Chapter 19
By evening, Richard’s head felt as if a drum pounded from within. He walked the corridors of the west wing, massaging his temples as the servants bustled around with final preparations for tomorrow’s ball. The sun’s dimming rays poured through the long windows and gilded the red runners underfoot.
Richard sighed, turning a corner. An hour with Vikram had done him no good.
The Naradeshi king had received Richard in his guest chamber with a tray of tea and had then dismantled every angle Richard had attempted.
No, Naradesh would not commit troops to a border war it judged unwinnable.
No, Vikram would not send soldiers to be torn apart because Ardenia’s king believed unity could patch over logic.
Yes, Naradesh would investigate the naga.
Yes, Naradesh would gather information on Rot. But, armies? No.
“Sun King,” Vikram had said calmly, “you ask me to pour water into a cracked vessel.”
The worst was the certainty beneath Vikram’s words—the flat, unshakeable conviction that Ardenia would fall. The Nightbourne Queen had said the same. As though Richard’s realm were a patient whose physician had long since drawn curtains around.
After the crushing exchange, as Richard had stalked from the guest quarters, Byrom had come to him, clutching his notes.
The second harpist had suddenly fallen ill, he had said urgently.
Would Richard mind if they replaced the second harpist with a new violinist hungry for a chance to perform, or would Richard prefer they pay a surplus for a more experienced harpist?
“I do not care, Byrom,” Richard had snapped. “A goat will do if it can keep a tune. You need not bring every minuscule catastrophe to me.”
Byrom had paled before stammering his apology and fleeing.
Now, shame prickled hot. Byrom did not deserve that. The man had been run ragged, seeming one strong breeze away from collapse. Richard ought to mend things later. Perhaps send him a hundred of his favourite sugared pastries.
Knuckling his temples, Richard entered a hallway that overlooked the inner courtyard.
On hearing the swell of laughter and chatter, Richard neared an arched balcony.
By the great oak tree was a throng of people.
Servants, mostly—kitchen staff in flour-dusted aprons, stable hands with mud-covered boots.
A cluster of pages and squires. A few off-duty soldiers with tankards.
At the centre of it all, surrounded by Elara, Corwin and Penelope, was Kaelen.
He held a cake slathered in cream, and he was grinning—a full grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes and showed all of his teeth.
The crowd cheered, and a scullion boy began a chant the others picked up, “Five-and-twenty! Five-and-twenty!”
Richard’s stomach dropped.
Kaelen’s birthday. He had forgotten.
Below, Corwin took the cake from Kaelen and slung an arm around the knight’s shoulders. “Speech!”
“Say something wise,” Elara called out. She was hugging a giggling Penelope from the back. “Something worthy of your age.”
Kaelen considered it, then intoned, “My wisdom is Corwin ought never be trusted near buttercream.”
Immediately, Corwin smeared a gob of cream across Kaelen’s cheek. A stablehand chortled and raised a tankard, and more toasts erupted.
Richard pressed his thumbnail into the balcony’s railing. What could he give Kaelen? A jewel, perhaps. There were several in the royal treasury—
A figure moved through the crowd with languid grace.
Ravi.
He was adorned in gold necklaces and earrings, and wore a fitted saffron wrap, the long swords glinting at his waist. On reaching Kaelen, he cupped the knight’s face, tiptoed, and kissed him.
Kaelen made a muffled sound. His lashes fluttered shut, and he inclined his head, adjusting the angle, a hand rising to tangle in Ravi’s hair. The kiss deepened. Ravi’s thumb traced the line of Kaelen’s jaw.
The two parted. Kaelen’s cheeks blazed crimson.
“Come with me to the ball.” Ravi’s accented voice was warm and melodious.
Kaelen snorted. “You are impossible.”
“Yes.” Ravi swiped the cream from Kaelen’s cheek and sucked his finger. “But I am also delightful, which is why you should go with me to the ball.”
Kaelen rolled his eyes. “Gladly.”
The courtyard applauded. People stamped and whistled.
Richard bit his tongue hard. This should not upset him so. Kaelen had likely slept with Ravi last night, had likely kissed him aplenty, and now they would go to the ball together, with Kaelen smiling at this new man the way he used to smile at—
At whom? At Richard? When had Kaelen ever smiled at Richard like that, so open and dazed and flushed? When had Richard ever given him reason to?
A tight band constricted around Richard’s chest, stealing his breath.
He needed to leave.
Richard pushed off the balcony’s rail and turned into the deeper hallways, unsure where he was even heading.
The courtyard’s din soon faded behind him.
After a left, he took a right, then wandered into the quieter northern wing, where the sconces were already lit.
Several tapestries adorned the walls, depicting Haldric and Dain in their younger days, battling a horde of undead that a group of dark mages had raised.
Richard stared at his father—the blond man grinning as he faced down the monsters that encircled the city—and felt his heart wrench.
“My king!” The voice rang off the stone, chased by the clatter of boots.
Richard gulped and quickened his steps.
“My king! Wait!”
The footsteps closed the distance, and a hand seized his arm above the elbow.
Richard wrenched free and spun.
Kaelen stood before him, chest heaving, colour high in his cheeks.
His hair was dishevelled and his eyes wide.
The last of the sunlight—pouring through the window at the corridor’s end—painted Kaelen in gold and copper shades.
