Chapter V
V
I dreamed of you last night, and of your queen, alone in the bedchamber.
You were a flame, she a star, and when the two of you came together, your fire burned her until she cried out for pleasure and anguish and was consumed utterly.
But she left behind a mote of stardust, overlooked by you.
I took it for my own and raised it to become a ravening maw that consumed all of the known world.
When I woke from the dream, my hands were drenched with blood.
—FROM AFON CAERVALLIN TO ORDEN INVER
Orden Inver, master of all Honoria, wanted so many things so badly that often it felt as if he was a hollow man.
Inside, there was nothing—just a gaping hole he perpetually strove to fill.
He wanted Honoria. Wanted to add to its power and prestige.
Wanted a great name for himself, and a secure place in the iron chain of the Inver dynasty.
Wanted game pie for dinner, a warm body in his bed afterward, and a morning where no duties called on his time and attention.
The greater wants, he was sure of. Honoria was his, the queen would give him an heir, and somehow, someday, he would add meaningfully to the Inver legacy.
The lesser wants were beyond his grasp. Game pie would not do for a court dinner at the onset of summer council, he could no longer stomach a bedfellow who was not the queen, and affairs of state had wakened Orden before dawn every day for ten years.
What he really wanted, he thought irritably to himself as he strode through the castle, was Ariana.
He wanted her safe and well by his side.
Since the day he’d clapped eyes on her, he’d wanted the lapsed soria, and he kept on wanting her.
Perhaps another woman would have bored him as queen, and he’d have indulged himself with a string of mistresses.
Orden wasn’t sure and didn’t bother dwelling on it.
He had wedded and bedded Ari, against the strenuous objections of every one of his counselors, and he still wanted her because, damn him, he always wanted what he didn’t have.
He had his queen’s body. Had her allegiance, in many ways, even if he could never hope to have it entirely.
But there were things she kept hidden from him—depths he knew she withheld, refusing to let him plumb.
Orden was not a man of half measures. If he wanted a thing, he wanted it all.
And oh, he wanted that daughter of stars more than he’d ever desired anything else.
Descending the castle’s broad, winged main staircase, Orden shoved through the double doors at their base, which led into the courtyard.
It was a hot, still day and his ceremonial guards stood sweating in full uniform, kitted out in the Inver crimson and gold, a flame emblem glinting on every shoulder.
“Gaius,” Orden said tersely as the head of the royal guard broke away to join him.
“It’s wretchedly hot. Tell the men to fall out and wait in the shade.
Send a page for a water butt, as well. No use having someone faint on his feet.
I won’t impress Caervallion at the cost of tormenting my own soldiers. ”
Gaius nodded and carried the king’s orders out with alacrity.
Guards passing their sovereign offered respectful but companionable nods as they dispersed to loiter about the courtyard.
Better, Orden thought. He was not a despot like Afon.
He’d not greet his rival with rigidity and formality, but with a court and a guard devoted to him and pleased to have him overseeing the Inver house.
The same couldn’t be said of Afon—Caervallion chafed under his rule.
The Caervallin people were too recently governed by sorias to readily accept a king, especially one who came out of nowhere and rose to power in the span of a few blood-soaked years.
Afon was feared and despised. Orden, if he had his way, would be loved.
Would be the first Inver to truly lay claim to that response from his people.
Honoria ought to be ready to overlook the sins of his forebearers—she’d had two centuries to reconcile herself to the past and learn to let bygones be bygones.
Unlike Afon, Orden was no longer concerned with anything as crude as brute dominion.
He was after his country’s heart and soul.
Across the courtyard, an unobtrusive entrance to the servants’ corridors was flung open.
One of the pages barreled out into the sunshine—a spotty-faced boy who seemed to be always underfoot, and doing his job with more diligence than most. The page stopped dead, scanned the courtyard, and then hurried toward Gaius, but Orden drew him up short with a word.
“Boy,” the king called out. “Whatever your news or your troubles, come to me.”
Transparently overawed, the page approached.
“What is it?” Orden asked, resolving to learn the boy’s name later.
He ought to be treated well and groomed for eventual prominence in the royal household.
