31. Thirty-One
thirty-one
The throne hall looked so much different from the one back home, but no less imposing.
It fit a lot more people, for one, with ornate stairs curving up towards long balconies that lined the upper half, where nobles of the court could mingle and look down on the oval hall with the throne dais at the apex. The shape of the hall reminded Neira of the larger ships that sat further out in the bay, so large they couldn't come any closer to shore without running aground. The walls were the same dark stone that made up the rest of the castle, heavy blocks broader than she was tall stacked high, broken open by stained glass windows. It seemed added on like so many buildings of the palace were, the brash style clashing with the elegant arches and spires surrounding it.
To the side of the throne dais her mirror hung, large and still, not a ripple of the entity inside it as Neira strode down the long carpet. She kept her eyes on it, her face carefully blank.
Her maids had tried to press on her a colourful dress in the style currently popular in the capital: a myriad of blues that brought out the shadows under her eyes instead of the colour of her irises, the material spun as thin as spiderwebs and layered in such a way it had reminded her of a particularly unpleasant, frilly pastry.
The dress she had chosen instead was sensible, one of her own that she had brought from home. Elegant lines, cut slim to her waist and arms, the sleeves capped at the back of her hands. It was a purple so dark the true colour only showed when she stepped into the soft light that fell through the stained glass high above, the trims of her sleeves and skirts hemmed with golden thread curling in tasteful, understated embroidery.
A queen's garment, her mother would have said. The only adornments she wore were two ornate pins keeping her dark hair twisted back, shaped like jewelled crescent moons.
Well. And Erqis' ring, of course.
Clearly, the Miran nobility cared little for her appearance. The layout of the hall let her hear the disapproving murmurs shared by the assembled groups. And Neira, though she cared just as little for the members of Duskport's nobility as they did her, was very tempted to turn around and head back to her private chambers, and let them play out their little farce here all by themselves.
But Erqis had summoned her in no uncertain terms. He was watching her now very closely, lounging on his throne. By his side, behind the second throne, his Farn huntsman stood, tall and silent. Neira's gaze snagged on those wicked, black horns for a moment.
Qavor stepped forward when she reached the dais. She took his hand, puzzled, and found herself led to the second throne to be seated with the utmost care, the Farn taking silent vigil by her side when she sat.
As if, Neira realised, she would be attacked again, in front of the entire court in broad daylight. As if she couldn't defend herself.
Neira's lips pressed flat – her glare met Erqis' broad grin.
"My darling wife. I am delighted you deign to grace us with your hallowed presence."
Oh, the fucking nerve .
"I don't need a watchdog," she hissed, quiet enough to not be heard by the gossip hounds peering over the polished railing above them.
"Whatever could you mean?" Erqis' gaze flicked behind her, where apparently he met Qavor's, because a spark of true hilarity sparked suddenly in those bright eyes. "I let you walk here basically all by yourself. Qavor personally requested to keep you safe today."
"Then he is already doing a terrible job." She gave the king a saccharine smile. "I walked here flanked by guards I don't know the names of, and he is not keeping me safe from your inane schemes."
"Her Majesty is not wrong," Qavor rumbled behind her, and Erqis barked a laugh before sitting up.
“ Schemes you accuse me of, when I have spent my life preparing you to sit beside me in comfort and dignity.”
He was teasing her about his lesson again, and Neira fought the heat in her cheeks with every ounce of willpower she could muster. “We met mere months ago.”
“A veritable lifetime, my love, and I cannot wait to spend the rest of eternity at your side.” Erqis caught her hand and kissed the back of it, grinning at her quiet groan.
“Please, whatever you have called me here for, just go on with it.”
"The queen wishes to be entertained," he announced, his voice raised enough to silence the murmurs.
Great. Now whatever happened next would be her fault in the eyes of the court. Neira faced the hall and the many eyes on her, sitting straight, banishing the displeasure from her expression as best she could. Beyond Qavor' stoic presence, a glimmer of amusement seemed to spark in her mirror.
She was tense, but not unbearably so. Perhaps it had been a good lesson… Neira's gaze slid to Erqis' mouth, the sensual cut of his lips, the half-smile still lingering at their edges. Heat bloomed low in her belly. She did enjoy his mouth when he wasn't using it to be obnoxious.
As if reading her thoughts, Erqis smile widened, his bright eyes meeting hers with such knowing glittering in their depths that Neira jerked her head back to stare straight ahead.
His little chuckle grated. Neira snatched her hand back.
"Bring in the first one."
What followed was a long procession of petitioners; citizens of Duskport, bringing their grievances before the king so he could make a decision for them.
