare stand in my throne room and demand a crown that is no longer yours.” An edged smirk failed to touch his dark eyes. “I’m curious. Is that courage?” His voice hardened. “Or just pure fucking arrogance.”
Like my father, I went wholly still.
But King Raldin’s voice remained steady, the ire in his gaze unwavering. “Merely a strong desire to put things right before they can go terribly wrong.”
“They have already gone terribly wrong,” Voran said softly. Too softly. “My uncle made sure of it.”
“So fix it.” My father straightened his shoulders. “Let me feed the Scale Crown before our fellow monarchs instead of my daughter and take it safely back to Cloverleaf.”
“Raldin, Raldin, Raldin…” Voran sighed and clasped his hands at his back. “You have done a lot of talking since arriving, but not once have you inquired about your daughter.”
“You forced her to marry you. There is naught to be done for her now.”
Amused, Voran said, “There is also naught to be done about the Scale Crown, yet you seem to believe otherwise.”
Something between hurt and rage dampened my eyes. It also lifted my chin when my father finally spared me a look. A glance, really, before he swallowed and resumed glowering at my husband.
My father’s hands shook at his sides. “You’d be wise to mind that sharp tongue, monster—”
Growling ensued.
Voran raised a hand to silence the warriors. “Go on, Raldin.” Eyes lighting dangerously, he arched a brow. “If you dare.”
Meront cursed.
“A change of power means nothing to those who know what you really are, Voran Valadorn.” Derisive, Cloverleaf’s king sneered, “A beast kept solely for spilling blood and breeding.”
He knew.
He, and perhaps every other monarch in this room, knew why Raxon had kept his nephew alive for all these years.
“Have you had any grain shipments since Raxon’s murder?
” My father took a daring step closer to the dais.
“What about beef and chicken?” With a glance at Cercaven, he asked, “Or even fish? This wintry kingdom will experience a painful death without our support, and because you are refusing to do the right thing, our support is something you will never have.”
I was talking before I knew I’d intended to. “You will not speak for kingdoms that no longer need to bow to your requests.”
My father’s mouth opened—hung momentarily.
I marched forward. “Nor will you continue to disrespect this kingdom and that of which I hail from with your greed and vitriol.” Lowering my voice, I hissed, “Your untamable desperation.”
Something I hadn’t seen before lit my father’s eyes. Something more than anger and bigger than disbelief.
He shot toward me.
Voran seized me around the waist at the same time the wolves closed in—creating a wall of growling and immovable force.
At my ear, Voran murmured, “Stand down now, broshklin.”
Trembling with shock and residual anger, I just nodded.
The warriors made room as Voran left me to stand in line with them. To our guests, he said, “The Scale Crown will be anointed with my queen’s blood this evening, but we don’t need an extra crown to deem our kingdom strong, nor do we wish to govern the distribution of beasts like precious jewels.”
My eyes darted to his back, wide and clearing of tears.
“Menacing Mother,” someone said. King Cercaven, I realized when he spoke further. “This ceremony becomes more interesting by the minute.”
Voran ignored him. “Never again will the crown adorn someone’s head. It’s returning to sacred ground.” He waited until total silence encompassed the throne room. “To the Archives of Avyshla.”