“I’d like a little honesty. I don’t think that’s such a terrible request, since I’m to be your wife.”
“Do you love me?” Ghyslain asks, his voice so soft it catches her off guard.
“What?”
He looks away. “You heard me.”
“I did. I’m just trying to figure out if you’re joking or if you’re really so stupid that you would have to ask.” Her arms drop to her sides, her expression shifting from annoyance to honesty. “Of course I love you.” She opens her arms and steps forward to embrace him, but he backs away before she can.
“Do you love me like a best friend, or do you love me like my fiancée?”
She stops.
There.
All of a sudden, he sees it. It’s a minute change in her expression, so fast that he would’ve missed it had he not been searching for it.
Guilt.
“Ghyslain—”
“Be honest, please. That’s not a terrible request, is it? As your future husband?” He feels terrible throwing her words back in her face, but he needs to know the truth. He hadn’t realized until recently how much the doubt had been gnawing at him. She had been pretending the whole time. He’s sure of it, but he needs to hear it from her.
“Please don’t make me answer that question,” she whispers.
That’s all he needs to hear.
“Get out.”
“Ghyslain—”
“I need some time to think. Elisora, please, just leave.”
“No.” She plants herself on his bed and crosses her arms. “We’re going to discuss this.”
“What were you planning to do after we got married? Keep pretending? Keep lying?”
“I’m not lying! Ghyslain, listen, okay? I love you. I do,” she insists when he rolls his eyes. “You’re my best friend in the whole world. I don’t know what I’d do without you. And no, if I’m being honest . . . I don’t love you romantically.”
“Elisora—” he begins, her name coming out like a pitiful whimper. He’s too hurt to care. Something inside of him fractures with every word she says.
“But,” she continues, “I’ll get there.” She stands and clasps his hands, her grip tightening until it’s almost painful. She waits for him to meet her gaze. “Just because I’m not in love with you now doesn’t mean I never will be. I just need some time.”
“But what if you never do? What if you wake up twenty years from now and realize you still don’t love me? What if you begin to resent me?”
“That will never happen. Do you hear me? Never.”
“You can’t possibly be sure of that.”
“Of course I can. I want to marry you, Ghyslain. The betrothal was as much my idea as it was yours. If I don’t love you in twenty years, that’s my problem. I will never hold it against you, do you understand?” She shrugs. “And who’s to say I won’t fall in love with you along the way? Stranger things have happened.”
Ghyslain takes a deep breath. “There’s still time, you know. No plans for the wedding have been made. You can still back out of the betrothal if you want.”
“What, so I can stand in the back of the Church and watch some other girl become your wife? Not in a million years, Ghyslain Myrellis. I chose you, just like you chose me at that New Year’s feast so many years ago. We’re meant for each other. So what if our marriage isn’t like everyone else’s? It’ll be special; it’ll be ours.”
“You sound like you’re trying to talk yourself into this ludicrous plan as much as you are me.”
She wraps her arms around his neck so that they’re standing face-to-face, their lips inches apart. “I just don’t want you to enter that Church for our wedding with any regrets,” she whispers. “You love me. I love you. That’s more than most married people I know can say.”
“But—”
That’s when she kisses him.
It’s slow and sweet, her lips soft against his. She cups his face and smiles when his hands slip around her waist and tug her close. She moves backward until the backs of her legs bump the foot of his bed and she stumbles, half-sitting, half-falling onto the mattress. He laughs when she grabs the front of his tunic and lies back, pulling him down with her. He kneels on the bed, straddling her hips, and presses a line of gentle kisses down her neck and along her collarbone.
“You’re tickling me,” she murmurs, shivering.
“Sorry.”
She grins and cups his chin with a hand, guiding his mouth back to hers. After a few seconds, she breaks off the kiss, breathing fast. “You see? I can play the loving wife as well as any woman.”