Neira didn't want to admit it, but this tradition intrigued her. Her father had never had to deal with any of this. Before she had had her life turned upside down, she had never even spared a thought as to why. The logical conclusion she had always drawn was that the regiars, as officiars of the realm, handled the day to day business of ruling, and only brought to the king what they couldn't solve themselves so his Majesty could focus on his studies and his children. But after travelling through her land and finding not one soul alive – of course he hadn’t had to help his people like this, if all of them were animated only by his grace in the first place.
Everything he had done had been an elaborate game, a dollhouse of a realm he had amused himself with.
She still could make neither heads nor tails of why he had done it. Her father had never tried to broaden his borders, never tried to conquer other realms. His ambitions had been small, his kingdom not even that grand. And dead, besides. So, why?
It was a mystery that kept her up at night.
The energy in the throne hall shifted into something more poignant, and Neira realised she had let her thoughts drift through the banality of the citizens' requests.
Through the great, open doors came a group of men carrying with them an aura of importance – and a banner to boot, although Neira didn't recognise the crest on it, a stencilled golden bee on green. The one in the front was a regiar of some sort, she figured, the three much bulkier men following him his guards. The regiar bowed upon arriving before the dais, the guards taking a knee in a half-circle behind him. Erqis didn't move from his sprawl, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, his elbow on the armrest and his jaw in his palm.
Arrogant. Bored . The way he had sat on her throne the day they had met.
"Lord Erqis," the regiar began, gaze nervously fluttering towards Neira. "I have come from–"
"You kneel before a king, and address him as such."
The man flinched. "Woodhaven does not recognise you as king, my Lord. With respect. You'll forgive me my impertinence."
"Will I?" Erqis drawled. "You stand in my hall, in my capital – you see the crown on my head, my queen by my side. And still you deny I am Duskport's king? Have I not fulfilled all your silly requirements for the position?"
Woodhaven. Neira knew the name – from Erqis' voiced grievances, and her father's maps; a governed realm to the east of Malvea, separated from Brightmere only by the broad river, and encompassed by a minor mountain range. The regiar also seemed to recognise her; his nervous gaze kept flitting to where she sat, and just as quickly away again, as if the sight of her frightened him more than Erqis' thinly veiled threats. Erqis had made no secret of whose child she was in any of his correspondences after their wedding, and even though her father had been defeated…
A light smile curved her lips. Good. Let them fear her.
"My Lord–"
"You will choose your words more carefully from now on."
"I have come to speak with you about the letters you–"
"You are still standing," Neira interrupted. She felt the atmosphere shift as her voice cut coolly through the hall. "His Majesty has graciously reminded you of the proper protocol to greet a king, even one not your own, and yet…" She clicked her tongue in disappointment. "Perhaps the man does not know how? Perhaps customs are different in Woodhaven."
She met a darkly amused Erqis' eyes. Whether he knew where she was going with this or was simply enjoying the show, she received no rebuttal for speaking. Erqis inclined his head slightly. It was all the encouragement she needed.
"Knees, you see, are made to bend. Although perhaps this is a technical issue for you..." She gestured towards the trembling messenger and the hall held its breath, utterly transfixed by the display. "Huntsman, if you'd kindly help him assume a pose worthy of his position?"
Qavor had barely taken a half step forward, his broad shadow falling over the dais' steps, before Woodhaven's proud messenger fell to the floor, the thick carpet muffling the heavy sound.
"No! No. Please. I'm sorry. I apologise, my Queen, you are right, of course."
"At least one of us is addressed properly." Erqis took her hand again, loosely tangling their fingers in the space between their thrones. Qavor returned to his spot by Neira’s side, crossing his arms over his chest. "Speak, then."
The three guards that had come with the messenger were shifting where they knelt, unsure how to react to the non-violent display of domination; more than once, one of them glanced at Qavor as if measuring whether starting a fight against a single man – even a tall, muscular Farn such as the huntsman – was a smart move.
"T-the king of Woodhaven rejects your command to yield his reign to you," the regiar told the carpet.
"Lord."
"…what?"
Erqis was regarding the man like a predator fixed on a juicy morsel, idly swinging the hand he had linked with Neira's between their thrones. "You mean the Lord of Woodhaven." His grin grew sharp. "We do not recognise him as king, you see."
"Petty," Neira murmured.
"My Lor- King Erqis," the regiar sat up on his knees, a beseeching look on his sweaty face. "Surely you cannot be serious-"
"I cannot? Your liege realises I have taken most realms on this continent already, does he not?" His free hand swept towards the side of the throne hall, where banners for all the realms he had conquered hung from the upper balconies. "The south is mine, as is the west. I have very recently taken the cursed moors of Brightmere, which you are surely acquainted with as their direct neighbour. What makes your king think I wouldn't march on your forests?"
"If we could speak in private, surely you will see that Woodhaven isn't even worth your effort…"
"It is a matter of principle: I wish to rule Malvea. Woodhaven is part of Malvea. Surely you see how this will end. No." Erqis shook his head. "I do not accept your message. Bring your master word of your defeat here and tell him to make haste with his surrender."
