Chapter Forty-Two
If only an impending attack could save Silas from his hundreds of other responsibilities.
He’d meant to meet with Captain Moira first thing in the morning to discuss defense tactics and the ‘special package’ she mentioned, but before the sun even rose, he’d been side-tracked dealing with newly discovered damage to the plumbing that had flooded the kitchen, setting back the palace renovations.
He hadn’t had a moment to breathe since.
“Your Majesty,” Mirinda called for the dozenth time.
Silas sighed. He hadn’t even made it out of the palace’s front doors before she’d found him. How was he supposed to make it all the way to the Merchant’s Guild Headquarters? He didn’t have the energy to fake a smile as he turned to her and demanded, “What?”
Mirinda halted, taken aback by his unusually brusque tone. Clutching her clipboard to her chest, she hesitated before explaining, “I needed to speak with you about the new Treasurer appointment. With Quentin … gone, it’s more important than ever to fill the position.”
She can’t even say the word ‘dead’ but she’s already trying to replace him. “Yes, I’m sure it’s stressful—” Silas began, glancing out the doors. Captain Moira did not seem like a patient woman, and part of him worried that if he kept her waiting, she would pack up her whole ship and leave.
“It isn’t simply stressful. Juniper can’t manage the whole treasury on her own.
Already, merchants are demanding to know when their invoices will be paid and threatening not to complete work if this isn’t dealt with.
We need to begin interviewing candidates for the position.
I have a list of qualified individuals here. ”
She tried to hand him the clipboard, but Silas hastily backed out of her reach, refusing to accept it.
“Mirinda, I have a hundred other tasks to prioritize right now.” He hadn’t told her about the captain’s warning yet, afraid that the information would somehow make its way to Varro’s ears, and the disgraced general would change tactics.
Griselda and Darian knew, and they would work together to prepare the kingdom’s defenses.
Mirinda’s lips pinched in a tight line. She straightened to her full height, raising her chin.
Despite her posturing, her voice trembled slightly as she said, “Your Majesty, the treasury is the foundation of this kingdom. Without skilled, trustworthy people handling the funds, nothing else gets done. No one gets paid—not the cleaning staff, not the renovation workers, not even the soldiers valiantly defending our kingdom. This should be your first priority.”
A muscle ticked in Silas’ jaw. “If you feel so passionate about it, do it yourself.”
She gaped at him. “I … I don’t have the authority to—”
“The king is allowed to delegate any number of tasks to council members as long as it is within their capability to fulfill them,” a voice said from behind Silas. “All Silas needs to do is review your choice and sign the paperwork.”
Silas’ heart thumped painfully against his ribs. There was something familiar about that voice. Soothing, calm, yet ringing with authority. Slowly, he turned around, staring in shock at the man standing behind him.
The man was a few decades older than Silas with gray streaking through his light brown curls.
Wrinkles lined his green eyes and his mouth, as if he spent a lot of time smiling, though Silas never remembered him that way.
No, when he thought of Braden Ellard, former King Consort of Bellacosta, Silas mostly thought of his absence.
Letters that stopped coming. The empty space beside him as Silas stood at first his sister’s funeral, and then his mother’s. “Father.”
Braden’s face spasmed as if the simple word had stabbed him. “Hello, Silas. It’s been a very long time.”
A loud clatter drew Silas’ attention back to Mirinda. She flinched and swooped down to pick up her dropped clipboard. “Your Majesty.” She looked between Silas and Braden, her eyes widening as if shocked by the similarities.
They were the same height, Silas realized, not sure what to do with that information. It wasn’t anything he’d ever thought he would know.
Braden nodded to Mirinda. “Miri—forgive me, I mean, Adviser Mirinda. Cal is waiting for you at the Merchant’s Guild. He’s already spoken with the members there about your treasury staffing issue and has a few candidate suggestions.” The words were kind, helpful, and a clear dismissal.
Mirinda continued looking between the two men as if she’d never seen a father and son before. “Yes, of course …” she trailed off, still sneaking looks at them even as she exited through the palace doors.
Silas stared at Braden for a long time before finally asking, “Why are you here?”
“Since you were late to your meeting with Moira, I volunteered to look for you—”
“You know that’s not what I mean. Why are you here?” Silas waved at the half-burnt remains of the palace. “In Bellacosta.”
Braden hesitated before saying carefully, “I thought you might need me.”
