Chapter 38
By noon, Richard was certain this was what dying felt like.
The pounding in his chest began soon after Flint left him.
It filled his whole ribcage—a persistent hammering and fizzing that crowded out his breath and made his fingertips tingle.
Twice, he had stopped on the road to place a palm flat against his sternum and will his heart to calm.
Surely men did not survive such tempos for long.
Surely there was a name for this affliction in the physicians’ tomes.
But Richard was far from home and a healer, and it was with some gloominess that he resigned himself to perhaps perishing on this dusty road.
The fields grew sparse, and shortly after the sun reached its peak, the procession crested a low rise of yellow grass, and the troupe gathered to gape.
For Vexmara lay below them.
The capital sprawled across a long sweep of coast, ringed by a wall of ivory standing forty feet high.
Vast antlers crowned the wall at intervals—stag horns mounted in iron brackets, some so enormous they could only have come from the bull-stags of the Estaran southern moors.
Banners snapped from the gate towers, each stamped with the antlered head of the Estaran royal house.
Beyond the wall, the city climbed in tiers of white stone, ceramic roofs, and spires of gold.
Past it all, the sea glittered—an immense plate of blue, dotted with sails.
“By the gods,” Tilda breathed.
Richard didn’t share her awe. He’d seen it several times before as a prince on his diplomatic ventures.
The city was nothing compared to High Ardenia.
Certainly, there was more intricate architecture, with spiralling towers, beautiful canals, and organised roads, but it lacked charm.
Why, there weren’t even many trees. Beauty without substance.
Especially—Richard rolled his eyes—once the weekly burnings were factored in.
“Aye, aye, stop yer gawking, the lot of you.” Master Clemens mopped his brow with a handkerchief. “We’ll rest the horses and eat. Vexmara will keep till evening.”
The wagons fanned out. Tents stayed packed, but tablecloths were laid down, and stools dragged out. Within minutes, the camp had transformed into a scattered picnic on the hillside. Richard counted the children, who ate on the same blanket, then settled on a fallen log at the camp’s outskirts.
On sitting, his hand immediately went to his chest.
Stop, he ordered his heart. There is no need for this. We are still angry, and he has not yet apologised.
When it refused to listen, Richard tipped his head back and stared at the blue sky.
He was in love with Kaelen.
He was in love.
How strange that Flint should land so easily on what had been afflicting him all these weeks. It was as exhilarating as it was terrifying, for love meant, of course, courtship.
His father had courted his mother for over a year before she commanded him to marry her.
Aralynn and Haldric had delighted in regaling their children with the details of their courtship.
How Haldric had gifted Aralynn jewellery and flowers, had begged her to accompany him to balls, and taken her on rides through the eastern woods.
He’d sent her letters scented with perfume, fought in her name in tourneys and forced Dain to help him climb the ivy to Aralynn’s tower at midnight to profess his love.
That was how it was done, Haldric had said. That was how a man told a woman he loved her.
What, then, was Richard to do?
He gnawed at the edge of his thumbnail.
Flowers were a given. He could pick flowers even now. The road had hedgerows full of them—though he’d have to choose carefully, for some blooms carried meanings, and how mortifying it’d be to present Kaelen with a bouquet that, on closer inspection, transpired to mean ‘farewell forever’.
Richard groaned. No, flowers were too much of a risk.
A letter, then. A letter of courtship. He’d read enough books to know the structure. ‘To the honourable Sir Kaelen the Basilisk Slayer, I hereby proclaim my intention to court you. I hope you find this agreeable. Please confirm soon.’
But what colour ink should he write it in? Black was meant for courtly business, and red for threats. Perhaps a light pink—
What even was Kaelen’s favourite colour? And did he prefer his letter to be written in cursive or plain? Richard pinched the bridge of his nose. How could he know so little of a man he was supposed to love?
Then there was the matter of the bedding.
Richard’s stomach lurched.
Surely, surely, Kaelen would not expect it. Richard had stated plainly of his disinterest—
But men did expect, did they not? Especially men with an appetite for it.
What if, on hearing Richard’s confession, Kaelen thought himself the exception?
What if Kaelen believed that he could be the one to coax Richard’s body into wanting?
That he could be the special key, the right person, the unlocking hand?
What then, when months passed, and Richard remained as he was—would Kaelen do? Grow disappointed? Frustrated? Look elsewhere, perhaps, to the buxom women and muscled men with the easy flirtations? Would Richard be able to bear it?
A shadow fell across him, and Richard jumped.
But it was only Kaelen, standing with a bowl in his hands.
The man’s jaw was set tight, and his eyes wary.
The afternoon sun lit the edges of his hair gold, and threw his cheekbone into sharp relief, and Richard’s heart gave an enormous jolt, as though a hand had reached into his chest and squeezed.
Oh, Richard thought distantly. By the gods, I should like to be with him.
Then he recalled Kaelen’s words from the night before, and rearranged his stare into a glare.
