Chapter 12
Over a year ago, Richard had been the one to wrench them apart.
He had not known until then, mistaking the frequency of Penelope’s visits for diplomatic diligence, never questioning why Elara readily hosted Penelope in her chamber each stay.
It was Corwin who had tugged Richard aside midway through a feast and hissed, “How could you ask Penelope whether she has a lover? Do you not see it? She and Sister have been courting for years.”
Richard had thought Corwin was pulling his leg, until he returned to the feast and watched Elara tuck a strand of red hair behind Penelope’s ear, the gesture all too intimate and clear.
Hope had blazed first. Elara, in love. His sister, who was as hot-tempered as her flames, but who was also kind and bright and so full of compassion, deserved every blessing this difficult world could offer.
Despite his revulsion for King Marius, Richard had written to him that same night to enquire about a betrothal.
The reply had arrived within the week.
‘I would be delighted to welcome your radiant sister as my daughter-in-law. But Penelope will not be sent to Ardenia. If Princess Elara wishes to wed her, then your sister must dwell in Estara. In all matters, my children’s spouses must come to me.
Unless, of course, it is you who wish to marry my son or daughter. ’
Elara had pleaded on her knees, hands clasped. Richard had joined her on the floor to seize those hands and press her knuckles to his brow. Forgive me, he had begged. He could not send her there. Not to a realm of atrocities. Not to a king who had—
Stop. Richard dug his nails into his palms. Do not think of—
Haldric’s battered body curled around Aralynn’s. The blood that had dripped from his mother’s eyes, the crown that had bent in the shape of his father’s crushed skull—
Stop.
Richard gave his head a shake and lifted his gaze.
Elara’s bedchamber was adorned with intricate ornaments and pretty tapestries, with the scent of rosewater thick.
Penelope sat with Elara on the edge of the bed, their fingers interlinked.
On a rug by their feet lounged Corwin and Kaelen.
The two of them made for an odd sight, with Corwin cross-legged and leaning back into Kaelen, who was still armoured and even wearing his helm with the visor raised—no doubt, needing to rush back to duty afterwards.
Kaelen absently rocked Corwin from side to side as they listened to Penelope’s mumbled explanations.
Elara’s glare landed on Richard as he shifted against the door. Try it, her glare warned. Try to pull me from her.
Richard sighed. Did she think he had enjoyed tearing them apart? He had not slept for three days after. More than once, he’d contemplated telling her the truth behind—
Richard’s hands trembled. He pressed them flat against his thighs and crossed the room.
“Princess Penelope.” He stopped a few paces from the bed. “Your father’s court did not respond to our invitation. You have arrived with no formal notice.”
Penelope attempted a smile. “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty.” Her voice was hoarse, her Estaran accent rolling her ‘r’s. “My stepmother only granted me leave six days ago, and I set off before she could think better of it.”
Richard frowned. Penelope’s new stepmother—Queen Octavia—was once the wife of Estara’s eldest prince, Calentris, until his ugly death two years prior. Marius marrying his dead son’s widow had roused incredulous gossip in Richard’s court for weeks, and none of it kind.
Elara stroked a thumb under Penelope’s eye, catching a tear. “What has the snake done now?”
Penelope let out a watery laugh. “Everything, my heart. And nothing. She is gifted at making Father think every notion his own. Octavia controls the court. Father leans on her, and the council and generals bend whichever way she looks. The laws and taxes are harsher each season. The city rebels grow by the week. The Broken Stag, they call themselves. But they hold little power, and when Father’s guards catch any of them, the poor man or woman is covered in oil and set afire.
The burnings happen so often now that the stench of charred flesh seeps into my bedchamber. ”
Corwin lifted his head from Kaelen’s shoulder. “But your father is the king. Surely he sees the atrocity behind all this?”
“He sees what Octavia wants him to see.” Penelope’s chin quivered.
“Regardless, I no longer recognise the horror he has become. He was not always so bad. When we were little, Father laughed freely. Calentris was alive then, and he and Alaric and I would race each other through the sunlit beaches, and Mother—” She sniffed and tugged at her fingers. “But now, all has gone to the hells.”
