Chapter 66 A Palace Morning
A Palace Morning
Morning comes slowly, as though the palace itself has decided not to rush us.
I wake to warmth and the familiar weight of him at my back, his arm draped over my waist, his breath slow against the nape of my neck.
The night still clings faintly to my skin, its edge softened now by linen sheets and filtered sun spilling through the tall windows of my chambers.
For a moment, I do not move. I let myself remain there, pressed along the length of him, aware of the quiet contentment humming between us like something earned.
I turn slightly in his arms and look at him. “Why are we not outside anymore?” I murmur. “And how did you get me here?”
He smiles faintly before his eyes even open, as though he has been awake longer than I realized.
“I dressed you,” he says, voice still thick with sleep. “You were not in any condition to walk.”
I lift my brow. “Dressed me?”
“Partially,” he amends without shame. “Then I carried you.”
“How?”
He opens his eyes now, dark and amused. “Over my shoulder.”
I stare at him.
“It seemed efficient,” he says, brushing his mouth along my shoulder.
“You slung me over your shoulder like a sack of grain?”
“A very valuable sack of grain.”
Despite myself, I laugh, and the sound feels strange and bright in the morning air. He rolls onto his back and draws me with him so that I am draped across his chest, his hands moving idly along my spine as though reacquainting himself with something he only briefly released.
His fingers trail down my back in slow circles.
“Last night, I should have reviewed reports. Met with advisors. Begun preparing for the Thren delegations tomorrow,” he continues, almost thoughtful. “Instead, after my argument with Sevrin I carried my wife away and ignored everything that did not involve her.”
“That sounds irresponsible,” I say lightly.
“It is,” he agrees. “Which is why I cannot remain inside you all day today. Today I will behave.”
Heat rises to my face, though I do not look away.
He draws me closer, his mouth brushing mine in a kiss that is slow and unhurried, as though he has nowhere else to be and no one waiting outside the door.
“We still have time to be productive,” he adds softly.
“Oh?” I let my weight sink into him. “In what way?”
“We will eat in our private dining room this morning.”
“The cake room?” My voice brightens.
“Yes,” he says, amusement threading through his tone that I have renamed our dining chambers. “I did promise you more cake if you returned with me."
“I would have returned anyway.”
“I would have given you cake anyway.”
His hand moves lazily over my hip, and I feel how easily this could become something else again, how little effort it would take for us to forget the rest of the palace.
“After dinner tonight,” he continues, “I intend to defeat you at cards.”
“That has never happened.”
“It will,” he insists. “And once I have destroyed your pride, I will take you to the Moon Chambers.”
I glance at him, curiosity brightening in me. “To show me?”
“To show you,” he echoes, and then his mouth lowers toward mine again, his voice dropping with intention, “which in this case means making love to you in the great bed overlooking the water, and in the pools, and possibly against the pillars if you provoke me.”
“That sounds perfect,” I murmur.
He kisses me slowly, deeply, as though we have nothing but time.
“It does,” he agrees. “Tonight we will retire early. I have council meetings about the Threns today and tomorrow,” he says against my mouth.
“Will it be tense?” I ask quietly.
His mouth pauses against mine. “It will be managed,” he says. “My brother and I are very good at pretending. Endless ones.”
His mouth brushes mine again, slower now. “But if I am to pretend to be a serious prince, I require rest, which is very hard to do when your wife is… relentless."
“Promise me you won't go to the Moon chambers before tonight. I wish to see your face when you see it for the first time."
The simplicity of it makes my pulse throb.
"I will review the proposals from the War Council this morning."
His hand moves in slow strokes along my back as he speaks, almost absent, almost indulgent. There is something almost boyish in the way he allows himself this softness, as though he knows he should be elsewhere already and has chosen not to be.
“You were supposed to do that yesterday,” I remind him.
“I was,” he agrees, his fingers brushing lightly along my cheek. “But I wanted you, and would have resented every moment I was not here." The honesty of it draws me silent. “I have spent too many years doing what was required of me,” he says. “Yesterday I chose what I wanted.”
I lean down to kiss him, slow and certain, letting the morning stretch around us like something benevolent.
He rolls us so that I am beneath him now, his weight braced carefully above me, his expression warm in a way the court never sees. “I cannot promise I will not be distracted again,” he murmurs.
“You are insufferable.”
“I am restrained,” he corrects. “If I were not, we would not be discussing dinner.” His mouth moves along my throat, his hand sliding up my side and I feel him harden against me, the return of heat beneath ease.
“I truly cannot remain inside you all day,” he says against my skin, almost regretful. “Even I have limits.”
“You sound devastated.”
“I am.” His lips find mine again, and the kiss deepens, unhurried but certain, as though we have all the hours ahead of us.
As he rolls onto his back and I stretch across him, something occurs to me, half memory, half instinct. My fingers trace idle patterns along his chest, but my mind drifts, pulled back toward everything he told me the day before.
“Alarna has wards,” I say thoughtfully, tracing idle circles over his chest.