‘Play?’ he thinks as reality crashes back down. He stands up and backs away so quickly he knocks over the stool in front of his vanity. He stumbles and rights it, looking everywhere in the room but at her. “I think you should leave now,” he says, loathing himself for the way his voice trembles.
Elisora frowns, looking hurt, but she nods. “All right.” She rises and tugs the strap of her dress back onto her shoulder. “But think about what I’ve said, okay?”
“Oh, I doubt I’ll be able to stop thinking about it.”
She pauses, her hand on the door handle. “Just . . . don’t do anything rash, okay? Keep this between us?”
He nods, and she slips out of his room without another word. A few seconds later—so soon after Elisora leaves that Ghyslain is certain they had been waiting in the hall to keep from interrupting—Jett and Orson let themselves in with large buckets of warm water in their arms. A few slaves Ghyslain recognizes, but doesn’t know, help them fill the porcelain basin in the adjacent bathing chamber. While they work in silence, Ghyslain buries his face in his hands.
Creator, look at the mess I’ve made.
9
After bathing, scrubbing every last hint of Elisora’s intoxicating perfume from his skin, and dressing, Ghyslain sulks for longer than is appropriate before dragging himself to the regal dining hall. His mother and the councilmembers are already inside when he arrives. He expects Guinevere to shoot him a warning look or whisper a rebuke for being late once again, but his haggard expression must be enough to convince her that he has no need for further punishment.
“What’s wrong?” she murmurs as they take their seats at the long dining table. As the king, Ghyslain is seated at the head of the table, his mother at his left, and the empty chair where Elisora would have sat is on his right. Mercifully, she had chosen not to show up.
“Just tired, that’s all.”
Guinevere raises a brow. “Are you sure?”
Thankfully, he’s saved from having to answer when several of the elves from the kitchen appear with platters of steaming soup. The councilmembers chitter amongst themselves as the slaves place the shining silver bowls of broth before them. A few of them offer Ghyslain and his mother compliments on finding such a talented group of cooks, while more remark on the beauty of the fine silverware set before them. Guinevere accepts the compliments with humility. Ghyslain merely forces a smile and nods in agreement.
A few minutes into the second course, one of the councilmembers—a middle-aged man named Cassius—says, “Your Majesty, any idea when you would like to be married to Miss Zendais?”
Ghyslain nearly chokes on the piece of rabbit he’d been chewing. He coughs and takes a sip of his wine before sputtering, “Pardon?”
His mother nudges him under the table, but he ignores her.
“Your wedding. Would you like a spring wedding? Summer? Autumn?”
“Um, I don’t know. I haven’t thought much about it.”
Cassius smiles. “That’s all right. I bet Elisora has plenty of opinions on the matter. When I married my wife, I couldn’t get her to shut up about it.” He chuckles. “It’s a shame she couldn’t be here tonight.”
“Yes, I believe she wasn’t feeling well.”
“A pity,” Guinevere says, then gracefully changes the subject to another of the councilmember’s daughters.
Ghyslain ducks his hea
d and studies the plate before him as if it could somehow save him from the awkwardness of state dinners. Please, please, please, let me make it through this dinner without making even more a fool of myself than I already have.
A few hours later, Ghyslain and his mother bid farewell to the councilmembers as the kitchen staff flutter about and clean up the dishes from the meal. Cassius thanks them for the meal and—again—expresses his well-wishes for the impending wedding, which Ghyslain accepts with a tight-lipped smile. The minute Cassius bows and leaves the room, Guinevere closes the doors behind him and whirls on her son.
“What is wrong with you?” she hisses. “You’ve been late two days in a row, you couldn’t bear speaking to the council, and you look like you haven’t slept a wink in days.”
“Maybe that’s because I haven’t been sleeping, Mother,” he snaps. He sinks into one of the chairs and rests his head on the cool wood of the table.
“What’s wrong?” His mother’s voice is concerned, bereft of the annoyance it had held seconds before. She touches his shoulder gently, and when he looks up, she’s kneeling beside him—she’s kneeling on the floor in her fine lace dress. “Are you all right?”
