Chapter 83 Six Thirty-One
Six Thirty-One
At six o'clock, a knock comes at the door. Edrin stands in the corridor, composed and slightly flushed the way he always is. "Your Highness. The palace staff wanted you to know the harpist has arrived to the great hall. Available for entertainment whenever you are ready."
"Is everything else prepared according to plan?"
"Yes, Highness. All of it."
I smile. "Thank you, Edrin."
He bows and goes.
I decide there is no reason to sit alone in my chambers when there is music waiting. I take my wrap and head down.
I find Wyn before I reach the hall.
“Stay with them tonight,” I tell her. “Do not leave the children.”
Her brows draw together slightly. “Majesty?”
I meet her eyes. “Colsar and I will dine privately.”
A brief pause. Then, quieter, “I will feel safer knowing you are with them.”
“Kentan convinced the palace seamstress to make them miniature guard cloaks,” Wyn says. “He intends to bring them later tonight.”
I exhale softly. “They are infants.”
“He appears unconcerned by that fact,” Wyn says dryly. “Nevertheless, they will not be alone. No one will pass that door beyond Kentan.”
“Good,” I say.
The great hall is dim when I arrive, the candles lit but low, the table laid out exactly as I asked. The harpist sits in the far corner, barely visible in the soft light, and the sound that fills the room is unhurried and clean, the kind of music that does not demand anything of you.
I sit and I listen and I let myself enjoy it.
It was my idea, all of it. The kitchen, the candles, the arrangement, the harpist. I had wanted something that felt like an occasion rather than an obligation, something that belonged only to us.
Dinner is not until seven. I have time.
Something reaches me before the door does. My awareness moves outward without thought.
What answers is not clean. I am still looking at the harpist's hands, at the particular pallor of his face, the gray at the tips of his fingers where they rest, too still against the strings. Something cold moves through me.
My eyes lift to the clock above him. Six thirty one. Not quite seven, but Colsar will be early. He always is.
The door opens, and something in my chest eases.
He is here. I wait for his steps crossing to me, for his voice, for the familiar sound of him.
Instead I hear a chair pull out across the table.
Then—
"Indulge me."
The sound that follows is wet and final.
I turn.
Sevrin is slumped forward across the table, a blade driven straight through his chest, pinning him there. His goblet rolls slowly toward the edge.
A man stands behind him, pale pink eyes threaded with gold, maroon hair cut through with muted streaks of mauve.
He moves like someone who has never once been told no, already reaching across the table for my wine with the ease of someone who decided it was his the second he entered.
He lifts it. Takes a slow sip. Considers it.
He looks back at me then, his attention dragging over the careful arrangement of the evening as though he finds the whole thing entertaining.
The candles. The gown. The music. Me. Then he leans against the table, my wine still in his hand, taking his time.
“I’m Avaneer,” he says lightly. “I do prefer proper introductions, but your husband is absent, and your king is…indisposed, so this will have to do.”
The harp continues softly in the corner, but the cold beneath it changes, as though Avaneer’s arrival has interrupted something else entirely.
Another sip. “I expected worse,” he says. “Veynar usually disappoints me.”
I do not know whether the insult is meant for the wine, the motionless king across the table, or me.
“You survived all those undead,” he says. “Your…lightlift abilities must be impressive.”
“Lightcraft,” I correct automatically.
He waves the distinction away as though it means nothing to him. Then he pulls a handkerchief from his coat and dabs at his mouth. “Did you know, golden princess, that you have been lied to?"
He glances at Sevrin with something that almost resembles sympathy.
"The Rathmor men tend to do that," he says pleasantly. "Nasty little habit of theirs."
I pull the light forward, the heat already gathering at my fingertips—
“Two lefts,” he says mildly. “Northeast corridor.”
He adjusts the blade still embedded in Sevrin’s chest, almost absently.
Then his eyes lift to mine. “Correct?”
I lower my hands, but the light remains, burning beneath my skin.
“Two nannies.” He smiles. “But only one guard.”
I think of Aunt Petunis. A queen does not freeze. She lets her enemies decide she has.
He swirls the wine. "I hope you don't mind," he adds, eyes drifting to the clock behind me.
"Your husband won't be on time for dinner."