A pang of sympathy jolted through Richard. Yes, he had lost his parents, but at least he had his siblings. And though his court never failed to give him headaches, their loyalty had stretched from before his grandfather’s time.
Penelope stared at her trembling hands. “I miss Calentris. I miss his laugh. I miss his smiles and the way he worked for hours carving toys from wood. But where he had softened my father’s edges, Octavia now sharpens them like a whetstone. I see only despair and death for my kin.”
“Oh, Penny.” Elara drew Penelope closer, tucking the woman’s head into the crook of her neck with such tenderness that Richard had to look away. He paced, instead, to the window. Below, the castle grounds were washed golden by the sunset.
No, he had never truly believed Estara would lend its armies against Galdran. Not with Marius as king. But now, on hearing Penelope’s account, the faintest hope of their support crumbled.
Richard turned from the window. “You are safe here, Penelope, and you may remain for as long as you are permitted by your father.”
“Permitted?” Elara gave a scornful laugh. “She will remain for as long as she wants, Brother.”
Richard sent her a withering look. What did she expect? He could hardly kidnap a foreign princess—least of all now.
Penelope patted Elara’s hand. “I will leave the day after the Summer Ball. Octavia made it clear I must return.” She clenched her jaw. “Alaric is there. I cannot abandon him. We are all each other has.”
Richard caught Kaelen’s lip curling as though he’d bitten into something rotten.
Penelope snorted. “Oh, Kaelen, do not pull such a face.” She dabbed at her nose. “Alaric has changed in some small manners since—” She glanced at Richard. “Since Queen Aralynn gave him that prophecy at your betrothal.”
Richard’s chest tightened at his mother’s name. He remembered the prophecy and how the Estarans had bristled after Aralynn broke the betrothal.
“You must alter your ways,” Aralynn had warned the Estaran prince.
“Continue down a cruel path, and I see a hollow future for you. Filled with silks and gold, but also of friends with fake smiles and servants who sneer behind your back. But the Threads do not show just one path. If you learn to listen more than you taunt, to shield rather than trample, then your life changes. Then, one day—not soon, but not so very far either—you will meet one who loves your temper. One who laughs in your face when you deserve it, and stands at your side when you do not.”
Richard shook his head free of the memory and spoke to Penelope.
“All efforts shall be made to ensure your stay here is pleasant, Princess. And once the ball is over, you will leave.” He ignored Elara’s thunderous glare and gazed towards the setting sun.
“For Estara is not the only realm with woes. And I fear Ardenia’s have only just begun. ”
* * *
Richard left Elara’s bedchamber with Corwin and Kaelen in tow. The corridor was awash in fading rays of sunlight, and ahead, Dain and Selwyn had rounded the corner, clearly in the midst of an argument. On spotting Richard, they halted.
“Well?” Selwyn hefted her basket of fruit higher on her hip. “The princess?”
“Settled with Elara.” Richard glanced at Dain. “The Sylari?”
“Settled too,” Dain said gruffly. “The dryads have taken well to the back garden, and the fauns are dining under the pavilion. Raucous lot—already drunk.”
“And the druid?”
Dain shrugged. “By the dryads. Seems a quiet sort.”
Richard nodded and raked his fingers through his hair. He straightened the collar of his doublet and brushed a speck of dust from his shoulder. “Do I look satisfactory?”
Blank stares greeted his question.
Dain’s bushy brows knotted together. “Do you look satisfactory?”
“That is what I asked.” Richard rubbed his nape as the staring persisted.
“Well, I intend to visit Orric, and one should not greet a guest in a disordered state.” He smiled.
“There is a great deal I wish to ask him, you see. About the Greyhide pack, for a start. Are they solely wolf-shifters, or do other animal forms exist within the druidic orders? And how long does the change take when done in full? And do the wolf’s senses remain in human skin after returning?
And the olden ways Orric mentioned—what precisely did he mean by it?
Why does his mother view Ardenia with such suspicion? How many are there of—”
“Do you think the druid handsome, my king?”
Richard blinked at Kaelen. The knight’s gauntleted hands were fisted at his sides, and his lips were pursed.
What a strange question to blurt out after two days of stony silence.
“Of course he is handsome,” Richard said. “Any with eyes would say so. His features are striking, his hair is long and dark, and he carries himself with great assurance.”
