11. Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
T he chamber door swings open abruptly.
“Bladesinger, I know you’re angry, but what in the gods’ names are you—” Asheros freezes in the threshold, his eyes immediately falling to my hands, and then the pillows.
“It looks worse than it is,” I explain. “The pillows—”
“Should be wary of getting on your bad side, yes, I know.” Despite the veil of sarcasm, every drop of annoyance fades from his voice.
“That’s not what I was going to say.”
“I know what you were going to say.” He approaches me, closing the gap between us. “May I?”
I nod and let him take my hands in his. His thumbs brush against my fingers, careful not to touch my bloody knuckles.
“Orim,” he calls, without turning his head to the door. His feet stay planted, and he doesn’t release my hands. “I need a bucket of water, fresh pillows, a cloth, and bandages.”
“Right away,” comes Orim’s response. In a few moments, he returns with everything Asheros asked for. He places the bucket of water on the floor by the bed, drapes the bandages and cloth over Asheros’s arm, and then sets the pillows on the bed where they belong.
I watch him work, my cheeks hot.
Orim doesn’t seem to notice. He flashes me a smile. Maintaining his warm expression, he takes the bloodied pillows from atop the dresser and leaves without saying another word, closing the door behind him.
“Are there no staff here?” I ask. Every home belonging to wealthy fae that I’ve been to have some kind of staffing, whether they be cooks, maids, or stablemen.
“The staff accompany Orim’s parents, leaving this manor empty while they’re away,” Asheros answers. “That’s what makes it such an ideal choice for us.”
“Ah.” My eyes fall to the floor. “I see.”
Asheros tugs lightly at my hands and leads me to the bed. “Sit.”
I do. The mattress gives way beneath his weight when he joins me. It tilts my body toward him, bringing our faces closer together .
Asheros lets go of one of my hands and pulls the bucket of water closer to him. He dips the cloth into it and squeezes, letting the excess drip back into the bucket. Bringing the cloth to my right hand, he hesitates, looking to me for permission before touching my skin. I nod, and he begins to gently pat my knuckles with the damp cloth. He furrows his brow, seemingly intent on my hand.
I turn my face, head angled to the floor.
“So,” he says, breaking the silence, “do you make it a habit of punching walls?”
“Not usually,” I answer, keeping my attention fixed on a point on the wall behind him.
Asheros presses his lips together. He removes the cloth from my skin and dips it back into the bucket before returning it to my hand.
“When there’s something on my mind, I train,” I tell him, feeling the need to explain.
“Ah.” He tilts his head back slightly.
There you go again, Lymseia, I chide myself.
Now he knows there’s something bothering me. What is it about Asheros that makes it so easy to open myself up to him?
“I took you here because I…” He closes his mouth, and then opens it again, as if he’s searching for the right words. “I wanted to you to help me convince Viridian to step down from the throne.”
“You honestly thought I’d help you do that?” I ask, balking at the idea.
“Not at first, no. You’re too loyal to him.” Asheros’s tone loses some of its strength. “But aside from your loyalty to his crown, you care for him, and for this kingdom. I’d hoped that once I convinced you to see my side of things, you’d realize my intentions aren’t nefarious.”
I laugh bitterly. “And then what, you’d take the crown for yourself?”
“Yes. No.” He sighs, briefly closing his eyes. “I hope not.”
My eyes widen and snap to his.
He doesn’t want the crown?
Any noble fae in his position would leap at the chance of placing themselves on the throne if presented with the opportunity.
“Then why?” I ask.
“Viridian, he—” Asheros pauses, holding the damp cloth to my hand. “Rumors are circling among the nobles. There are… doubts about his parentage.”
“He’s their king. Our king. How dare they question his position.”
“I know, Bladesinger. I know.” He holds my stare and then his eyes flick away. He picks up the cloth again and collects the last bit of blood left on my knuckles. “But king or not, the nobles gossip.”
“Gossip alone isn’t enough to rise to that level of suspicion.” I ask, “What sort of rumors?”
“Rumors that High Queen Azalinah had never been pregnant.”
“So what?” I roll my eyes. “Surely a bastard king doesn’t mark the end of a line.”
“When the bastard king is the child of the reigning monarch, no,” Asheros agrees. “But when the so-called ‘bastard’ child isn’t the progeny of the monarch or their spouse, yes, it does.” He removes the cloth from my hands. “Fae old enough to have known Vorr while Azalinah was alive insist that he was too in love with her to stray from their bed.”
I let out a huff. “Well, maybe those fae ought to learn a thing or two about minding their own business.”
