29. Lord Wautin
Chapter twenty-nine
Lord Wautin
T he Gathering had always been one of Solveig’s least favourite rituals. Once a month, her family would open the gates and allow entry to all for a short audience with the king. No topic was off limits, but you wouldn’t necessarily get an answer either. As Teris pulled the laces of her dress tight, Solveig nursed a glass of whiskey. She watched from her window as the common folk wandered their way up to the castle gates, dodging the carriages that splashed them with dirt as they raced by.
“Will Gabriel be attending with you, ma’am?” Teris asked as she tied the laces together and concealed them within the folds of the skirt.
“No.” Solveig said tightly, taking another, larger sip. “I’m to escort our visiting prince today.” She felt rather than saw Teris’s hands pause, turning slightly to study her.
“Everything okay?”
“Yes, of course, my lady.” Teris stammered, “Just ensuring everything is tied correctly.” She smiled at the princess, but it was a tight smile. The kind that spoke of unease. Teris was nervous.
“Have you spoken with the prince yet, ma’am?” she asked, trying now to appear cheerful.
Solveig smirked into her glass as she turned back around. “We spoke briefly this morning. I will say he is not as fearsome as his myth would suggest.”
“Oh?” Teris questioned.
“Oh, indeed.” Solveig smiled, remembering how the prince had stared as she licked her blood from the self-inflicted wound. How his mouth had tightened, and throat bobbed as he swallowed, his gaze never leaving her lips. She had affected him, that much was clear. Now she needed to get him on her side, but he was an unknown entity, and she sort to uncover those secrets whilst keeping her own hidden. There would be no safe landing place for her when this was over, yet she wasn’t sure she would even need one. Not if the recurrent nosebleeds and the new instance of coughing blood meant what she suspected it did. The only question was, how long did she have?
“Time for the tiara, Your Highness.” Teris declared, yanking Solveig from her reverie. She downed the last dregs of whiskey, placing the glass on the table beside her as Teris came forward carrying a polished wooden box with a copper clasp.
“Your mother selected it from the vaults,” she said as she opened the box to reveal the tiara lying atop plush pine green velvet. It was a stunning piece, one that had belonged to her grandmother at her age. A woven golden vine wrapped around the band, twisting up and around gems of sapphire and diamond in various sizes. It was a tiered shape comprising three spikes on either side ascending to meet the larger and significantly more detailed central one. She bent, allowing Teris to place the tiara upon her head, holding back the wince as the edges pressed against the still healing wounds on her scalp. As soon as it was secured, she righted herself, brushing her hands down the pale cream gown that her mother had also chosen. Made of a tight corseted bodice, capped sleeves, and flowing skirt with two front pleats giving the appearance of a second skirt beneath them with an intricate silvery pattern.
“Last touch,” Teris stated as she crossed the room to gather the long flowing cape that had been laying across the princess’s bed. The outer fabric was that of turquoise velvet, the underside lined with coppery satin. The top hem had been decorated with hand sewn golden beading to give the appearance of rays of sunlight bursting from within. They were the colours of the royal house. Marking her as one of them. In appearance, at least.
Cacophonous chatter echoed off the arched stone passageways as Solveig approached the throne room. Her unwelcome companion walked two steps behind her, still dressed in the same outfit he had arrived in hours earlier, complete with the dagger torn jacket.
“You could have changed.” Solveig hissed over her shoulder as they approached the entrance.
“If I’d known my appearance mattered to you, I may have even brushed my hair.” He smirked as he came to stand beside her. “Mixed signals, Princess, where I come from, we don’t hold daggers to the throats of people we care about.” Solveig laughed for a split second before reigning back her control, glancing down at him with an irritated gleam in her eyes. In her heels, she was barely an inch taller than him, but he enjoyed the view too much to care. In the long flowing cream gown, she could have been a different person, but the attitude was all her. That was something he had learned even in their brief time together.
Solveig reached out a hand, tapping lightly on the closed door. “You’re here to observe, nothing more. Do you understand?”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” he joked with a wry smile.
“This isn’t a game, Prince,” she bit out, “you came to our kingdom, respect our customs or I’ll have you removed.”
“And go against your king’s orders?” he jested. “Seemed to me as though you weren’t keen on defying him.” Their eyes held each other’s in a silent war. Solveig instinctively reached beneath her cape to a small, concealed pouch at her back where Teris had helped secure a pair of daggers. But the doors swung open, halting her movements.
Emmerich watched as her face changed in an instant, from irritated but relaxed, to cold, hard stone. A mask of indifference.
“Presenting Her Royal Highness, Solveig Aila of House Maleen, Princess of Torrelin.” Solveig stepped into the room first to little fanfare as the announcers called her companion. “And His Royal Highness Emmerich Ryker of House Anders, Prince of Elithiend.” Every face in the room stared at him. This phantom that had hung over their heads, made real in flesh and bone before their eyes. As he and Solveig made their way down the carpeted aisle, every pair of eyes in the room tracked their movements. Right up to the dais where the thrones stood. Solveig took her seat beside her mothers, and Emmerich stood beside her, one step back, appearing as more bodyguard than visiting prince.