“Why now?” Silas bit out. The chill morning air seeped into his skin, into his heart. “You didn’t think I needed you any other time in the last decade?”
“Sai, I couldn’t—”
“Don’t call me that.” Only two people had ever called him Sai—the other was dead, and their father hadn’t even come to her funeral.
“Silas,” Braden corrected. “I couldn’t return before now. Not with Alistair in power.”
Again, Silas remembered Alistair’s half-mad ramblings: “I would have killed your father, but he had the good sense to take himself off and stay away.”
Perhaps Braden had understood the adviser’s intentions and escaped before the mage removed him.
If he left to save himself from Alistair, why couldn’t he take me with him?
But Silas already knew the answer: Alistair would have rather killed the king consort than allowed Braden to steal away the puppet he’d spent so long crafting.
Silas stared at his father for a long time, unsure whether he wanted to give Braden a chance to explain, to defend his choices, or if he wanted the man to march back to The Queen’s Garden and return to wherever he’d come from.
At the thought of the captains’ ship, Silas almost groaned in realization. “You’re the package.”
Braden’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Pardon?”
“Captain Moira mentioned a special package.” Silas never suspected she meant his father.
Braden’s expression pinched at that description. “I don’t think I particularly like being called a ‘package’, though that’s probably why she did it. Even then, I’m not sure I’m exactly who she was referring to.” He turned around and gestured.
A head poked around the door. Tawny eyes locked on Silas. Then the head shook vigorously and disappeared again.
Braden sighed. “Just a moment. He’s a bit nervous to meet you.”
“Because he hates me!” a high-pitched voice exclaimed from around the corner.
“He doesn’t hate you,” Braden said, striding around the doors. “He hasn’t even met you yet.”
“Well, he’s going to hate me, and I’d prefer he do it from afar, thank you very much.”
Their preferences were ignored. Braden hooked their arm in a firm grip and dragged them into the palace, plopping them in front of Silas.
Silas had a hundred things to do, but nothing in the world could have dragged him away at that moment.
He scanned the boy from head to toe, taking in every little detail: the messy brown curls; the downcast tawny eyes; the mouth pinched in distress.
He was several inches shorter than Silas, even as he stretched up on his toes to appear taller.
“Silas, I’d like you to meet Koen.”
Koen finally met Silas’ eyes, his expression a mix of defiance and hope.
“Your brother.”
Silas sat down. There weren’t any chairs to sit down in, so he ended up sitting on an end table, but it was enough to support his weight as he stared in wonder at his younger brother. “How old are you?”
“Fifteen.” His voice cracked on the second syllable and Koen’s cheeks flamed bright red. His skin was fairer than Silas’, as if he hadn’t seen the sun in months. He cleared his throat and deepened his voice to ridiculous levels as he repeated, “I’m fifteen.”
The number rang through Silas’ head. He’s the same age I was when Father left … Which also meant that even before he’d disappeared, Braden had kept Koen a secret. “Why did you never …” Silas couldn’t finish the question, but his father understood.
“Tell you about him?” Braden took a deep breath and settled his arm around Koen’s shoulders. “I wanted to protect him from Alistair. Koen is your half-brother, but that wouldn’t have stopped Alistair from …”
From hurting Koen the way he’d hurt me. A new worry occurred to Silas. “Is he …” Realizing that he and Braden were talking about Koen right in front of him, Silas addressed his younger brother instead. “Are you sick?”
An odd expression crossed Koen’s face, a mix of pain and defiance. “I am not sick,” he said through clenched teeth.
Braden’s hand tightened on his shoulder as he explained, “He’s not cursed, if that’s what you’re asking. And are you …”
Silas shook his head. “A witch broke it.”
Braden’s eyebrows arched. “Adelaide Orestes, I assume.” At Silas’ surprised look, he explained, “I met her daughter on The Queen’s Garden, though officially, she doesn’t know who we are.”
She could probably guess, Silas thought, still taking in the similarities between himself, his father, and his brother.
“You have every right to hate me, Silas,” Braden said softly. “I abandoned you to Alistair. I may not have known everything, but I knew he was killing Claire, and that should have been enough for me to take you away.”
Silas waited for the rage he’d felt earlier to resurface, but the fire had been doused with cold water, all the embers gone out.
During this tense conversation, Koen kept looking back and forth between his father and his brother. After a long silence, Koen finally piped up, “Will you tell him, or do I need to?”