The Companion
NOX
Nox arrives to Rathmor in noise. Too many voices and too much movement, hands reaching and attendants circling her as though she might disappear if they do not touch her quickly enough.
She hears every word they whisper before she has even cleared the entrance hall, the ones about hoping it was Princess Asharin, the ones about cruelty, exchanged in low voices between people who do not understand that the woman they are whispering about can hear every syllable.
If only they knew.
The King is not there to greet her. Rude. She files it away without expression as they guide her through the halls.
The room they give her is wrong. She knows it the moment she steps inside.
“The windows face east,” she says, and when the attendant confirms it she tells him simply that she prefers west-facing chambers and that he should fix it.
The basin is drawn too warm. She has it emptied.
The tea arrives wrong and she sets it down and requests the chef directly, because explaining her preferences once to the person responsible saves considerably more time than correcting the results indefinitely.
When another attendant lingers near her legs without purpose she looks at him and asks whether there is no one in this palace capable of attending to her properly, pointing out that her calves should have been seen to the moment she arrived.
They stare at her, clearly finding her cruel and entitled.
Nox smiles faintly. She is a princess and she knows how to behave like one.
These servants are bold in a way that speaks to a fundamental lack of discipline.
Careless. In Yorali they would be collared, silver etched into their skin, one mistake away from the pit.
At the thought something low and familiar stirs in her.
The pit. Her father is many things, but that she understands.
The unwanted are fed through narrow passages into Morrath, sent down into something far more interesting than death. The humans who speak of it think it is a place to contain Morraks.
They know nothing. There is power there. Other feeders. Other things. And those who enter do not return unchanged, stronger if they are worthy and lost if they are not. Most do not return at all.
Morrath. Her favorite place.
A Rathmor and a feeder. For centuries that has always been the rule, to lead Morrath you must be both.
She dresses in silence, her thoughts drifting just once to Teorin before she pulls them back. This was always the plan, years of it, every step leading here. Soon it will be finished. Soon they will sit Rathmor's throne together and there will be nothing left to take.
And as for Morrath, it would have no use for Sevrin or any other nuisances. A Rathmor. A feeder. She would be exactly what it needed. There are other ways to secure a future besides crowns. Blood, set early, before anyone else can touch it. Before it learns to belong elsewhere.
She has always preferred control at the beginning.
By the time she reaches his chambers she has already decided how this will go. She forces moisture into her eyes before she knocks. Tentative. Measured.
The door opens. Sevrin looks up, already irritated. “Who told you where my chambers were?”
Fuck.
She had been here before, of course, wearing Brinette’s face and moving through these rooms as though she belonged in them. She had forgotten to account for the fact that a princess visiting Rathmor for the first time would have no reason to know.
“I came upon it,” she says, her voice softer now, uncertain in exactly the way she needs it to be. “I was wandering. I apologize if I have overstepped.”
He does not answer. He is not listening. He is only staring at the map. Likely calculating how to find his golden-haired obsession. “What do you want, Princess?” he says, his attention drifting back to the map in front of him.
She crosses the room and sits without being invited, because she wants to see what he does with that. He pretends not to notice.
“Majesty,” she says, lowering her eyes just enough. “For years I have wished to see Veynar.”
“Now you have," he says, unimpressed.
“At home I am spoiled,” she continues, letting her voice catch slightly.
"So I have heard," he says dryly, a hint of irritation in his voice.
“My father’s favorite.” She pauses, letting the next part come slowly, as though it costs her something to admit. “He worries for me. He does not like to think of me lonely or displeased, and when I send him notice of my arrival tomorrow I fear he will sense my loneliness and distress."
She forces her lip to tremble.
"He can sense such things with his magic."
A lie, but Yorali magic was a mystery to most, so he would believe it.
"And I know, Majesty, how important your alliance is for the future of our country." She draws a handkerchief from her sleeve and presses it lightly to her mouth. “All I have ever wanted was a companion.”
Something shifts in Sevrin’s expression, not much, but enough.
“We have a Matron. I will have someone take you to her and she can find you one. Or Brinette, perhaps, can be your companion. Asharin enjoyed her."
Nox tried not to smirk. Brinette was certainly not an option.
“Majesty, I want Lady Yvara.”
That gets his attention. “Why the fuck do you want Lady Yvara?”
She lets the hesitation linger. “Because we have written to one another for years,” she says.
“About jewels and dresses and silly things.” A small breath.
“And now she is here and I am here and I am told she is in a dungeon.” She looks up at him, letting her eyes do what they need to do.
“My father will expect me to write to him soon, Majesty. I would very much like to have something pleasant to report.”
She watches the calculation move through him, the particular arithmetic of a man weighing a small concession against a larger inconvenience.
Ah yes, king. Pleasing my father could mean opening the gate, and that you cannot resist, can you?
Then, “Corafar.”
A man steps forward immediately. “Yes, Majesty.”
“Bring me the Matron.”
Nox lowers her head to hide her smile. One of hers. Wearing the Matron’s face as naturally as the Matron once had.
The Matron enters moments later. Or what remains of her.
“Yes, Majesty.”
“I will have Lady Yvara brought for tea with the visiting princess,” Sevrin says. “See that she is washed and dressed properly. Afterward she is returned below.”
Corafar clears his throat. “I was under the impression Lady Yvara’s dungeon was not to be cleansed. Thus, the harki infestation remains present, Majesty. How should we proceed?”
Sevrin does not look at him. “I hear the prisoner in the east dungeons, Barsolik, has the same infestation.”
“Yes, Majesty,” Corafar says.
“Then cleanse Lady Yvara’s chambers. When she returns to the dungeons, see that she is placed in Barsolik’s.”
Corafar hesitates. “And where should Lord Barsolik be placed, Majesty?”
“Barsolik,” Sevrin corrected. “His title has been removed,” he said, voice flat.
“He can be executed tomorrow. It was his wretched son who participated in harming Princess Asharin.” A pause.
“It seems fitting Lady Yvara will be the one sleeping in his chambers. Perhaps the harki in his cell are more zealous than her current circumstances.”
Nox shudders. Harki were terrible green bugs that infested the hair and skin of those in unclean environments. Barsolik will probably be relieved to see the executioner.
“You may cleanse her current chambers, but wait a few days to be certain. Then have the caremaster inspect them thoroughly. Only then may she be cleaned and brought up, and only for tea.”
Yes, please, a caremaster, a fortnight, whatever would be necessary to clear her of such an affliction before bringing her anywhere near her, Nox thinks to herself.
“Of course, Majesty.”
Perfect.
“Thank you, Majesty,” Nox says softly.
He looks at her then, really looks, and she lets him take his time with it.
She is not what he is used to finding in these rooms. Where Asharin is gold and warmth and the particular softness of someone who does not know how dangerous she is, Nox is something else entirely, dark hair and pale skin and a body that curves in ways that have never once gone unnoticed, the kind of presence that fills a room differently than beauty alone accounts for.
She has used it before and she will use it again and she feels no particular way about the fact that he is looking.
Nox holds still and lets him. Yes, king. Look. She is not gold and she is not soft, but she is far more interesting.
Sevrin blinks once and turns back to his map. “You are excused, Princess.”
Nox rises, curtsies, and leaves.