Chapter Three Anton
Chapter Three
Anton
“Little king.”
The voice echoes, soft as it is. Like a ringing in his ears. An itch gone ignored, and not for the first time. If he turns, he knows what he will see framed within the mirror’s gilded arch. Or rather, who.
He ignores her all the same.
He’s quite good at that.
He’s quite good at a lot of things, including being an absolute pest, which he has put extra effort into these days, going as far as to demand every luxury he entertained previously in Ansa and more.
Hot baths with imported oils from the Karithian Islands; fresh linens delivered daily, scented with eucalyptus; a wardrobe made only from the finest of silks; a selection of fresh fruit topped off every hour. And wine.
So much wine.
Oh, they tried to refuse him such things, to which he responded with a resolute: “Fine, then. Seeing your faces has made me lose my appetite altogether, so I don’t think I’ll be eating anytime soon.”
His little luxuries came quickly after that.
They care about his well-being after all—though not for any sentimental reasons, he’s sure.
They claimed he willingly made Gustav Bayard, his bastard of a friend, King Regent in his stead.
And Gustav knows the law. Should a king go missing for enough time, or be presumed dead, a Miridranian regent can be formally crowned.
But they can’t kill him outright, not when they know he can spawn back to life.
Not when—to their knowledge—he might resurrect elsewhere.
So they have little choice but to trap him here so he can’t reclaim his crown.
But why not a prison? A dungeon? Why cater to him so? That had confounded him the first few days. Perhaps they think to use him to quell any rumors in the case of a rebellion? He wouldn’t be surprised if they made him renounce his claim in person, if his subjects suspected foul play.
Not that they would have any reason to, when Sadira and Gustav had worked with Illian to accuse him of conspiring against Brisendale—first with letters, then claiming he ordered Rurik’s death. To make matters worse, they disposed of Illian afterward and pinned that on him, too.
All those years of appeasement—friendship, they called it—and then betrayal at the Gathering…
it was leading to this. A stolen throne.
His friend whom he’d worked alongside for years—who had gained his trust and learned secrets about death—had seized control of the entirety of his country.
Yet he couldn’t understand why, or why Sadira would help.
Perhaps they’d come to some agreements on trade, or found a way to expand their territories. Damned if he knew.
He rubs his temples. Just thinking about the Gathering gives him a headache—and more so when he tries to focus on the details. So he doesn’t linger on them long. Instead he stews in his rage.
In any case, they underestimated his ability to be difficult. And honestly, he would have starved himself by now from sheer spite—perhaps even have leapt off the balcony—but contrary to what some might believe, dying is a real pain in the nuts.
Even so, the time might come when he’s desperate enough to do it.
To follow through on his threats—just to see what would happen.
The only problem is that he isn’t sure whether or not he’d resurrect at an opportune place.
With his luck, he’d spawn right here, and it would all be for naught.
Death is unpredictable like that. In most cases, he’s revived within a few feet of where he died, but occasionally he’s sprouted like a daisy several yards away.
Of course he could starve himself near to the brink of death, just to give them a healthy scare—which he would; really, he would—but Fates-damnit, he likes to eat.
Anton slides on a loose robe, a cool breeze wafting in from the line of open windows to feather his lightly sun-bronzed chest.
“Anton,” comes that ghostly caress of a voice once again.
“Kindly piss off, Moranya,” he says, low enough that Basile won’t hear him from outside.
He sweeps past the mirror to find his preferred settee on his poor excuse for a balcony, where Ishu lounges like the oversized cat she is.
His one and only friend, except that she won’t attack anyone she already likes, even if he commands it.
He tried that, and she wouldn’t listen, the traitor.
Again he hears his name.
He’s suffered an entire week of Moranya calling to him—invading his nap time, his quiet time, his bath time.
His dreams, even. But he knows what she wants.
She wishes to offer him whatever he desires in the next life for the simple exchange of taking her hand—and accepting his death.
Living freely in her lair would be better than his current predicament, she says, and admittedly, she might not be wrong.
Only, he knows what she really wants—why she’s so determined, for that matter, to have his company.
Regardless, he’s steadfastly dedicated to make his friends’ lives a living hell for the time being.
And to figure out a way out of this without dying, once he’s through being petulant.
If only Basile were, say, thirty percent smaller.
But thinking about fighting Basile stings.
Of all things, that one hurts the most. That Basile would side with the queen, take orders from someone else…
Basile, who traveled with him to Razam the day he hired him and who has never been more than a few feet away since—unless, of course, you count the times Anton snuck out and ordered him to stay behind, which he did, begrudgingly, and with many complaints.
Basile, who—like Gustav—has felt like a brother at times, even if Anton has kept them both at arm’s length.
Because he knows it would be easy to love those men.
And loving them, he knows, means two very terrible things: giving Moranya leverage over him, and putting his heart at risk for more betrayal.
Illian already bought off several of Anton’s so-called friends in his adolescence, so he learned his lesson.
Or thought he did. But he had trusted Gustav and Basile with his life.
Yet it seems they can be bought after all.
The barb of that betrayal still lingers—a feeling he’ll never risk again.
It takes only another few minutes for that voice—that damned voice—to slither into his peace once again.
Only this time, it’s even louder, more insistent.
With a groan, Anton rises from his seat and strides to the mirror, ready to shatter the thing with his hairbrush, when Moranya materializes like a coil of smoke.
First her eyes, deep like the sea at dusk, and then her matching hair, floating and curling about her head, her plush little mouth rounding on the word “Wait.”
He pauses, though he really shouldn’t.
“I am not asking you to take my hand,” she says.
He rolls his eyes. “Amazing that I don’t believe you.”
Her lips pucker at that. “I swear it. Will you not so much as hear my offer? Or are you intent on declining me when I am the only one willing to give you something rather than taking things away? We were friends for a time, Anton. Remember that.”
“We were friends until I realized what you really wanted from me,” he says, examining his nails with his natural nonchalance.
And it’s true. He was young the first time he died, barely out of adolescence.
Admittedly, his sixteen-year-old self had admired her once.
And each time he died, he stayed a little longer.
They would spend hours talking in the in-between—hours he was careful to keep his hands tucked under his thighs once he realized they itched to glide toward hers.
Then he recognized it for the ploy it was.
Gain his trust. Lure him in not with beauty or illusions but with kindness. Gentleness. And he had known so little back then.
Idly, he reaches for his pendant—his lens—only to remember it isn’t there. Sadira, or perhaps Basile, must have taken it off him at some point.
At least he doesn’t need it. Moranya cannot touch a mortal without them first taking her hand, and he is not in danger of her usual Fates-given lure.
There is nothing, or no one, he loves enough for that.
“I know what you think of me.” Sadness softens her words into a whisper. Very compelling. “But I am not asking you to take my hand, little king,” she says. “I am asking you to take my kingdom instead. One realm was stolen from you, so why not rule another?”