Kaelen’s face turned funny again, cycling through shades of maroon, and warping into a grimace. Dain swore and swatted his pauldron. The clap of palm against steel rang down the corridor, and Kaelen flinched, shooting his father a betrayed look.
Richard squinted. “Why did you—”
“Never you mind,” Dain muttered as Selwyn massaged her temples, huffing a noisy sigh. Corwin slung an arm around Dain’s shoulders, his grin as wicked as Elara’s had been this afternoon.
“In any case,” Richard said, mystified, “I had considered hosting a fighting tournament alongside the ball. But I am glad I did not, in hindsight. It would have been terribly one-sided with Orric present. In his wolf form, he would be nigh unstoppable. The sheer—”
“I would win.” Kaelen puffed his chest against the breastplate.
Richard paused. “What did you say?”
“The tournament. I would win.”
Richard shook his head. It was becoming far too common for Kaelen to dispute him on every matter. At least, he supposed, the man was speaking to him again. “You would not.”
“I beg to differ, Your Majesty.”
“Come now, Kaelen. Orric’s beast-form would tower above you on his hind legs. His reach would be broader, his centre lower and his bite force—”
“I have slain basilisks. I can deal with bite forces.”
Richard rolled his eyes. Yes, Kaelen had slain a singular basilisk at nineteen, but the attempt had almost killed him. The creature’s fangs had pierced Kaelen’s ribs, and its venom had rendered him unconscious for over a week. Even Selwyn had not been sure he would wake.
This would be different. This would be a competition, which meant no deadly force, a rule Kaelen would no doubt adhere to with his usual honourability, and one that would disadvantage him.
“There is also the element of speed,” Richard continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “Four legs outmatch two, and Orric’s senses would clearly be heightened. You, meanwhile, are strongest in close combat with blade in hand, but unless you are allowed to stab him when he leaps at your throat—”
“I do not need to stab in order to defeat.”
“—logically, he would prevail,” Richard finished. “This is a simple, stark comparison.”
“Comparison?” A vein pulsed at Kaelen’s temple. “Then, perhaps, I would win if my king placed greater faith in me than in a wolf he met mere hours ago.”
“Orric is a druid, not a wolf,” Richard wagged a finger. “See that you address him with care. And faith does not conquer a beast whose bite would crush your vambrace—”
“It does when the man inside the vambrace refuses to yield,” Kaelen shot back. “Battles are won by heart. A man or woman may be smaller and less fearsome to the eye, and yet triumph if they have cause enough to stand.”
“You speak as if you are in one of Briony’s storybooks.”
“I’m not saying skill and size count for nothing.” Kaelen shrugged off his father’s hand on his shoulder. “I’m saying that a man who goes into a fight convinced he is beaten has lost before the first blow lands.”
“And I,” Richard bit out, “am saying that a druid in wolf form in a tournament bout without lethal force is beyond you.”
Kaelen blanched. “Do you really think so little of me?”
“Oh, by all the gods.” A headache stirred at Richard’s temples. “Must every statement cause some bruised feeling with you? I am only talking plain sense. A man who ignores the facts of the field in favour of noble feeling is a fool who gets himself killed.”
Kaelen’s nostrils flared. “Better that than having one’s king already decide defeat for him.”
Richard spluttered. “You are being absurd.”
“And you are being faithless!”
“Faithless? Because I do not believe you able to wrestle a wolf twice your size?”
“A druid,” Kaelen retorted. “Not a wolf. As you said before, my king, we must address him with care. “
Richard’s eye twitched. Stalking forward, he caught the rim of Kaelen’s visor and snapped it shut. The metal clanged down over Kaelen’s face, and he staggered back.
“Mmph!”
“There.” Richard folded his arms. “Keep it shut, for I am quite through with you and your glares.”
Corwin burst into laughter, cackling so hard that his knees buckled and he collapsed against a gawking Dain. From behind the visor came an indignant, muffled sound as Kaelen scrambled for the latch. He wrenched his visor up, face twisted in a heavy glower, and drew a sharp intake of breath—
Richard did not wait to hear it. He turned on his heel and stalked towards the back gardens.
It would be a nice change to converse with more mature company.