“For at least a thousand years, our tradition has been that when a monarch dies without an heir-apparent, it means that the gods intended for power to pass onto another House,” Asheros reminds me. “Fae are worried that if House Avanos’s time on the throne was truly meant to die with Vorr, we risk angering the gods if we don’t let another House take the crown.”
“That’s all just superstition,” I say, though my chest tightens.
“For beings with lifespans as long as ours, superstition dies hard, and fear is a powerful thing. Regardless,” Asheros continues, “there’s enough doubt to question the legitimacy of Viridian’s claim to the throne. And given the nobles’ displeasure with the changes he’s been making since becoming High King, it’s the perfect excuse to seek a shift in power.”
“What?” His statement takes me aback. My mind’s stunned by the implications of what he’s saying. “You don’t mean…”
“I do.” He drops the bloodied cloth into the bucket. “There’s word that House Pelleveron has already begun diplomatic visits to the other Courts. Maelyrra plans to invoke the Fyrelith, and if she doesn’t get what she wants, she will go to war for it.”
“ War ? For the crown? On what grounds?” I shake my head, unable to contain the ferocity of my anger. “Legitimate or not, Viridian has been crowned High King. There’s ample time for him and Cryssa to produce an heir. Their reign has only just begun.”
“That doesn’t matter. The rite can be invoked by any challenger, at any time. Traditionally, only heir-apparents enter, and it’s only been invoked in the past when a ruler dies without a legitimate heir. But those aren’t strict rules.” Still holding my hand, he rubs his temple with his free hand. “Maelyrra wouldn’t be stupid enough to challenge Viridian without political support. So, to sway the other Courts, she’ll claim that Viridian isn’t Vorr or Azalinah’s son. If that’s true, then technically, the last High King died without a legitimate heir-apparent, and the Fyrelith should have been invoked when Vorr died.”
“That gods-damned female.” I never liked her. She’s so snobby, always thinking she’s better than everyone else. I don’t know how Cryssa and Viridian put up with her at council meetings, or how the likes of her can be related to someone with a worthy heart like Cryssa’s. “What proof does Maelyrra Pelleveron have? She’ll need something compelling if she wants to convince Copper and Steel to ally with her.”
The Copper and Steel Courts have been allied with the Bronze Court for centuries. Though, the Steel Court has always taken more of a neutral position when it came to conflict between the other Courts, stepping in only when absolutely necessary.
Asheros cocks his head. “There’s not much evidence.”
“Ha. See?”
I want to continue the conversation, to add something else about how Maelyrra’s grab for power is already doomed, but the heavy look in Asheros’s eyes stops me.
I clench my hands into fists. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
Of course there’s more.
“It may only be circumstantial, but it doesn’t look good, Bladesinger.” The severity of Asheros’s tone makes my stomach sink. “Think about it—Vorr and Azalinah tried for decades to produce an heir, unsuccessfully. Then, all of a sudden, Viridian is born without any news of the High Queen’s pregnancy or his birth. No one knew that the royals were expecting, until they received an invitation to the ball celebrating Viridian’s birth. It’s as if he appeared out of thin air.”
“And let’s not forget Vorr was cursed at that same ball.” My voice slows. “Before I left High Keep, Cryssa and Viridian told me everything they learned about Vorr’s curse. They said he took something that wasn’t his to take, and the female he wronged cursed him as punishment.”
I swear the air surrounding us thickens.
“Gods above.” I freeze, and my blood runs cold. “What if… What if that ‘thing’ Vorr took wasn’t a thing at all. What if it was a child?” Part of me doesn’t want to say my next thought aloud, but the words leave my lips before I can stop them. “What if it was Viridian?”
Asheros’s eyes widen. “Then the rumors would be true.”
“Fuck the rumors. I don’t give a damn about Viridian’s bloodline or superstition,” I shoot out, rising to my feet. My hand slips from Asheros’s. Fury swells in my chest and has me hardening my mouth. “It might not be Vorr’s blood running through his veins, but he’s still Vorr’s son. He’s my friend and my High King. I will protect his rule at all costs.”
I expect silence to follow my declaration. Or, if there isn’t silence, then I expect Asheros to argue with me.
Neither of those things happen.
“As will I,” Asheros says firmly, with a dip of his head, and rises to meet me. I’m surprised that there isn’t a hint of doubt in my mind that he means it.
Still, I can’t help but wonder.
“So, you’re telling me that you truly don’t want to be High King?” I lean back and cross my arms. “You can’t tell me the thought hasn’t crossed your mind.”
