Chapter 22 Introductions
Introductions
Ilook to Petunis. “Who is he?”
For the first time since I have known her, she does not answer immediately. She looks at him with the familiarity of someone who has been irritated by him for a very long time, and when she finally speaks it is with clear reluctance.
“My brother,” she says. “Your mother’s twin. So, your uncle."
He takes another step into the room as though it belongs to him more than it ever belonged to anyone else, his presence cutting through the tension left behind by the attack with careless ease.
“King Regent,” she adds. She lets out a low, unimpressed sound. “An incredibly incompetent one,” Petunis continues, without looking at him.
He snorts and takes a slow drink from the flask in his hand.
“Technically,” she goes on, “he should have ruled this country alone. In practice, it would have drowned in liquor or collapsed entirely, so I took over what mattered.”
“I manage what actually matters,” he replies, as though correcting something trivial. “The military. The desert factions. The only people in this country who know how to fight instead of talk.”
“He rarely graces us with his presence,” Petunis says.
“Because this place is unbearable,” he answers.
His attention turns to me. His face changes then, recognition surfacing through the rough edges of the rest of him. “You look just like her,” he says. “Like Ryaran.”
Ryaran. My mother. He may be the first person I have ever met who speaks her name with casual affection and not with a dreary heaviness.
He exhales slowly, the edge in him easing just enough to reveal a quieter kind of exhaustion. “She told me that if you ever came here, I was to watch over you.” He gestures vaguely with the flask. “So here I am. Watching over you.”
His eyes drop briefly to my throat. “I see she gave you the pendant I gave her.”
My fingers move to it without thinking, the familiar weight grounding me in a way nothing else in this room has managed to. “It is all I have left of her.”
He nods once, as though that confirms something he had already decided.
“Well, do not expect me to stay here forever. I am here long enough to make sure no one kills you. I do not want that on my conscience.” He takes another drink.
“Understand that this is a great favor. The only thing I hate more than the palace is my ex-wife.”
He looks past me. “Where is that bitch?”
“Lady Venya is attending to her duties,” Petunis replies.
“That means she is off somewhere being a whore,” he mutters, more to himself than to anyone else.
The doors open again.
The herald begins, “Prince Syle of Alarna—”
“Oh, shut up, Norasin.” Uralish says without turning. "Do you think I cannot smell my own spawn?"
Poor Norasin.
Uralish looks at me instead. “If you did not know, this is my son. Syle. He does not speak. One of his more admirable qualities. Fortunately, he is easy on the eyes and a prince, so I will get heirs all the same. That is really all children are good for, as you’ll soon learn.
They’re otherwise shitty burdens destined to make your life miserable. ”
Syle does not react to the insult, his attention already on the room, on me, on everything at once with a quiet awareness that feels more intense than anything his father has said. I wonder if he will speak to me in my mind again, or if that is something he can do with everyone.
Uralish turns his head toward Petunis. “Lessons are over. The King Regent requires the Queen Heir.”
Then he looks back at me, something like amusement breaking through the roughness of him. “You do know that because you are the Queen Heir, you can order her around, yes? You could say, ‘Petunis, you bitch, go clean the chamber pots—’”
The staff strikes the floor. Petunis's power moves through the room instantly, a low vibration that travels up through my bones before I can react.
Uralish does not flinch. He raises one hand and something surges back, the light bending and swelling until the entire space floods with brightness so complete it replaces sight entirely. Gold fills everything.
Voices rise around me, disoriented, uneven.
"Uralish, stop this nonsense at once!"
“Say sorry,” he replies, his voice cutting cleanly through the chaos. “King Regent, for using that ridiculous staff in your presence.”
"I would rather die."
Despite myself, something in me lifts at the sound of it. They sound less like rulers and more like children who have never learned how to yield.
“Really, Uncle?”
The voice is new. The brightness disappears as abruptly as it came, leaving the room rushing back into place all at once.
“Look who crawled out of the brothel to do something civilized,” Uralish says.
A young man enters, golden-haired, freckled, fully armored, his presence carrying energy where Uralish carries weight.
He crosses the room without hesitation and pulls Syle into a brief, tight embrace, speaking low enough that it is almost private.
“Lady Ninora says she found you most pleasant at the tavern last week—”
“Do not speak of such things in my throne room, Korvis,” Aunt Petunis says immediately.
He grins as though she has just proven something to him and drops into a theatrical bow. “Greetings, King Regent, Queen Regent, and---” He pauses, looking at me more closely. “Wait. It is actually you? Why am I always the last to know anything?”
“Because you are always occupied,” Uralish mutters, “in ways that make you useless.”
Korvis wrinkles his nose. “You are ruining my first impression.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he says to Syle, already swinging a playful punch.
Syle grins wide and shrugs, ducking it.
Before I can speak, he reaches for me and pulls me into a quick, easy embrace that feels entirely uncalculated. “Welcome,” he says. “We have been hearing stories about you since we were children. The missing princess.” He pulls back, smiling. “Or the missing Queen Heir.”
I can’t help but notice his eyes are golden, though unlike mine and Syle’s, the color is far more subtle. One would think they were light brown from a distance. He feels familiar in a way I cannot place. The smile. The ease of him.
"You are Jularin's son," I say.
He looks pleased. "Guilty," he says.
There is something disarming in the way he says it. “I have plans this evening,” he continues, “but another time I could take you into the capital. Do you drink? Gamble, perhaps?”
Despite everything, something in me brightens at the thought. “I gamble,” I say. “And I am good at it. Are there gambling houses in the capital?”
“There are,” he says, pleased. “In fact, in three days a new one is opening. Part tavern, part—”
“Enough,” Petunis says, her voice cutting through the moment. “Asharin, you are the Queen Heir, and you are with child. You will not be wandering through taverns and gambling houses like a degenerate.”
“Why not?” Korvis counters easily. “Lady Brenda was at the tavern just the other—”
“Lady Brenda is a brothel worker,” Petunis snaps, her composure fracturing enough that the words come out high-pitched.
I press my lips together, the laugh rising before I can fully suppress it. Korvis coughs to hide his own reaction, while Syle does not bother to conceal the smile that breaks across his face.
Uralish watches all of it with quiet satisfaction, then takes another drink. “Give it a few days,” he says to me. “You will understand why it is difficult to stay sober in this place.”
He turns toward the door without waiting for agreement. “What are you waiting for? More men begging you for positions they do not deserve? Come with me.”
I stand. And follow.