39. Lilias
Lilias
WHAT WE PROMISED YOU
Don’t look at Zarek, damn it.
King Malrik thinks I want to be married to Blayne, that I lied to Zarek in order to divorce him. And, gods, it’s a brilliant gambit. Now Zarek is no longer tied to the ruined kingdom of Marion; he can’t be held responsible for Elrick’s attempt to create an alliance with Ethiria.
But the pain in his eyes when he asked me if it was true—
We reach the top of the stairs, and I can’t stop myself. I glance back over my shoulder. Zarek stares at the polished stone steps beneath his feet like he’s in shock. I turn back to the guard, my heart aching in my chest.
It’s all an act, I want to scream. I don’t want to marry Blayne. I never wanted to marry Blayne.
And Zarek knows that, right? He has to know that. Hells, he asked me in that dingy basement pub with the terrible ale after he discovered Blayne in our room with me.
Do you love him? That was his first question after he found his wife betraying him in his private chambers. Not what in the hells were you thinking? Not how quickly can I send you back to your father?
No. He wanted to know if I loved someone else.
Because he loves me.
My breath catches, and my vision blurs. The guard pushes open a door.
A gust of wind presses my skirts against my legs.
The air swirling around us smells of smoke.
Malrik walks through the door first. I twist again, trying to catch Zarek’s eye, but he ignores me.
Panic scratches at the inside of my chest like an animal in a trap.
The king’s words whisper through my mind as I step through the door and onto the cold, windswept balcony.
Someone has to pay for Syvan’s death.
I shiver as guards fan out behind us. One of them grabs my arm and tugs me to the side.
King Malrik stands at the balcony railing like he’s presiding over the hundreds of soldiers spread out in the field before him.
Like this is his castle, and it’s always been his castle.
Smoke rises in thin tendrils before him, stretching toward the brilliant blue sky.
Murmuring rises behind me, and the guards bow toward the door. Prince Laurance steps onto the balcony. His expression curdles when he sees me, and for a moment I think he’s going to stop and say something. Or maybe just hit me.
But then he turns to face Malrik with a sort of swagger that seems entirely out of place for a prince of a palace entirely surrounded by enemy soldiers. Laurance puts his hands on his hips and clears his throat.
The guards turn away before he can speak. Even Malrik nods his head, a slight gesture that’s not quite a bow. I follow his gaze.
And that must be the king of Ethiria standing in the doorway.
He’s an older man, tall but frail, and he leans heavily on the arm of the guard beside him as he steps through the door.
The wind pulls at his beard and heavy robe.
His eyes are fierce as he walks across the balcony to stand beside Malrik, but the effect is ruined somewhat by a coughing fit that racks his thin frame.
He presses a cloth to his mouth as his barking cough echoes through the chill morning.
The cloth comes away flecked with blood.
When it’s over, the king of Ethiria bows to Malrik. My heart sinks. Are the negotiations already over? Have we already been traded away?
“As you can see,” the king begins, waving his hand at Zarek and me, “we have what we promised you.”
Shit. Malrik smiles like the fox who sings to the mice.
“I seem to recall that you promised a few more of them,” Malrik replies, casually, like they’re discussing what to have the servants prepare for dinner.
Prince Laurance snorts. “Elrick’s a slippery son of a—”
The king of Ethiria gives Laurance a withering scowl, and the prince shuts up.
“I seem to recall a promise that your army would stay in the mountains,” the king replies. His voice trembles, but his eyes are sharp and hard.
Malrik shrugs. “Two hostages in exchange for an entire kingdom. That doesn’t seem like much of a deal.”
“And our allegiance to your—” the king adds before his voice cuts off in another coughing fit.
Malrik looks bored.
“Right,” Malrik says, once the king regains control of his breathing. “But that’s not what the prince tells me.”
The king’s expression shifts, and a look of naked horror replaces his rigid determination. He turns to Laurance. The prince of Ethiria looks absurdly proud of himself. I feel like I’m going to be sick.
“Father,” Laurance says, with a slight bow to the king. “I can’t watch while you bargain away our kingdom. Not when we have an army.”
The king begins to say something, but it’s swallowed by another coughing fit. Laurance turns to the guard beside him.
“Call them out,” Laurance orders.
The guard hesitates.
“Call them out, damnit,” Laurance growls.
The guard pulls a whistle from a chain around his neck and blows three times, sharp and short.
At first, nothing happens. And then, slowly, men begin to assemble in the palace courtyard. They’re wearing the green and gold of Ethiria, and carrying a various hodgepodge of weapons, from swords to spears to pitchforks that look like they came from the stable.
Wait. I frown at the man carrying the pitchfork.
He works in the stable. I saw him yesterday, grabbing the halter of one of the horses from Vsenrog. And the man next to him looks like someone who brought dinner to us on the first night—
“That’s your army?”
The voice is so raw and angry it takes me a heartbeat to realize it’s coming from Zarek. I turn to see him scowling at Laurance.
“Those aren’t fighters,” Zarek cries, his voice trembling with rage.
“How dare you insult them!” Laurance snaps.
Malrik steps between the two men.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Malrik says. “We are still in the middle of negotiations, are we not?”
Malrik turns to the king of Ethiria. Laurance’s father suddenly looks much older. He’s curled forward, almost like he’s been punched in the gut. He turns to his son with a stricken expression.
“How could you?” the old man gasps.
Laurance crosses his arms over his chest. He looks like a petulant child.
“I’m not interested in negotiating with Vsenrog,” Laurance grumbles.
Below him, the army of castle servants begins to file through the courtyard.
They vanish behind the palace walls, then reappear in the soft light of the morning to form a thin, uneven line before the armies of Vsenrog.
Muttering conversations drift up through the air, tangled in the smoke of Vsenrog’s fires.
The back of my throat tastes bitter; I don’t know if I can watch this.
“You fucking idiot,” Zarek growls.
No one bothers to disagree. Even Laurance looks uneasy as his army spreads out thinly across the ground, a ragged line of grooms and chefs and attendants all wearing bright, clean uniforms.
“Guards,” Malrik announces, his voice cheerful. “Please tell Lord Varitan we’re ready for him.”
Malrik turns back to Prince Laurance with a smile. “This should be interesting,” he says.