“It has.” Asheros’s brows knit together. He takes a breath, and when he exhales, I see fatigue wear down his defined features. “My father… He’ll likely disown me if I don’t enter the Fyrelith. It’s been ages since the Silver Court had control of the throne. But I can’t—I won’t. Viridian and I may not be the closest of friends, but I respect him. I respect his rule. And this tension, the Fyrelith, a potential war… This will only cause pointless bloodshed.” He stares into my eyes now. “So no. I have no desire to be king.”
I part my lips but can’t seem to summon any words.
I’m speechless. Truly speechless.
I still don’t know whether or not to trust him. Every instinct I have, and every fiber in my body tells me to keep him at arm’s length.
But damn it all, something in me wants to believe him.
“What happened to wanting me to help you persuade Viridian to step down?” I ask, crossing my arms. “Not even a moment ago, you told me that was your plan.” He’d gone as far as kidnapping me, intending to use me to aid his plans. That sort of commitment to a plan, that sort of risk taken to his Court and to his life, doesn’t disappear overnight. I’d be a fool to think otherwise.
But maybe…
Maybe he’s been considering alternatives for some time.
The corners of Asheros’s mouth curve up into the hint of a smirk. “That’s still in the back of my mind. Let’s call it a failsafe—in case this all goes horribly wrong.”
“Perhaps, but even if Viridian did step down without a fight,” I say, holding his gaze, “the Fyrelith would still be bloody.”
“It would.” He nods. “But if it comes to that, the loss of life caused by the Fyrelith alone would be far less than a war.”
“Fair enough.” I eye him, mulling over his answer. “Well, then, if we want to save lives, and maybe prevent an all-out war, where do we start?”
“Hunting down Vorr’s killer.” Lost in thought, Asheros shifts his weight, tilting his head side to side as he does. “Whoever they are, they’re the ones orchestrating all of this. Maelyrra Pelleveron, the other Heads of House and heir-apparents, they’re all puppets, pawns in someone else’s game.”
“Right. Maelyrra’s wanted the throne ever since Vorr became king.” Instinct takes over, and I feel as if I’m in a war room, trying to piece together the enemy’s strategy. “Vorr’s killer must have known that questions about Viridian’s true parentage would come up after he died and wanted that to happen. With Vorr gone, there’s no one to stop the nobles from talking about what happened that night a century ago. The night Vorr was cursed.”
“And the more they talk, the more doubt arises about Viridian’s bloodline, further fueling the fire.” Asheros’s gaze is firm on my own. “This was all meant to cause a rift between the Courts. To shift alliances.”
“And maybe, to start a war.”
Asheros nods.
“But why?” I ask, struggling to wrap my mind around it. “Is this truly about power? About who’s sitting on the throne?”
“It must be,” Asheros says, stroking his chin. “Why else would someone go through the effort?”
I look away. I can’t explain why, or how, but I know that’s not all there is. “There’s more to this,” I say at last. “I know it.”
“I believe you.” He sits and pats the bed beside him. “Let me wrap those hands before you go and hit something again.”
If not for the gravity of our discussion, I might have laughed. But the weight of it is heavy on my mind, and I can’t stop thinking of who would want to divide the kingdom.
I sit down while he unrolls the bandages. “Who do you think is behind it?”
“I don’t know.” Asheros’s eyes narrow. He holds out his palm, and I place my right hand in his. “Someone in a position with much to gain.”
“You don’t think it’s Maelyrra?”
Asheros makes a face that tells me he’s considering it, while weighing the other options. “She’s the obvious choice, without question,” he says, wrapping the bandage around my hand. “But I think that’s what the real killer wants us to believe.”
“What makes you think it’s not her?” I ask.
“Maelyrra wants the throne for House Pelleveron,” Asheros tells me. He secures the bandage, and then beckons for my other hand. “She always has. But the throne is meaningless without a kingdom to rule.” Taking my left hand, he wraps the other bandage around my split knuckles. “She may be arrogant, but she’s no fool. Though she’s willing to go to war, she wouldn’t risk jeopardizing the kingdom’s ability to recover after the war’s been won.”
“Fine, not Maelyrra.” I don’t hide the disappointment in my voice. I would love a reason to wipe that smug expression off Maelyrra Pelleveron’s face.
“Not Maelyrra,” Asheros agrees, tying the bandage. “There.” He grins. “Don’t go and ruin my masterpiece.”
Admiring his work, I flex my hands. For a noble fae lord, he knows how to wrap a tight bandage. Almost as well as a member of the Guard.
“I’ll do my best,” I say, “but I can’t promise you anything.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. I want to ask what’s wrong, but I don’t want to push it. He’s already opened up to me more than I thought he would tonight.
“Come.” He stands, holding out a hand for me. “Orim’s preparing a feast.”
I let him gently pull me to my feet. “Wonderful. I’m starved.”