Chapter 58 Tiberius
Chapter fifty-eight
Tiberius
His headache was a blinding, white-hot thing that lived just behind his left eye—a parting gift, he supposed. A token of affection from his queen to remember her by.
That, and the humiliation of waking up face down in the grit of a smuggler’s cove, stripped of his coin purse by that charlatan of a ship’s captain, left him with nothing but the taste of sand and failure in his mouth.
He should have expected nothing less from Seraphina de la Croix. A poison ring spirited away on her person? Well done, Sera. He was more impressed than irritated, really.
But the realization that his queen was still out there somewhere, waiting to be captured, killed, or married off to the next lord wishing to play king rather than safely on a ship, made his headache pound all the more.
His thumb worried at the wedding band the smugglers had mercifully left him as he walked, making for the throne room. Of all his possessions, all his great wealth, that simple little ring was the only thing that promised him even a semblance of safety in this pit of vipers.
Because it was the only thing that tied him to this new regime—to his father-in-law, the Duke of Coreto.
The doors to the throne room lay open, as if straining to accommodate the swell of people fighting for a place within. Tension blanketed the room, making the air brittle, as if a mere cough might shatter it completely.
Those courtiers and soldiers already loyal to Coreto, eager to be awarded for the parts they played in the coup yesterday, composed the majority of the crowd, he saw.
But interspersed amongst them were those who had been too slow, too stupid, or too unlucky to flee Goldreach before the gates slammed shut.
The latter stood trembling—like sheep standing alongside wolves, fearful of the unknown.
Tiberius didn’t tremble, though. He didn’t have the energy for it.
The residual lethargy from the sleep poison Seraphina had so kindly administered still clung to his limbs, making every step feel as though he were wading through a thick stew.
But he walked all the same. He walked with all the pride of a Beaumont, chin high, and pressed through the crowd until he found a place at the very front of the room, with an excellent view of Seraphina’s throne.
It was an obscenity.
There the Duke of Coreto sat, looking entirely too comfortable.
Gone was his usual drab attire, replaced by an ensemble that looked as if he had raided the late Reynard de la Croix’s belongings: a doublet of midnight blue embroidered with silver thread and a crown of iron and sapphires resting heavily on his brow.
Behind the throne stood dour Lord Bennett, pretending to be a prince—a miserable, sickly-looking prince.
“My people,” Coreto boomed, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. “The darkness of the de la Croix woman’s reign has finally come to an end. A new dawn now breaks over Elmoria.”
Darkness? The only dark blot on his queen’s reign had been the moment she married that beast from Drakmor—the Crow. But that was arguable, really, and he could forgive her that. He understood why she had done it.
Politics.
“I do not take this burden lightly,” Coreto continued, spreading his hands wide. Though Tiberius supposed he would not be called Coreto now—not now that he was king rather than a mere duke.
“And in honor of the history of this great land,” Coreto continued, “I cast aside my name of Roul Threston. From this day forth, Elmoria shall return to its golden era of conquest and strength, led by another Hamon, in celebration of all the great Hamons who came before.”
A court herald rapped his stave on the floor, wood striking marble. “All hail King Hamon!” the man cried. “Eleventh of his name!”
A ripple of shock tore through the gathered nobles. Even Tiberius could hardly believe his ears. Hamon. A family name of House de la Croix. The name of Seraphina’s dead brother, who would have been Hamon XI had he lived to see his coronation.
It was a theft. A mummer’s farce.
Coreto had cast aside his plan to mingle his bloodline with Seraphina’s through marriage to his son, so now he was stealing the names of dead men instead? Like a scavenger picking at a carcass.
A cry went up from the gathered nobles, a scattered chant of “Long live the king!” that reverberated off the walls until the self-styled King Hamon himself raised his arms for silence.
A hush fell across the crowd as an Arathian woman swept into the room. A woman he had never seen before.
A woman he immediately wished he would never see again.
She was tall, her presence commanding enough to suck the very air from the hall.
Robes of crimson silk flowed around her like fresh blood, leaving her arms bare to the shoulder.
Gold chains cascaded from her throat, shivering with every step she took.
Her hair was a curtain of ink, framing a face of devastating, terrifying beauty.
But it was her eyes that made Tiberius’s stomach sour.
Golden. Unnatural. Predatory.
A witch. Their king had brought a witch into the very heart of Elmoria.
“And here to help me ring in this new era of strength and prosperity is my Lady Chancellor, Samira,” King Hamon decreed. “She who not only speaks for the Lady Below but also for the kingdoms of Arath and Drakmor.”
Samira stopped at the foot of the dais, turning slowly to survey the room. Her gaze swept over the gawking nobles, dismissive and cool, before settling on the crowd with a predator’s patience.
“How fortunate you all are,” she called out, her voice a sultry purr that carried to the farthest corners of the room, “to have a king so skilled in the art of diplomacy that in a single night, he has accomplished what the de la Croix woman could not.”
In her hands, she lifted a scroll case Tiberius had not even noticed before as she cried, “Peace amongst Elmoria, Arath, and Drakmor! At last, the two-hundred-year peace has been restored!”
Scattered applause rang out. Murmurs of approval. Whispers of fear.
Samira lowered the scroll case and flashed a bright smile to the room. “Who will be first?” she asked, so innocently. “Who will be first to swear themselves to His Majesty?”
Hesitation meant death. He knew that as surely as he knew the sun would rise.
He did not hesitate.
