Sacrifice #3
She gave him another look, this time more pointed. “Your Majesty, it’s not appropriate to discuss other patients with you, regardless of your station.”
“Is he happy?”
“He will be, when he’s pregnant. Lift your right arm.”
Sindar obeyed, suspecting she only asked him to do it because it was painful. “I want to protect him.”
“I should hope so.”
“From everyone. Even kings. If you know of any threat, any at all, would you tell me?”
She lowered his arm. “You have a head injury, Your Majesty. I appreciate you are likely confused.”
“I’m not confused. If you knew of someone who could disrupt his life or his happiness, would you tell me where to find them?”
“Your Majesty, a bit of free advice?”
“All right.”
“Stop riding, and focus on getting your Flower pregnant.” She motioned for him to sit, and he did.
He followed her commands, tracking her finger and answering basic questions about the date and where he was, until she was reasonably satisfied he was fit to leave.
His gut told him she’d helped Patty cover when Xandar was incapacitated.
She surely knew where he was being kept now, but she was so damned hard to read.
Sindar sighed and fished the snuffbox out of his pocket. Well, at least there was one bright spot. He hadn’t lost his beloved dust in all the commotion.
“Another bit of advice, Your Majesty? You could stand to act a bit more like a proper king. It’s dangerous to trust a man in power when he appears incompetent.”
He stared at her. Not because of what she’d said—she was right—but because she was bold enough to say it. No one in the palace would have dared to say such a thing to Xandar.
She knew he wasn’t Xandar. She was definitely in on it.
“You should start right now, in fact,” she continued, and held out her hand.
He looked at the snuffbox, then at her hand. She knew who he was, and she was telling him to clean up his act. Not just for appearances, but for Ardor’s sake.
The choice between one of the kindest friends he’d ever known and the most perfect man in the world was no choice at all. Wordlessly, he handed her the box.
* * *
BEING A PROPER king was a royal pain in the ass.
For starters, Sindar’s gnawing, unending craving for coca was overwhelming.
He hadn’t appreciated how much lifelong addiction dulled his senses and insulated his heart until he went without.
As a young man spurned by his family, coca was a welcome balm.
It kept him sharp—or so he thought—so he could keep up with his brother’s machinations.
After Xandar killed everyone, the coca dulled the pain, and when he was stuck in the backwaters with nothing to do but ride horses and gamble and play with his girlfriends, it kept things interesting.
Coca had become a haven, and it was difficult to let go.
The only time he stopped fantasizing about retreating into the snuffbox was when he was with Ardor, and the morning ceremonies were over so quickly relief was fleeting.
Therefore, any minute that wasn’t spent in mind-numbing meetings (which he was now required to pay attention to) or dealing with various annoying matters of state was a chance to slip away to the gardens to steal a few moments with Ardor, under the utterly transparent pretext of “bringing water for his girls” and helping feed the bees.
Within a few days, Ardor’s wariness at these visits was replaced with a weary but indulgent acceptance. When Sindar arrived this afternoon, a pitcher of sugar water in tow, Ardor’s lips quirked into something close to a smile.
Sindar made a great show of reverently pouring the offering onto the plate and greeting the bees by the silly names he’d made up for them (Lady Honey was his favorite) before he went to his knees.
Ardor sighed, but failed to sound truly vexed. “You mustn’t kneel for me in public.”
“What about in private?”
The corner of Ardor’s beautiful mouth twitched again. “You’re besotted, Your Majesty.”
“People keep saying that. What happens when a man is besotted?”
“He becomes singularly focused on breeding. He can think of nothing else.”
“That’s not what I want.”
Ardor laughed softly. “No? Should I cancel our next meeting?” Sindar sucked in a breath, and Ardor laughed again. “I’m teasing you. Stand up. You truly are ridiculous.”
Goddess, that laugh. It was good. He wanted more of it. Sindar rose and said, “I want to kiss your feet. I don’t know why, except they’re beautiful, and they need to be kissed. How can that be wrong?”
“It’s not in our contract, for starters.”
“Let’s write a new one. I requested your champion, so the contract must be renegotiated, anyway. We could add a worship clause, if such things appeal.”
Ardor’s smile faded. “You requested… Why would you do that?”
“You shouldn’t have to carry a weapon.” Sindar still fantasized about the cool steel beneath his chin, and the firm warmth of Ardor’s body at his back. “I understand why you need one, and that’s my fault. I want you to feel secure here.”
Ardor’s brown eyes grew inscrutable. “I didn’t ask you to do that. What do you expect in return?”
“Only your consideration. I’d like to forgo the five-month waiting period. After you’re pregnant.”
“It will take five months to bring our child to term. There’s no reason for us to have contact during that time.”
“There are plenty of reasons. I could rub your feet, for one. Also, if I have to go five months without seeing you, I will die.”
“Respectfully, Your Majesty, that’s not my problem.”
“It is. I can’t give you more children if I’m dead.”
Ardor paused thoughtfully. “I suppose that’s true. How many children are you offering?”
“One hundred.”
Ardor laughed. “I will be lucky to produce the obligated ten, Your Majesty.”
“Very well, I stand ready. We could shoot for a dozen, and see how far we get.”
Ardor’s expression shifted, growing wary. “You’re flirting,” he said finally.
“I’m certainly trying,” Sindar said with a laugh, and Ardor visibly relaxed. “Did I step in it again? I only wanted to amuse you.”
“You don’t know much about Flowers, do you?”
“I’m eager to learn.”
“Don’t be so sure.” Ardor studied him and seemed to make some decision. “Having children reduces my lifespan, Your Majesty. If I give you as many children as I am able at my age—approximately ten, based on historical data—I will not live beyond my 30s.”
It was as though the ground beneath Sindar’s feet and all the chernozem and stone and sediment beneath that crumbled. He was momentarily suspended in the air with nothing to support him. “What?”
“Flowers produce healthy royal children quickly and efficiently at the expense of our own genetic material.”
Sindar kept staring at him. “I don’t understand.”
“Are you a man of science?”
“Not at all.”