Chapter VIII #3
There were, mercifully, a few hours to spare before court obligations would require a king’s attention again.
Throwing himself down upon his bed, Orden slept, a sluggish torpor he could not seem to pull himself out of, during which he dreamed of tense voices—Ariana’s, rising and falling, and another woman’s.
When he woke with a crushing headache, half the dream was true.
Beside him lay his infant son and Ariana, the queen curled protectively around their child.
She was ghost pale, her breath shallow and rapid, and the sight of her cut Orden to the heart.
She only came to his bed if she was troubled and in need of reassurance, like a finely bred hound who could not resist creeping to the side of an unfit master.
Though he could not see that she bled, Orden smelled the metallic tang of it, heavy on the air.
What she needed was a Vesperin physician, he decided abruptly.
Though Vesper lacked any truly desirable trade goods, they made up for it with knowledge.
No other nation had learned so much of medicine, or mathematics, or the arts.
It was Vesper’s cunning strategies and ingenious war machinery that had staved off Honoria’s greater and stronger army for two centuries.
But much as Ariana might need a Vesperin healer, and badly though Orden might want one, they would get no such thing.
The Vesperins were proud, and loath to share what they knew with their invaders.
Any of their people with a useful trade took capsules of poison and died upon capture.
Prisoners of war were few and far between.
Perhaps Lucian could be dispatched to spirit away a physician from behind Vesperin lines, Orden thought as he sat up and found the spymaster seated at his desk, toying with an armillary sphere.
That would both rid Orden of an annoyance and serve his queen.
“When did Her Majesty arrive?” Orden asked quietly, so as not to wake his bedfellows.
Lucian shrugged, his lip curling as he cast a look at the queen.
He made no secret of his disdain for her, the sentiment born from a general disgust for all Corrinians and all worshipers of Lyria, coupled with a self-interested dislike of anyone else who could sway the king.
“I don’t know. She was already here when I came in. ”
Getting to his feet, Orden went to the wardrobe and pulled on clothing. Breeches. Boots. Loose shirt. Doublet. He felt as if he would stifle, and his head throbbed mercilessly.
“What do you want, Lucian?” he asked, the words coming out muffled as he cleaned his teeth with a damp rag and vericin paste at the washstand.
“Nothing,” Lucian said. “But the purser for the Solis Plains is waiting for you, red in the face over a levee the farmers refuse to pay. They’re hiding behind Dolenza’s skirts as usual, saying she’s tightened her fist when it comes to her holdings.
And Prorex Cassius is here from the Levire Mountains—he’s had a border dispute with Legate Marek, who ordered the assassination of Cassius’s only child and heir.
Cassius demands the king’s justice. There are a few other petitioners, but those are the most noteworthy—they all want your attention before council business claims you for the day. ”
Orden finished cleaning his teeth and beckoned to Miciah.
“Bring me whatever is left of the venison pie they had at the lower tables last night,” he said. “And bring cut fruit and spice broth for the queen, as well.”
Only once Miciah had gone did he turn to Lucian, frustration tightening in his chest.
“Cassius and the purser ought to be ashamed of themselves,” Orden ground out. “Crawling to the throne for assistance like kicked dogs. We were greater than this, once. We handled our own problems, and the king was free to set his mind on conquest and battle.”
“I agree, Majesty,” Lucian said smoothly, spinning the armillary sphere. “Shall I have your petitioners hung from the castle wall? That is what your father would have done. It is what Afon would do, as well.”
Damn. If the Invers in general were less than their sires, so was Orden.
It wasn’t mercy that stayed his hand, but impatience and lack of time.
If he made an end of Cassius and the purser, their families would come clamoring to him for restitution, which would have to be doled out via appropriate means and measures.
Orden could not stomach the thought of one more drawn-out task.
Nor could he stomach being compared to Afon.
“Did you find the Caervallin ambassador?” he asked. “Or is there still a wolf roaming unchecked among our sheep?”
The sphere fell still, and the spymaster’s hands dropped to his lap. “Still no sign of her.”
“And Afon? I suppose he’s sprouted wings and flown out of the castle without a trace, as well?”
“No.”
Orden turned, something in Lucian’s voice setting off a warning in him. “What has he done, then?”
“Brought up whores from the lower city, after he left the banquet hall. One of them’s dead, and the bawdy house she came from is demanding recompense. Their matron’s one of your petitioners.”
A ring of crimson began to scintillate at the edges of Orden’s vision, as always happened when Inver rage built in him. But he prided himself on his ability to control and channel that fury, unlike his father and elder brother, who had been mastered by their wrath.
First, make a conquest of yourself, was Orden’s credo. Then, of the world at large.
He had managed the first, more or less, and was still trying for the second.
“Summon the Priest,” Orden said abruptly. “I want to speak to him about this council, and about my son. We’re going to name the boy before all Honoria and before our visiting guests, and I want such a spectacle that no one present will be able to deny our supremacy.”
It had been Orden’s first instinct to hide what he held most dear from Afon. Caervallion’s king made no secret of his lust for everything Orden possessed, and so he had thought to keep his family safe and out of sight. But he had forgotten the heat of Ariana’s hidden fire.
Let her shame Afon again, and shame every last member of the court who’d be gossiping about the blood she’d shed.
Orden’s people loved high drama, and so he would give them just that at the prince’s naming ceremony, with Ariana as its centerpiece.
The gossip would still, the council delegates would see Orden’s power and Honoria’s future on display, and the people would think well of him and his queen.
To that end, he’d invite everyone to the naming—the entire populace of Inverlyn.
The Priest would have a fit, but Orden had made up his mind.
His people would all be present, and they would watch Ariana show her true strength, as she offered a blood sacrifice to the god of war.
As Orden purposed, so it would be. He was king, and it was high time Honoria danced to his tune.