Kaelen cleared his throat and held the bowl out. Richard hesitated and took it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tilda and Wren drifting in their direction, but Kaelen made a flicking gesture with his hand, and the youngsters retreated.
“My king,” Kaelen rubbed the back of his neck. “Richard. I owe you an apology.”
Richard kept his face blank and focused on the bow jutting over Kaelen’s shoulder.
“Last night,” Kaelen said, “I spoke cruelly. I—” He drew a deep breath.
“I unmade your truth. I took a thing you had trusted me with and decided I knew better than you did the shape of your own heart. That was wrong of me.” His voice went hoarse.
“My temper rose from petty jeal—from petty frustration, and I—” His fists shuddered at his sides.
“I used it as a weapon against you. You did not deserve such words, and I had no right. I have not enough words to express my shame.”
Another group of labourers ambled towards them, but were intercepted by Svetra and Talia and dragged away to another corner.
“I have given thought to it,” Kaelen continued, steadier now.
“You owe me no forgiveness, and I shall not ask it of you. I shall keep my distance where possible until the mission is accomplished.” He chewed the inside of his cheek.
“I—I am deeply regretful. I hope you will not allow a fool’s words to wound you too sharply. ”
The knight inclined his head. Still avoiding Richard’s eyes, he turned to go.
“Kaelen.”
In an instant, Kaelen was on one knee by the log, his head bowed. “My ki—Richard?”
Richard sighed. Kaelen was very close. His fringe hung over his brows, and his lashes were wet at the corners.
“You did wound,” Richard said quietly. “With the suggestion that perhaps I had not searched hard enough, or met the right person, or given the matter a fair attempt.” A bitter taste came upon his tongue.
“My father had said the same, again and again, until it seemed that it was him he was trying to convince instead of me. Malgrin has implied as much, more than once, before I became king.” He raked a hand through his hair.
“I had thought you different. I had thought you had heard me in that spring.”
“I did.” The devastation on Kaelen’s face was plain to see. “I heard you then. And I hear you now. You know what you are and what you are not, and no man—not your father, not Lord Malgrin, and certainly not a fool like me—has any right telling you otherwise.”
“And I did not—” Richard bit his lip. “I did not flirt with Orric. I was awed—perhaps smitten in the same way I was with Sir Joffrey as a boy. But I did not desire Orric. It did not even cross my mind.”
Kaelen’s eyes creased, achingly soft. “I know now.”
Heartened, Richard continued. “It seems I—” He picked at a splinter on the bowl. “It seems I do not always strike the correct note. I have done it more than once. I—” He swallowed. “People sometimes mistake my interest as….something more.”
“They are fools.”
Richard blinked. “What?”
“They are fools.” Kaelen straightened, his voice growing firm.
“Anyone who took your interest and twisted it into a shape that suited their own vanity is a fool. You are not wrong in your approach. It is they who are wrong to make assumptions—as I did—so quickly. The friends you deserve will see your sincerity and understand it for the gift that it is, and those who do not are not worth the wasting of your breath.”
Richard’s lips twitched. His heart, finally, was slowing, but the warmth tinging his cheeks had returned. “Kaelen—”
“And as for the difficulty of making friends,” Kaelen said mullishly, “I shall make it my duty to assist you in that endeavour. If you wish for friends, you shall have them. From this day on, I shall ensure you have every opportunity—”
“Kaelen.”
“—I shall scout for those who would best suit you, for those who share the same interests and who would amuse you with conversation, and I shall persuade them to make your acquaintance—”
“Kaelen.”
“—and if any were to embarrass you in some manner, I shall challenge them to a duel—”
“Kaelen!” Richard laughed hard, the broth rocking dangerously against the bowl’s rim.
Kaelen gawked. “My king? Are you—are you well?”
“You are,” Richard managed between gasps, “a ridiculous creature.” He chuckled. “Pray tell me. Do you intend to stand at our castle’s gates with a roster of candidates? Do you intend to interview them on my behalf?”
“I—” Kaelen flushed. “I had not thought so far ahead, in truth.” He grimaced. “Forgive me, but I cannot quite—I cannot reconcile you having only the one friend. It must not be allowed to stand.”
“It is not so dire as all that—”
“It is precisely so dire.” Kaelen leaned forward. “And if you wish to befriend Druid Orric, you shall befriend him, and I shall be glad of him for you. If you wish to befriend Flint—” He winced, and continued doggedly, “I—I shall be glad of him also, but you must be careful.”
Richard fought back a smile. “Go and get your lunch, Kaelen.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Kaelen rose. “I—I am sorry, though. Truly. For what I said about—about those with powers stirring you and—”
“Kaelen.” Richard met his eyes. “It is behind us.”
Kaelen smiled, nodded, and turned. Richard watched him go. A breeze came up the slope, carrying salt from the distant sea, and Richard’s eye was drawn beyond the slope of Kaelen’s shoulders, beyond the picnicking troupe, and to the city below.
Vexmara waited.
Heaviness settled back across Richard’s shoulders.
No more easy travelling.
There was work to be done.