He shakes his head.
“Do you feel sick?”
Yes, but not for the reason you think. I feel sick because Elisora and I are fighting, and we haven’t fought since we were eight, arguing who would take the blame for breaking the crystal vase Father had kept in his study. I feel sick because the woman I’ve loved for twelve years doesn’t love me the way I want her to, and I don’t know if she ever will. I feel sick because I’m terrified of the future.
“No,” he says.
She sighs. “Look, my son. I know what you’re going through. I know you miss your father and that this is all a big change. You weren’t planning to inherit the throne for years. None of us foresaw what happened; your father was always a paragon of health—"
“Until he wasn’t.”
“Right—until he wasn’t. It’s going to take time to get used to living without him, but we’ll figure out a way to keep going. You’ll adjust to being king. No one expects you to know everything about running a country on your first day. There’s a learning curve, but I’m here to help you. Your advisors and councilmembers are here to help you. If you trust your instincts and let us guide you where your own knowledge is lacking, then the thought of ruling Beltharos suddenly doesn’t seem so impossible, does it?” She smooths the hair from his brow and smiles. “Plus, you’ll have a strong, confident woman beside you. Despite her lack of a title, I know Elisora will be a great wife to you and a wonderful queen to our people.”
At the mention of Elisora, what little relief had been mounting inside Ghyslain crumbles. “Right. Elisora.”
“Do you have a problem with her? I thought you are best friends. You begged your father and me to approve the betrothal last year.”
“No,” he says quickly. “No problem.”
She raises a brow, but, thankfully, has the grace to change the subject. She kisses his temple—in front of the elves who are still working around them to clear the dishes from the table, it’s as embarrassing as if she had licked her thumb and wiped food from his face—then rises. “I believe Master Cathal would like to speak with you about a matter of the guard”—she frowns when Ghyslain groans—“but I already told him I would meet with him on your behalf. I thought you could use the rest.”
He lets out a relieved breath. “Thank you, Mother.”
“Anytime.” She glides to the door, then turns back to him, one hand on the wrought iron door handle. “But you will be on time to your appointments tomorrow, do you understand?”
He smiles. Despite the lack of life in her eyes, despite the fact that Ghyslain is now king, despite the fact that she has been steadily losing weight since his father’s death, she is still the same woman she had always been; always knowing just how to comfort him—and how to chastise him. “Yes, Mother. I understand.”
“Good. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Ghyslain is halfway up the stairs to the second floor when a shout from the hall behind him catches his attention. He stops and turns. A moment later, Liselle rounds the corner, a small fabric-wrapped parcel in her hands. “I thought perhaps you hadn’t heard me. I called to you a few times, Your Majesty.”
“Sorry. Lost in thought.” When she offers him a pitying, knowing smile, he flinches, the tips of his ears growing hot with embarrassment. “Elisora told you about our fight?”
“She didn’t need to; I’ve been serving her every day for nearly two years. How terrible of a slave would I be if I couldn’t tell when my mistress is upset after that long?”
“Where is your mistress now?”
“At her father’s home. I, um, invented an excuse to come here and speak with you.” Her expression turns sheepish, her cheeks flushing. She turns the little parcel over and over in her hands and toys with the thin pink ribbon holding it closed. “I wanted to thank you again for intervening when you found Drake and me, but I didn’t want my mistress to know that’s why I was going to the castle. If what Drake tried to do reaches the public, I’m afraid she’ll blame me for the damage to his reputation.”
“She would never do that,” Ghyslain promises. “Drake and I spoke a few hours ago. I’ve ordered him to stay away from the slaves and have posted a guard outside his home to ensure that he complies.” As he speaks, Liselle’s gaze wanders from the package in her hands to his face. She raises her brows and opens her mouth, but, for a few moments, nothing comes out.