The ballroom had been decorated for the citizens and nobles of Marrelin City. No expense had been spared. Copper pedestals topped with blue flame braziers lined either side of the turquoise carpeted walkway. The windows had been covered with heavy velvet drapes, except for the ones behind the thrones giving the appearance of light shining down upon the royals, hiding the shadows within. Glittering chandeliers had been polished, fresh candles replaced old ones, all individually lit. Bowls of fresh picked rose petals surrounded the room, hiding the stench. It was clear to any familiar with the space that a considerable amount had been spent to make the usual cold and dreary castle appear warm and welcoming.
Soon after Solveig, Prince Killian, Queen Asta and King Emerson entered, each taking their seats. And one by one, citizens were led to stand before the dais. The requests were typical for the time of year, more wood for fires, more stone to shore up properties, more food, more, more, more. Offerings were made in any way the citizens could afford. Crops from meagre gardens, spare coin that could have been spent on the items they needed and would never see from royal hands.
It was rare that the crown helped the citizens, except in times of great need when it was unavoidable. In fires or floods, they would be the first to be seen donating supplies. Image was everything, so long as they got something out of the exchange.
“Lord Wautin, for His Majesty.” A guard bowed as he led an aged man before them. Solveig watched as her father stood, a move he had not made for any previous attendees.
“My friend,” the king began, with a hand over his heart, palm outstretched.
“Friend?” Lord Wautin snapped, spearing the king with a hateful gaze. “You have the gall to stand up there and call me friend when you did nothing to save my only son’s life?”
Solveig tensed, arm reaching back again, but Emmerich placed a light hand on her shoulder, pausing her movement. “Easy,” he said, bending low to whisper in her ear, “How would it look to harm a broken man who’s made no threats?”
“Remove your hand,” she hissed, shrugging him free, but her hand returned to her lap, heeding his warning as they both turned their attentions back to the Lord.
“You sit there on your gilded thrones. Dripping in jewels and the finest fabrics, pretending to care, and yet when I asked for your healers to attend my son, I was met with silence. I had to watch as he drowned in his own blood. I’ll never get the stain out of the floor. It will be with me always, that final reminder of how you allowed him to die.”
“My friend—” the king tried again, taking a step closer to the Lord, who now stood with shaking shoulders and a tear-drenched face.
“Don’t call me friend when I am little more than an ant to you. You who have known for years that people have been dying and have done nothing to stop it. You claimed you had her— ” Lord Wautin pointed to Solveig. Staring at her with equal hatred he had given the king “—kill the culprits and yet they never stopped dying. One after the next.” The lord turned to face the gathered crowd, voice breaking as he shouted, “Do you know what he was doing a few days ago? He was overseeing plans to expand The Hallows. He sits there and tells you that all is well, all is under control. Princess Solveig is executing them one by one, and yet all the while he’s preparing for more of our loved ones to die. No more,” he cried. “NO MORE.” He turned back to face the Torrelin royals then. “You have had years to fix it, years to save us, and you have failed. I think it’s time you learn how it feels. Perhaps then you’ll finally do something to save those who are left.”
Time seemed to slow as Lord Wautin raised his hands. The red gems in his cuffs glowing as the fire in the braziers grew hotter, larger, spreading across the room under his control.
“I doubt she’ll be missed.” He shrugged. “Not by the families she’s torn apart, anyway.” His arms spread wide as the flames came racing toward Solveig, who launched to her feet, cape billowing as she whipped out both her daggers, sending them flying. The first hit his shoulder, distracting him, the second sliced clean through his neck, and the flames died instantly. Leaving the carpet scorched, her cape torched and the skin of her hands and forearms singed. Solveig walked forward as Lord Wautin fell to his knees, blood dripping from the wound in his throat, running from his mouth as he bled out.
“May The Oracle bless your passage to the netherworld,” she said in a monotone voice before leaning down and pulling the blade from his throat. Blood spurted, staining the front of her gown as he slumped to the ground, lifeless. Solveig stared ahead at the shocked crowd.
“Clear the room!” King Emerson ordered, and the guards rushed to herd the citizens away. Solveig remained still.
“Will you punish me for this, too?” she asked once the doors slammed shut.
“Your life was threatened, and you acted. There will be no case to answer.” The king surmised. Solveig turned to look at her father, nodding her head, before moving her gaze to the stunned prince still stood beside her throne.
“Didn’t I tell you my aim was unmatched, Prince?” she seethed, stowing her still dripping blade before turning to stalk from the room, the tattered remains of her cape dragging solemnly behind her.