"This is preposterous!"
"This is mercy," Neira scoffed. Why was this man complaining about being allowed to leave? He should have been glad for the chance to. Erqis was in a rare, forgiving mood today. "Thank his Majesty and go home before you say something you might come to regret."
The man struggled to his feet, his face turning bright red with fury. "You be silent," he snarled at her, and the idle swing of Erqis' arm ceased. "You- you cursed thing ! You're a blight on these realms, like your father was. You should have been drowned in the moors!"
At her side, Erqis had gone very still, his bright eyes fixed on the spitting man. But to Neira, the words bounced off her like grains of sand, irritating more than infuriating.
"Any other incursion," Erqis said with lethal quiet, "would have been forgiven today. Your refusal of my generous offer, your insolence, your incompetent rambling, even your blindness to how merciful I was preparing to be."
Something was happening – something that tightened Neira's spine, made her whip her head around to look at the man seated next to her.
Smoke was rolling over his lower lip as he spoke, curling from the corners of his mouth. The tang of magic filled the air, and then the sounds of panic clamouring from the pews on the ground floor.
"I would have let you walk away, even after insulting me." Erqis rose, his fingers slipping from Neira's. The look on his face spoke of death. "But I will not suffer any insults to my wife."
Screams of terror rose from the gallery above them as a thin stream of flame slashed through the throne hall on his exhale. It broadened into a wave of hissing fire that engulfed the regiar, tearing at his clothes, his hair, his skin; Erqis stopped exhaling, but the flame continued to lick into the writhing man's mouth, smothering his screams, and no amount of rolling on the carpet quelled the fire.
The guards, wild-eyed and panting, drew their swords. The commoners, and the lesser nobility seated on the pews, were tripping over each other trying to run. Above, the higher nobility were no braver, shouting in terror when they found themselves blocked by the closed doors, and stone-faced palace guards who would not budge.
It was chaos.
Neira stared at the smoking carcass, blackened and curled in itself, her nails digging into the armrest of her throne, until a warm touch between her shoulders snapped her out of it. Qavor didn't look at her, rather watching the scene unfold, but the fact that he had extended a simple, kind gesture to her… Neira took a deep breath to calm herself. All she could smell was burned flesh.
"Oh," Erqis said as if he was just now remembering something. "I actually still need him. My love, could you bring him back?"
Neira almost laughed at the absurdity of it. The frenzied giggle was already rising in her throat, until she realised he was serious. “Bring him back?"
"Yes." He gestured at the charred form. "Work your magic and make the man walk again. He should take our message back himself."
"Are you quite mad? What, do you want these men to carry back a sentient pile of ash? There's not much left of him to animate."
"The state of him should drive home how serious I am, at the very least."
Ridiculous. What he was asking her was surely impossible, and even if not… she rose with a little huff. "If we are done here, I'd like to-"
"Please." He was in front of her suddenly, taking her hands in his and holding them to his chest. "Humour me, Neira."
He rarely said her name. It was such a surprise that she tilted her head back to look up into his face. There was a soft expression on it, as if he hadn't just breathed fire at a man.
"I will not make you do it again. But this… this is important."
It was an example, then. An elaborate game, much like her father would have played. It soured the moment, and Neira tugged her hands free.
"Fine. I will try. And then you will leave me alone." Over her head, the two men shared a look that she saw but couldn't decipher.
The magic was slow to respond when she called upon it; behind her, Neira felt the mirror wake, felt its attention. Her fingers wreathed in pale green tendrils, she flicked the magic towards the charred corpse, sent it through its crumbled veins. The sounds of panic grew distant; Erqis touched the small of her back, but even that sensation she wiped away.
Her magic reached deep into the recesses of what had been a man just moments ago, caught his fleeing consciousness and yanked at it until it reluctantly returned to the husk it had once inhabited.
He began screaming again, a horrific sound that did not sound human at all, agony forced through blackened vocal cords.
Neira wavered, but Erqis' hand steadied her. "Thank you, darling."
One of the guards, looking queasy, stepped forward, quickly bending at the waist in an unfinished bow. "Majesties, if… I can carry your message. Please, don't make us… him…"
Neira glanced up at her husband, who huffed and threw up his hands.
"Fine. You tell that insufferable prick that I am coming for him if he does not yield within a fortnight. You understand?" Erqis’ expression was less a grin and more a baring of the teeth, his arm wound around Neira's waist. "And if you make me come, it will not be alone."
“As you wish, your Majesty.”
The screaming ceased when he brought his sword down, severing the head of the man he had been supposed to protect. Neira loosened her grasp on the man's soul, allowing it to flee. It drifted away like embers of a dying fire, caught on the wind.
Erqis hummed, satisfied. "I'd say this was a productive afternoon."