“You . . . really did that?” she finally asks.
He frowns. “Of course. Wouldn’t anyone?”
“Drake has been terrorizing his slaves for years and no one has done a thing. Dragna, in the kitchen, one tried to report it to the guard, but he caught up to her in the street and dragged her back to his home by her ear. He beat her half to death.”
“What? When? Why haven’t I heard this?”
“No one has. After that, all the slaves in the household were too scared to try and stop him. They whisper stories to each other of what he’s done, but no one stops him. According to them, the Zendais boy has more than just the one kid. He’s fathered a couple bastards in Beggars’ End, if rumors are to be—” she pauses, her eyes going wide as she realizes to whom she is speaking. She spins on her heel and marches back to the hall. “I’m sorry. Forget I came, Your Majesty.”
“Wait—” Ghyslain runs down the stairs, stumbling when he nearly misses a step—by the Creator, how is such a small girl so fast?—and catches up to her in the middle of the corridor. She stills when he touches her elbow and murmurs, “Wait just a second.”
She turns, worrying that package in her hands. “I don’t want you to think I’m some idle gossip, Your Majesty.”
He sputters an incredulous laugh. “I don’t think that at all.”
“No?”
“No. I think you’re incredibly brave.”
Her expression transforms from worry to relief. “Your Majesty—”
“Call me Ghyslain.”
“It’s highly improper—”
“Please. I assume you’ll move into the castle when your mistress and I are married. If we’re to see each other every day, I’d like you to use my name. If it suits you,” he adds belatedly, causing her to grin.
“Very well,” she says. “Ghyslain.”
They stand there for a few moments in silence, smiling at each other, until Liselle starts, remembering the parcel she had brought. She blushes and pushes it into Ghyslain’s hands. “This is for you, Your Maj—Ghyslain. You said you don’t want any thanks, but I need you to know how grateful I am for what you did. Most humans would have left Drake to his own devices if they had found us in that library. No one cares for a lowly slave.”
“You keep saying that. Is that truly how you think of yourself?”
“Isn’t that how I am supposed to think of myself? Isn’t that all this slave sash is
supposed to represent, that I am worth less than the humans around me?”
Ghyslain stares down at the package in his hand. It’s no bigger than an apple, wrapped carefully in simple white linen and tied with a pale pink ribbon. He doesn’t meet her eyes when he whispers, “If it were up to me, you wouldn’t be wearing that sash at all.”
She sucks in a breath. “You would free me? Free the slaves?”
“If I could.”
“Maybe you can’t do it now, but perhaps in a few years? In the meantime, you can take little steps to help us stand against the nobility when the time comes to emancipate us.”
“Like what?”
“Visit Beggars’ End. See for yourself the squalor and filth in which the workers and the few free elves of your city live. If you speak to them, learn from them, you’ll see how strong we really are. You may believe that you are alone in wishing to abolish slavery, but go to the End and you’ll soon realize you have more support among the people than you think.”
“I . . . suppose that could be arranged.” When a guard rounds the corner at the far end of the hall, Ghyslain adds, “Must you return to Elisora soon, or do you have time to stay and discuss this in private?”
“I should be heading back soon—”
“It’ll only take a moment, I promise.”
“Um . . . All right?”
“Great. Come with me.” He leads her up the stairs and through the second-story hallway. She stiffens when they pass the double doors to the library, but Ghyslain keeps walking until they reach his father’s old study. He holds the door open for her. When she enters and perches on one of the large leather chairs beside the fireplace, he picks up the iron poker leaning against the wall and prods the flames until the room is illuminated by a flickering orange glow.
When he turns back to Liselle, she is standing beside the massive desk which takes up most of the room, its surface bare except for a massive map of Beltharos and the surrounding land. She traces the line of the Alynthi River with a slender finger and stops at the little dot marking Sandori. Sensing him watching her, she glances up at him shyly, biting her lip. “You’re staring at me.”
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