Shoving past a trembling viscount, Tiberius stalked toward the dais and flung himself to his knees before it, head bowing in submission. “Your Majesty,” he declared, loud enough for all to hear. “House Beaumont stands with you. Long live King Hamon!”
From above him, a scoff drifted down.
“Does it truly, my son?”
Tiberius risked lifting his head. The new king frowned down at him, his expression curdling with displeasure.
“I have heard,” Coreto—no, Hamon—hissed softly, leaning forward so that only those nearest the dais could hear, “that it was you who let the little doe get away.”
The little doe. He could only mean Seraphina.
“I was bringing her to you, Your Majesty,” Tiberius lied, pitching his voice to a desperate whisper. “I had her. I was bringing her to you when your men tried to shoot her down. So I thought—”
“It is not your place to think,” Hamon cut him off, his eyes narrowing to slits. “My plans have changed, Tiberius. I no longer need her alive, but dead.”
But why? That was what he wanted to ask, but dared not. What had changed in the span of a single day to make him abandon his desire for a Threston-de la Croix alliance?
Hamon continued, a clear threat lacing through his tone: “If you were not married to my dear Catherine already…” But he did not finish the thought.
Then again, he did not have to.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty. I was merely trying to help you, but I see now I was in error.” Tiberius wet his lips before delicately adding, “But having the de la Croix woman marry your son is still the best plan, is it not? It is the only way the High Shepherd will ever accept your claim. Lothmeer—”
“I do not fear the High Shepherd!” Hamon snapped. “Nor do I fear the Holy Lothmeeran Emperor. Why would I, when the Lady shines Her favor upon me?”
Tiberius’s blood ran cold.
Against his better judgment, he shot a look toward the witch. Samira still stood there before the dais, watching him with those uncanny golden eyes of hers. A small, knowing smile played upon her crimson lips.
Hamon extended his hand. His sigil ring—heavy, gold, and bearing the boar of his House—glinted in the sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows behind the throne. “For Catherine’s sake, I will forgive you,” he whispered. “But do not fail me again, Tiberius.”
Tiberius swallowed against the sudden dryness in his throat. He reached out, taking the king’s hand, and pressed his lips to the cold metal of that ring.
“My loyalty is yours,” he murmured.
As he pulled back, a sudden, desperate thought seized him. He needed a better shield than a mere wedding band resting uselessly on his finger.
“And my wife?” Tiberius asked, keeping his voice deferential. “When will Lady Catherine be joining us at court? Surely her place is here, by her father’s side.”
Hamon waved a dismissive hand, as if swatting away a fly. “I will not call for the rest of my kin until these turbulences within the city have settled.” His lip curled in a sneer. “Pitiful pockets of resistance. They will be crushed soon enough.”
Tiberius made to rise, to retreat while his head was still attached to his shoulders, but his gaze flickered back to the witch.
She frowned at him. “Your Majesty…surely we should receive a pledge from the Baron of Crestley that he will turn from his false faith and pledge his loyalty to the Lady Below, too.”
At the very thought, Tiberius’s blood ran cold. He was not a terribly religious man—a member of the Lord’s Faithful mostly in word rather than deed. But still, the thought rang a warning bell that rattled through his bones.
Danger.
His gaze cut back to the king, hunting for some manner of sympathy there.
He found none. But he did find resistance.
Under his breath, Hamon murmured, “It is too soon, Samira. One cannot make sweeping reforms overnight—”
“Why would you wish to deny your people the joy of knowing the Lady’s many blessings?” she smoothly countered, her voice like velvet. Velvet wrapped around a hidden dagger. “Truth is a gift, Your Majesty. Why hide it?”
Some long-dormant instinct in Tiberius warned him to run.
And yet, he found himself rooted in place, still kneeling before the dais, as the witch stepped forward and gestured toward the door.
“Even one of the false queen’s closest advisors knows the wisdom of seeking the Lady’s favor over the Lord’s! ”
Tiberius frowned. Advisor? Seraphina had only two heathens on her Privy Council. Coreto, of course, and…
A stir at the back of the chamber drew his attention. The crowd parted, murmurs rising into a fever pitch.
Tiberius could only stare.
Striding through the room, looking perfectly—infuriatingly—well, was Olivia, his queen’s best friend, her Spymaster, and her pet pagan.
But she was not in chains. She was not bruised. She looked as she always did, wearing her fashionably impaired attire—black trousers, black boots, black shirt—cut like a man’s garb, fitting her like a second skin. Her face was composed, her expression unreadable.
Tiberius watched, stunned, as she made for the dais and dropped to one knee beside him.
“Your Majesty,” Olivia called, her voice clear and strong. “I pledge my life and my service to the true ruler of Elmoria, for this day and all the days to come. Until I breathe my last breath. Until I have no strength left in my weary bones.”
Tiberius clenched his jaw tight to keep it from coming unhinged. Olivia? The woman who had shadowed Seraphina like a devoted hound ever since they were children? She worshiped the Lady, yes. That was no secret.
But loyalty to Seraphina had always been her true religion.
For the briefest of moments, Olivia slanted him a look. Her eyes met his. There was no warmth there. No friendship hiding within those amber depths. But there was…something. A glint of steel. A sharpness that didn’t match the submission of her posture.
It was a look that said, Do not ruin this for me, Beaumont.
Tiberius bit down hard on his cheek and bowed to their new king once more before he backed away from the throne, leaving Olivia to her games.
Yet one more liar in a room full of them.
Slowly, imperceptibly, the corner of Tiberius’s mouth quirked upward.
Well, at least if he died here, he wouldn’t die bored.