Chapter 23
Richard studied his reflection in the glass.
Dark crescents hung under his eyes where the powder had worn away.
Sitting at the head of the council table, his sagging shoulders reflected the tiredness he felt.
The corset was long gone, thrown over a dinner chair when he’d given orders to the swarming Crownsguard—aid Dianara, escort the foreign dignitaries safely to their chambers, bring the Chief Mage’s apprentices to destroy the witch’s body.
He hadn’t needed to give any instructions about Kaelen.
Selwyn had already sprinted across the hall, batted away a fretting Corwin, and placed her hands over Kaelen’s heart.
She’d poured all her magic into him, sealing back the thorns’ gashes and stopping the spurts of blood.
Kaelen had sat up entirely healed in time to catch his mother’s collapsed form.
Now, Selwyn still lay unconscious in the healing wing.
Richard stifled a sigh and cupped his chin in his hand. Beyond the darkened windows, the moon hung white over the castle’s towers. Somewhere far below, servants were sweeping glass and mopping blood from marble tiles.
The Summer Ball had well and truly ended in disaster.
The doors creaked, and one by one, the High Council drifted in.
Lady Kestrel’s elaborate updo had crumpled on one side, pins dangling.
Lord Gregory helped adjust her voluminous skirts so she could sit.
Lord Physic had cake splattered down his front, and Lord Warden Wycliffe bore the flush of one who’d drunk too much wine.
The generals sat in unison, faces set in tight grimaces. Dain lowered himself into his chair by them with a grunt. His face, too, was a closed fortress—jaw locked and eyes bloodshot. He had not spoken a word to Richard since the Bind had released.
Kaelen—still clad in his tattered tunic—helped Dianara into the chair at the other end of the table. They sank into it with a wince and rubbed their bandaged head. After squeezing Dianara’s shoulder, Kaelen sat by Dain. His eyes flicked towards Richard, soft and probing.
Richard returned his gaze to the window.
Last came Elara and Corwin. Richard tracked their reflections in the glass, his chest tightening. Elara’s hair had come undone from her bun, her every movement stiff as she sat. Corwin’s face was no less strained. Folding his arms, he stared at the table’s grain silently.
Richard’s temples throbbed. He twirled the parchment between his fingers. Around and around it went, the ink of his own words blurred beneath a dead witch’s blood.
‘A man looks into the eyes of the ones he’s wronged,’ Haldric’s words echoed in his ears.
Richard set the parchment down.
“My lords and ladies.” His voice came out gravelly. “We have all had a shock this evening. I am grateful for your attendance at such a late hour. The first matter. Princess Penelope.”
Elara stiffened, her hands lacing tighter.
“I wrote the letter to King Marius, and him alone, two years ago,” Richard continued.
“I doubt Marius is even aware of its disappearance. I suspect the letter was passed to the witch by Queen Octavia, for she knew it would expose Estara’s role in my parents’ murder.
She knew Penelope would be standing in this hall when it happened. The princess was sent here to die.”
The generals’ faces hardened, seeming ready to fulfil Octavia’s wish.
“Regardless,” Richard said, “the princess and her delegation must return to Estara immediately. Word of tonight will spread. By morning, all in High Ardenia will know the truth, and Princess Penelope will no longer be safe within our borders.”
General Barlow barked an ugly laugh. “Safe? We should keep the girl as a hostage. Leverage against the Estarans. If their queen is in league with the witches and Galdran—”
Every sconce in the council chamber erupted. Flame roared from the iron brackets, leaping high, the heat billowing across the table. Lords and ladies flinched. Elara stood, palms flat on the table and fire wreathing her arms.
“Try to hurt her. If you dare.”
Barlow huffed, his mouth snapping shut.
“Sister,” Richard said. “Sit.”
The flames shrank, guttering back into the sconces, and she sank into her chair without a word.
Richard nodded at Barlow. “It is a good thought. But hostages necessitate value—value Penelope clearly possesses little of to the king and queen of Estara. And she is innocent.”
He’d tested her almost two years ago when she arrived for a state dinner. Carefully, he’d steered the conversation towards Maranbog. Penelope had listened with sad eyes and curled a hesitant hand over his. “I’m so sorry, Your Majesty. I have lost family, too. It is the loneliest thing.”
He’d known then that Marius had buried his sin where his daughter would not find.
