Iona
The next morning, the first treaty session is held in the audience hall. A twelve-foot oak table runs across the black line below the dais.
The Black King sits at the far end.
Very far.
He has placed Callas, Perr, two councilors, and a stack of grain ledgers between our chairs.
I look at the distance. He looks at me looking.
“Shall we begin?” Callas asks.
“We began when you crossed my border,” the king says. “Now we write down the price.”
His voice is steady. His hands are flat on the table. No claws. The bandage around his forearm is hidden beneath a fresh black sleeve.
I open the first schedule. For an hour, we argue about forts.
He knows every weakness in Serath’s northern defense. Which piers have rotted. Which garrisons exist only on paper. Which river lord has been selling army horses to pay gambling debts.
I know his western granaries are half empty.
“You took Vessel because you needed grain,” I say.
“I took Vessel because its lord stole from me.”
“You rode three thousand men across the north for an insult?”
“For seven hundred sacks of grain.”
“So you did need it.”
One corner of his mouth moves.
Callas shifts beside me. “Envoy—”
I hold up a page. “Your tribute accounts list four hundred cattle from four different hill estates.”
“They are fertile hills.”
“They are the same cattle.”
Ghenn coughs into his fist.
The king’s gaze sharpens. “Prove it.”
“The ear marks are copied in the same order on every list.” I slide the page toward Perr. “Read the first six.”
Perr does.
I open the second schedule and read the same marks back to him.
Silence.
Ghenn stops pretending to cough.
The king laughs.
Once. Low and rough.
The sound runs straight through me. His gaze sharpens.
Damn him.
“Who prepared these?” he asks Ghenn.
“Lord Osk’s factor.”
“Send for both of them.”
Ghenn’s amusement disappears. “Osk is already in the hold.”
“Why?”
“He arrived before dawn. He demanded council.”
The doors slam open before the king can answer.
A broad man strides into the hall in muddy boots and an iron-braided beard. His right hand is wrapped around the haft of an axe.
“Osk,” Ghenn says under his breath.
So this is the northern lord whose cattle multiply on paper. Osk ignores the black line.
Steel leaves three scabbards at once.
Torgan raises two fingers. The guards stop with their blades half drawn, every point aimed at Osk. Torgan does not look at them. He wants the room to hear what Osk says next.
Osk crosses the line and stops beside the table.
“You summon my factor over a southern woman’s counting?”
The king remains seated. “Take your hand off the axe.”
“Serath rebuilt Wrenford Fort and closed the old cattle road through the marches. My men have waited two years for that land. You promised it.”
“Wrenford stands on their side of the river. The treaty permits repairs. Your factors lost the cattle road when they stopped paying its tolls.”
“They changed the border.”
“They maintained it.”
“They’re weak. Take it.” Osk jerks his chin toward me. “Instead you sit here while they send a woman to soften you.”
The room goes still.
I set down my pen.
The king says, “Take your hand off the axe.”
Osk laughs.
Then he looks directly at me.
“Does he let you lead him by the horns too?”
Something changes at the end of the table. The king’s claws slide out.
Slowly.
Five dark points press against the oak, the thumb claw held apart from the four fingers.
Osk sees them.
He does not back down.
“Coward,” he says.
No one breathes.
The king rises.
He moves before Osk can pull the axe free. One hand closes around Osk’s wrist. The other catches his elbow.
A crack splits the room.
Osk screams.
The axe falls. The king kicks it away and twists once more. Osk hits the floor with his arm bent wrong beneath him.
The king plants a boot on his throat.
“Yield.”
Osk claws at the leather.
The king presses down.
“Yield.”
“I yield.” The words barely come out.
The boot lifts.
Guards seize Osk and drag him toward the doors. He spits blood across the floor. “You’ll regret choosing her over your own.”
The king turns.
For one terrible second, I think he will kill him. Ghenn steps between them, not blocking him, only reminding him that other choices exist.
“Cells?” Ghenn asks.
“No.” The king’s eyes stay on Osk. “His rooms. Guards at the door. At sunset he rides north.”
Osk laughs through his pain. “You’re sending me home?”
“I’m giving you time to remember your oath.”
The guards take him away.
The doors close.
Nobody moves.
The king stands beside the fallen axe, breathing hard. His claws are still out. Blood runs over one knuckle where Osk’s buckle caught him.
He looks at me.
My pulse kicks at the base of my throat.
Another beats between my legs.
His gaze drops.
The air leaves him in a rough breath.
His breath catches on my scent.
“Everyone out,” he says.
Callas rises. “Great King, we have not finished—”
“Out.”
Chairs scrape back.
I remain seated.
Callas grips the back of my chair. “Iona.”
The king’s eyes stay on mine. “The envoy stays.”
Callas looks from him to me.
“Go,” I say.
Perr gathers the papers so quickly he drops three. Ghenn collects them and pushes him toward the door.
Then we are alone.
The king comes around the table. My body tightens with every step. He stops two paces away.
“You were aroused.”
No greeting. No attempt at politeness.
I should deny it.
He would smell the lie.
“Yes.”
His claws flex.
“By what?”
“The speed.”
His eyes narrow.
“The strength,” I admit. “The fact that he threatened me and you put him on the floor.”
“I did not do it for you.”
“Didn’t you?”
He takes one step closer. The table is at my back. He is in front of me. I can feel the heat from his body.
“I broke his arm because he reached for a weapon in my hall.”
“And if he had insulted someone else?”
His jaw locks.
His right hand lands on the table beside my hip. The claws drive into the oak. His left hand stays at his side.
Deliberate.
“Do not test this,” he says.
“Test what?”
His gaze moves to my mouth.
“The thing you felt last night.”
Heat pulls tight beneath my ribs.
“You felt it too.”
He looks almost angry at the question.
“Yes.”
The answer leaves me suddenly unsteady.
I lift my hand.
He goes completely still.
I do not touch his chest or face. I place one fingertip against the back of his hand, between two raised tendons.
His skin is hot.
A growl starts deep in him.
My finger trembles.
The claw nearest it slides farther into the wood.
“Does that hurt?” I ask.
“No.”
“The claws?”
“No.”
“Touching me?”
His eyes close for one beat.
“Yes.”
I remove my finger.
He turns away at once.
“Return to your rooms.”
“We still have a treaty.”
“Tomorrow.”
“That is becoming a habit.”
He looks back over his shoulder.
“Tomorrow, Envoy. Bring the cattle lists.”
I leave before I do something less sensible than touch his hand. Outside the doors, Callas waits with Perr and half the court.
“Well?” Callas demands.
“He accepts that Osk owns one hundred cattle.”
Perr makes a choking sound.
I walk past them.
My fingertip still burns where I touched the king.