Glora had been making noises for years about how taxing her role was—perhaps she’d like to train the boy to be castellan, once she was ready to step down as chatelaine.
That would be the end of an era—Orden could not recall a time when Glora had not ruled the mountain castle’s staff with her familiar harried efficiency.
The page looked up at Orden and an odd flurry of emotion crossed his face. Pride, worry, excitement, reluctance.
“Out with it,” Orden said.
“The queen’s trial is ended,” the page said breathlessly. “She’s given Honoria a son and heir.”
Orden could not help grinning. He felt as if his very bones were glad. While his brother the Priest had always been able to hide strong emotion, Orden didn’t have the temperament for even feigned reserve. He clapped the page on one shoulder so hard that the boy’s teeth rattled.
“Excellent! And the queen is well?”
“Well in body,” the boy said with a nod.
He hesitated for a moment before carrying on.
“But there’s been some upset. Matria Dolenza sent a wet nurse, from her own cloister.
The Chief Physician’s in a temper about it, and the queen’s ladies are scolding.
Her Majesty put them all out and will only have the new wet nurse with her. ”
Orden’s grin immediately became a frown. “That’s not like Ari. She knows her duty, and how I feel about Dolenza’s women. Send word that I want the soria dismissed and a proper nurse found.”
The page shot Orden a look, and there was almost a hint of disapproval in it.
Certainly, a glint of canniness lit his eyes.
“There was a proper nurse. Her Majesty picked one out herself from among the minor noble families. But she bore two children today—your son and heir, and a little princess. The girl was stillborn.”
Ah. That would have upset Ari badly. Not an excuse for her behavior, but an explanation, certainly.
Stillbirths were common enough and did not seem worth fretting over to Orden—the waste of time and energy in suffering a pregnancy that came to nothing must be irksome, but children died every day.
At least with a stillbirth, one hadn’t grown attached.
Ariana had fine sensibilities, though—far more so than Inver women, who rarely grieved such losses.
Ari, by contrast, had slipped two pregnancies early and mourned them both deeply.
Putting aside Celina had been even worse—for a brief time, Orden had been afraid his queen might die of the loss.
He would tolerate Dolenza’s emissary for Ariana’s sake, Orden resolved, feeling generous. He had his heir, his queen was delivered from her trial, and whatever helped Ariana back to good health was worth an irritating reminder of how Raea’s cloister steadfastly withstood Inver rule.
“Tell Her Majesty she may keep the nurse,” Orden said to the page. “And that she’s done very well, and I will come to her as I may. Tell her not to fret about the lost child—there will be others, if she wishes.”
The boy’s mouth tightened. Somehow, Orden had displeased him.
Imagine that—a king, displeasing a page.
Perhaps not castellan, then. Perhaps a page in perpetuity, kept in his position long after all his fellows were promoted.
But displeased or not, the boy obeyed at once, bowing before haring off with his message.
“I have a son and heir,” Orden announced in an expansive voice, loud enough for all gathered in the courtyard to hear.
The guards sent up a full-throated cheer and a handful of nobles passing through the forecourt stopped with pleased gasps.
“Gaius, make that water butt a cask of ale. No, better yet, I’ve a barrel of summer wine in the cellar that was laid down the year I was born.
Have it brought up, and we’ll toast Honoria’s new prince. ”
More cheers. Orden’s grin was back, and not even the soft, silken voice of his spymaster could dampen the joy of this moment.
“Most would save a choice vintage like that for their royal guests this evening,” Lucian said, appearing at Orden’s side.
He was a small, neat man of indeterminate age, who’d been spymaster to Orden’s father but changed allegiance without compunction when Orden began the bloody rise to power Inver tradition demanded.
“They would believe such a fine wine is wasted on common guards who haven’t the palate to appreciate it. ”
“And you’d agree with them, I suppose.” Orden cast a sidelong glance at Lucian. The man was a necessary evil, but not one he relished enduring.
“I did not say so, Majesty,” Lucian prevaricated. “I only warn you what others might think.”
“And are you interested in what I think?”
“Always, Majesty.”