Richard tapped the letter. “You have heard what this contains. King Marius arranged the deaths of my parents by hiring trolls from the Sylari Realm. I investigated soon after the funerals, for I thought it odd for trolls—normally territorial creatures that minded their own affairs—to cross the southern border with such targeted bloodlust. Upon hunting the few trolls that had taken up residence in Maranbog, I interrogated them to learn the truth.”
He’d done the interrogations by himself, urging the generals and soldiers away.
“The Estaran King offered no coin,” one young troll had screamed, yellow eyes swimming with tears, blood dripping from the tusk Richard had torn off. “Only a plentiful supply of food should we kill those who bear a crown! And armoured weapons for us to wield! Please! Mercy! Mercy!”
Richard had granted it with a sweep of his sword.
“I chose to keep Marius’s crime from this council,” Richard said. “That matter is now before you, so we may well move on to—”
Dain’s fist struck the table, sending goblets toppling aside.
“How.” The Lord Commander bit out, a muscle in his cheek twitching. “How could Your Majesty hide this from us?”
Richard resisted the urge to quail. The formality was a straining leash. Had they been alone someplace, Dain would have seized him by the lapels.
“Haldric was my brother in all but blood.” Dain’s chest heaved.
“Aralynn was my dearest friend. They were butchered—butchered, Your Majesty—and you sat on this knowledge. Did nothing as Marius drew breath and ate his suppers and slept in comfort, while the king and queen of this realm lie as ashes.” He shrugged off Kaelen’s hand on his shoulder.
“We should have marched on Estara the day you learned of it! We should have dragged that wretched man from his throne and answered blood with blood!”
Lady General Ivelle bared her teeth. “The Lord Commander speaks true. Our king and queen bled with us, laughed with us, and we have allowed their murders to go unanswered!”
“A stain!” General Barlow roared. “A disgrace!”
“Generals,” Malgrin wheedled, lifting a hand. “I share your fury. But Ardenia, two years ago, was in no state to wage war. We were in mourning, with a new king—”
“Do not defend this, old man!” Barlow snarled. “We have been made fools. Every ambassador we received from Estara, every trade agreement we brokered! We have smiled and shaken hands with those who bathe in our sovereigns’ blood!”
“Oh, the bodies.” Lord Physic Perindale wiped his brow with a trembling hand. “Our king and queen’s bodies, so battered and broken…how they still haunt me…”
“What message does it send?” Sarn boomed by Barlow’s side. “That any foreign king may slaughter our monarchs and face no consequence?”
The table devolved. Voices crashed over each other—generals demanding armies be mustered, Malgrin and Lord Warden arguing logistics, Lady Treasurer shouting about costs, Lord of Granaries reminding all that war had a history of depleting food stores.
Fists struck wood repeatedly. A goblet rolled off the edge and clanged against the floor.
Through it all, Elara and Corwin sat motionless, staring at the table.
Richard’s stomach lurched. They would come for him later, he knew. In private, where there were no titles to restrain them.
What would he do? What would he say? To keep the truth from them had been necessary, for it was not a wound he wanted them to carry nor a risk he wanted to take.
And yet, Haldric and Aralynn had been their parents, too.
Father, Richard prayed as the shouts of the councillors rose to a din. Mother. Will you not help me?
A breeze ruffled his fringe. For the briefest instant, he felt a kiss brush against his temple, and a familiar hand clamp over his nape, thumb kneading fondly. The breeze morphed into a gust, and the doors slammed open with an almighty bang.
All heads jerked to the door. Most of the councillors wore puzzled frowns, but Richard caught the glimmer of purple light in Dianara’s eyes. He sent them a quick grateful look, then rapped his knuckles against the table.
“I made a choice,” he said. “You may rage against it. You may curse my name. But you will heed it nonetheless.” He steepled his hands.
“I did not want a senseless war. I did not want fields of dead soldiers, widowed wives and husbands, orphaned children, and a treasury bled dry—all to satisfy your hunger for retribution against an embittered old man. I will not spill blood to sate your thirst for revenge.”
His gaze settled on Dain. The Lord Commander stared back, bushy brows furrowed.
The man who’d carried Richard on his shoulders, who’d taught him the sword and horseriding, who’d fussed over his tears as a boy.
The same man who had tried to join Haldric and Aralynn’s pyres after having watched the trolls clobber them to death.
“Nor to sate your guilt,” Richard said quietly.
Dain’s nostrils flared, and for a moment, Richard thought the man would rise, would cross the distance to land a punch—
Dain looked away with a hard swallow.
Richard’s headache pounded, making his eyes water. He pressed two fingers to his temple and breathed through it. “There is another matter. Chief Mage.”