7. Aemon
7
F or a split second, I was sure I was hallucinating. She’s like something out of a fairy tale and not one of those sugary-sweet ones where everything ends in a happily ever after. No, her tale would be dark and demented—my favorite kind.
It’s her eyes. Those violet eyes set against porcelain skin and night-black hair, not to mention those full pink lips, high cheekbones and a small, straight nose. Every feature perfectly proportioned, ethereal even, like a siren meant to charm you to a watery grave. She hasn’t spoken much, but she’s listening. I can tell by the tilt of her head. The way she tips her ear toward whoever’s speaking. It’s subtle. So subtle, I may not have noticed, had I not been watching her so closely. Those seated around her obviously haven’t noticed. They’re chatting along happily, unaware there’s a snake hiding in plain sight.
The question is, who does she belong to ?
She stiffens, and her head snaps around, meeting my gaze. If the first time I saw her was like being struck by lightning, this time is like being hit by an earthquake. Like the very earth beneath my feet has been swept away, and I’m in free fall. I grip the edge of the table to steady myself. Maybe the siren analogy isn’t that far off, after all.
“Aemon.”
I snap out of my mental haze at the sound of Troi calling my name. By the look of annoyance on his face, this isn’t the first time he’s tried to get my attention. Then again, when it comes to Prince Troi, he could be annoyed about literally anything from the forks not being shiny enough to the last maid not cupping his balls the way he preferred when sucking his cock. It always amazes me how someone with such a charmed life can find so much to constantly bitch about.
“What?” I say, not giving a shit if he’s offended.
His eyes narrow. He won’t have me flogged or jailed or the hundred other things he’d do to anyone else who so much as looked at him in a way he found displeasing. I’m his only friend, his “brother,” and co-conspirator. In other words, I know too much.
And I fucking hate him.
Fortunately, I am an excellent actor.
“What?” I say again because he keeps looking at me with that irritable expression on his face.
“I’ve been trying to talk to you for the last ten minutes.”
Did I mention he likes to exaggerate?
“We haven’t been sitting here for ten minutes, brother,” I begin. A servant leans between us to pour wine into our goblets, momentarily halting this inane conversation. I nod my thanks and the young male gives me a small smile. I try to be kind to the staff, if for no other reason than to make up for Troi’s constant mistreatment. The servant moves on, and I lift and rotate the glass, watching the red liquid swirl like a tiny whirlpool. “What do you need?”
“I need you to get my idiot wife and bring her back before I bash her fucking head in,” he says, smiling all the while.
I wish I could say he’s joking, but—
“Good gods, Mother. Again?” Troi whines, barely keeping his volume in check, as our meals are set in front of us.
I have to say, I agree with him. You’d think the queen would have more discerning tastes, but no. All the woman wants is sausage. Sausage, sausage, sausage. If I never eat another fucking sausage in my life, it will be too gods damned soon. Tonight’s sausage has been thrown into the middle of a stew, so it looks like a floating turd. Mmmm, yummy.
“Shut up, boy,” the queen says, smacking him upside the head like a toddler. “Or I’ll send you out with that poor excuse you call a wife.”
This is the wife she forced him to marry, but we don’t talk about that.
“She was your choice, not mine,” Troi says.
Check that. I don’t talk about it.
The queen scoffs. “Of course not. You can barely choose your own shoes. You think I’d leave such an important decision to you. You’re your father through and through—all bravado, no brains. Gods knows what will come of the crown when you become king.”
It’s a lecture I’ve heard a hundred times and is easily tuned out—for me, at least. On the plus side, now that Troi is occupied, I can return my attention to the little siren—and Duke Berezin, who has leaned in so close to her, he’s practically on her lap. She’s not happy about it either. She’s got her head turned away and her eyes squeezed shut. I’d bet all the queen’s jewels the man has the breath of a horse. There’s some sort of scuffle going on between the two of them under the table, and the other diners are starting to notice.
Suddenly, she leaps to her feet, knocking her chair back. It crashes to the floor and every head snaps to where she’s standing. Quickly turning a startling shade of tomato, she mutters an apology and rushes from the room, leaving the overturned chair where it lays.
And Berezin laughs and laughs.
I grit my teeth against the urge to jump from my seat and beat the man into a bloody pulp right here and now. It would be terrible table manners, after all. Too bad for Berezin because when I finally get my mitts on him, I’m going to hurt him slowly.