It caught the scar bisecting his lip, lit his eyes, and cast long shadows from his lashes. He looked—
Beautiful. Infuriatingly so.
Richard scowled. “What is it?”
Kaelen’s brows drew together. “I saw you watching, my king. Why did you leave?”
Richard clenched his jaw. “I have no wish to linger where I do not belong. Return to your celebration, Sir Kaelen.” He gave a mocking smile. “To your new companion. Enjoy the evening.”
“You are angry.” Kaelen squinted at him. “Why?” Wounded bewilderment laced his words. “I do not understand.”
The tight knot around Richard’s chest snapped.
“No, I suppose you would not. You have spent the better part of two days fawning over the Naradeshi dancer in full view of the court, the delegations, and the staff. You are the Deputy Captain of the Crownsguard. You represent the discipline and bearing of my personal guard. And yet you have been behaving as though this ball were arranged for your own amusement.”
Kaelen gaped before his surprise morphed into a glare.
“That is not true. I reviewed the security rotations at dawn. I inspected the ballroom safety measures, the hallways, the guest lists, and the servants’ passages.
I have ensured a guard rotation at all entry points to the castle.
Every task assigned to me has been completed.
You may ask my father for confirmation.”
Richard’s fingers twitched at his sides. Of course, Kaelen had done it all. The man was nothing if not relentless in his duties, thorough in every capacity, and Richard knew this, and yet the acknowledgement only made the coiling fury worse.
“Besides,” Kaelen continued stiffly, “the purpose of this summit, as you explained, is to forge bonds and create goodwill between our peoples. I have been doing exactly that. Building friendship. Learning of Ravi’s training, his people, his customs—” He broke off with a huff.
“I do not understand what offence I have committed.”
“The offence,” Richard gritted out, “is that you were sighted leaving Ravi’s bedchamber this morn.”
“Yes. And?” Kaelen’s voice hardened. “I am a grown man, my king. If I visit another’s chamber, that has no bearing on my duties or on you.”
Richard bit back a growl. “It has every bearing when my Deputy Captain is seen stumbling from a delegate’s quarters at an indecent hour. You—you are—” He sucked in a breath, searching for words sharp enough. “You are carrying on like a dog in heat.”
He had wanted the insult to wound, to crack through Kaelen’s glare. But instead, Kaelen went utterly still, a cold mask sliding over his features, and Richard found himself wishing he could take back his words.
“A dog.” Kaelen stepped close. He loomed over Richard, eyes narrowed into flints. “So that is how you see me, Your Majesty.”
Richard’s pulse thundered, his mouth going dry. “That is not what I—”
“A hound that dared kiss another rather than sit at your boots.” Kaelen’s laugh was bitter, sending goosebumps down Richard’s arms. “A faithful cur that ought to keep its tail wagging for the pleasure of its master.”
“Kaelen—”
“Your Majesty.” The gold light from the window carved Kaelen’s face into hard planes. “Even if I have given you every part of myself I know how to give, that does not make you my master. You do not hold my leash, and outside of my sworn duty, I may form whatever relations I please.”
The headache battered at Richard’s skull, and his vision blurred at the edges.
It was all wrong. Kaelen had taken the most disagreeable meaning from it, and yet Richard, maddeningly, could not find the words to correct him.
Because what was the correct meaning? That watching Ravi’s mouth on Kaelen’s had felt like salt being poured on a raw wound?
That the thought of Kaelen abed with another ached as if a knife twisted his guts?
What right did he have to say any of it? He did not want Kaelen as a lover, did not want Kaelen in his bed, so with what right—
“Very well,” Richard hissed. “Then I dearly hope you had a wonderful night with Ravi.”
Kaelen’s nostrils flared.
“Well,” he said with a vicious twist to his mouth, “perhaps I did, Your Majesty. Perhaps I did spend the whole night taking my pleasure and giving him his.”
Richard’s blood roared too loudly in his ears.
“Good,” he spat. “Then you are well matched.”
“And you too, I hope, my king?” Kaelen’s tone reminded Richard of the green potions that ate through steel. “I hope you had a wonderful night with Druid Orric.” He sneered. “I imagine a wolf is far more impressive company than a dog.”
Richard blinked. He had walked the gardens with Orric after dinner, but only because the druid had offered to explain Sylari territorial customs, the way packs governed different regions.
Richard had asked question after question, and Orric had answered with his patient, rumbling voice, sketching maps in the dirt with a stick while moths circled the lanterns above them.
“As a matter of fact,” Richard said, jutting his chin up, “I had an excellent time with Orric. He is insightful, measured, and always calm in conversation.”
Kaelen’s hands balled into fists, the gauntlets creaking. “Well, by all means, Your Majesty, please do enjoy your calm, measured and insightful druid. No doubt he is more mature company.”
“He certainly is.” Richard’s lip curled. “It is a quality I find increasingly rare among certain people surrounding me.”
Some distant corner of Richard’s mind screamed at him to stop, to breathe, to reach out and perhaps even apologise for all this confusion, for forgetting Kaelen’s birthday and bearing no gifts, and to ask Kaelen if he could stop glaring—
By the gods, his head throbbed.
Richard shoved past Kaelen, his shoulder striking the knight’s arm, and stormed down the corridor.
As he turned the corner, a part of him willed Kaelen to follow, to grab his hand and request, more softly, that they talk.
It would be good to start afresh, to lay out his feelings with more eloquence.
But no footsteps came behind him.