He glances at me. “Yes.”
“You said my pendant was from there.”
“I did.”
I chew lightly at my lip. “If the Threns are neither friend nor foe to Alarna, why would they need wards strong enough to veil themselves?”
He studies me for a moment, understanding the direction of my thoughts.
“Because the midlands that border Alarna were attacked first,” he says quietly. “Villages taken. Souls stripped.”
I still slightly.
“And as you know,” he continues, “when Threns take souls, they leave the bodies behind.”
A heaviness threads through his voice. “The dead rise within hours. They are far harder to destroy than the Threns themselves.”
I absorb that slowly. “So Alarna wards itself against the aftermath?”
“Yes. The word is that they possess magic capable of resisting it. Perhaps even protecting against it entirely. Whether that is truth or rumor, I cannot say. But without those wards, they would be inundated.”
I raise a brow faintly. “How unfortunate,” I murmur. “I suppose we should not holiday there anytime soon.”
He laughs under his breath. “I suppose not.”
He pushes himself upright then, glancing toward the bathing chamber. “Do not wander outside the palace today,” he adds casually.
I narrow my eyes. “Why?”
“Because the Threns are unpredictable,” he says. “And because paranoia is a reasonable response to my wife getting attacked by dozens of them.”
He disappears briefly into the bathing chamber, and I hear water begin to run. A moment later his voice carries out. “Have Nyara join you for luncheon.”
I blink. “You’re issuing invitations now?”
“You like her,” he says simply.
“I do,” I say, wondering if he can hear how much I mean it.
“And I would prefer you occupied with someone who makes you laugh rather than pacing corridors thinking.”
I roll over onto my back. “You assume I pace.”
“I know you,” he replies.
“You just want to hear what she says.”
He snorts faintly. “If she says anything useful, you will tell me anyway.”
“So you admit it.”
“I admit,” he calls out, “that I prefer my wife content.”
“I had a new carpentry table set up for you in the south gallery,” he adds. “It overlooks the courtyard. Better light. You’ll be able to see the silver ash tree from there.”
“It drops its leaves all at once with the first frost. You mentioned it once.”
My cheeks warm as I realize he remembered something so small.
The Baron had a silver ash tree, but every year my chores kept me from seeing its leaves fall.
One year, Mysin and his terrible friends burned it down for reasons I never understood.
Now I could check for it every day, and have someone to tell over dinner how beautiful it was.
I smile despite myself. “You planned this.”
“I plan everything,” he says.
A moment later, “why is your bathtub so small?"
I grin into the pillows. “It was likely designed for one normal sized person. Not two obsessive creatures who cannot keep their hands off each other long enough to bathe.”
“A tragedy.”
“Speaking of baths,” he adds, “I know how you love smelling like a stable. I hear Torsin has new horses.”
I smile faintly. “He and Emva left for the Southern Valley this morning.”
Colsar studies me for a moment before sighing with exaggerated resignation. “How unfortunate.”
I lift a brow. “You do not sound particularly distressed.”
“I will pretend to be,” he says. “But the truth is that now I have you entirely to myself.”
I laugh softly. “Poor Torsin. Replaced so quickly.”
“He will recover.”
My attention drifts back to the earlier thought. “I did promise to visit the horses while he was gone. May I?”
Silence answers first.
“You can do whatever you want,” he says at last. “You are a princess. The palace is yours.”
His voice lowers. “Do not mistake my demands for confinement.”
I listen to the space between his words.
“They are not cages,” he continues. “They are desperate requests from a man who has already nearly lost you once.”
He returns to the doorway, hair tousled, skin bare, his lean frame nothing but muscle.
“Up,” he says.
I fold my arms and sink deeper into the mattress. “No.”
He approaches slowly.
“You have done unforgivable things to me,” I tell him. “I cannot possibly move.”
His amusement softens into something more serious as he studies me. “That is precisely why you are getting up,” he says quietly. “I was rougher than usual yesterday. Especially in the council room. We were persistent.”
A blush creeps up my throat despite myself.
“How can I keep you forever,” he murmurs, brushing his knuckles down my arm, “if I do not take care of you?”
Heat spreads beneath my skin.
I was not raised to expect this kind of devotion.
I allow him to lift me, and he carries me easily into the bathing chamber, water already steaming in the too small tub. We crowd into it anyway, knees and elbows knocking, water spilling over the rim as he washes me with slow, deliberate care, as though memorizing the lines of me again.
When we rise from the bath, neither of us reaches for a towel.
His hands find my waist. Mine slide into his hair. We begin kissing before we are dry.
“When I am pregnant with four siakar babies at once,” I murmur against his mouth, half laughing, half breathless, “I will know exactly who to blame.”
His eyes darken with pride. “You had better.”
We do not make it to the wardrobe. We do not make it far at all. We fall back into the bed damp and laughing, limbs tangled, entirely too pleased with ourselves. It feels reckless. It feels earned.
Then the knock comes.