“Relax, Auren,” he commands. “Rest now. I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”
A snort nearly escapes me. That’s about as comforting as being told there’s a monster under your bed, only, this one is lying down on it with me.
But my tiredness wins against stubbornness.
Inch by inch, I do settle in his hold. Yet when he starts to run a soft caress over my arm, I press my lips closed tight. Hate and sadness sweep through me, but I try to stave off the emotions that try to swell inside of me like a bloated cloud.
Numb. I need to stay numb. Unfeeling, uncaring, behind a thick wall where he can’t affect me ever again.
“You’re my precious girl.” It’s a murmur in the dark, a coax slipping through his shadowed lips.
I hate that he’s so good at this. I don’t want him to hold me, and yet, it was all I ever wanted for so damn long, and he knows it. Which is why a slow, cold tear drips down my cheek and lands on his tunic as he pets my hair.
“I love you, Auren.”
Liar.
What a fake, conniving, devious liar.
“I missed this,” he says through a yawn. Maybe that part is at least true for him, or maybe it’s just another deceit to pull me in.
Either way, I give myself this moment. Just this one. For the innocent girl who lost the love she thought she had, I let her have this. Because this...this is her quiet goodbye.
Beneath my anger and the numbness are the bruised pieces of a broken heart. And that part of me, that girl who was doe-eyed and head over heels, she’s in mourning beneath my bitter anger.
So for that part of me, I let out a shaky breath that vibrates like thunder. Then I press my ear against his chest one last time to hear a song that I thought played just for me.
I focus on the steady beat, and another tear falls with its rhythm as he strokes my hair, because it’s not love I’m listening to. It’s just possessive control. It’s so loud, I can’t believe I didn’t hear it before.
“You’re right back where you belong,” he declares.
I close my eyes, wet lashes like drops of dew against my cheek.
If we shifted, if it were his head pressed against my chest, would he hear? Would he hear the sound of my heart and know what it means? Would he recognize the lyrical loathing?
I fall asleep listening to the constant thrum of our chests, to the two mismatched tunes that will never play in harmony. I let that girl in me break away beat by beat, saying goodbye in her own silent way.
When I wake up, I’ll make sure my heart is hardened. Come morning, I’ll make sure it only plays a song for me.
Chapter 4
KING MIDAS
Sitting inside the iron gazebo, I’m pensive as I absently watch the men working throughout the courtyard. I find the cold air of Fifth Kingdom refreshing, the perfect sharpness to give one clarity.
The bench beneath me is cushioned with straw-stuffed leather that was probably comfortable at one point but has long since gone flat.
Set at my side, my ledger book is like a pair of eyes glaring at me. Inside are all my notes, all my plans, things needing to be done. It’s written in code I only use for myself, even though I always keep it with me. You can’t trust people, so one can never be too careful, and I have too much at stake.
The demands of running not just one kingdom but two weighs heavily on my shoulders. All the things I must do have become an incessant pressure that buzzes in my head during all my waking hours.
Now that Auren is back with me, I can focus more ardently on Ranhold. It needs the attention.
I’ve put off the grumblings easily enough, but I know it won’t last. I brought enough gold with me for the transition, but people are growing restless. There are mutterings in the halls. They wonder why the Golden King hasn’t turned anything gold yet. My excuse for respecting Ranhold and allowing time for mourning is nearly dried out, and my cache of coin right along with it.
I need Auren to get back to work. Yet I know I must handle her as delicately as I handle the politics here. I have dozens of strings that I’m tying simultaneously, all of which take concentration and finesse.
Which is why I keep coming out here to the gazebo, where the air stings just enough to collar my focus.
At the steady sound of a tapping hammer, my eyes skim over the sculptures outside. The courtyard is filled with them. Standing on stone pedestals every few feet, the blocks of ice are carved into elaborate likenesses.
From my vantage point, I can see one made into a willow tree, on another, a timberwing with its maw open in a fierce cry. Beside it, there’s a sensual goddess with her arms outstretched toward the sky, a dress draped over hourglass curves. Each and every sculpture is incredibly detailed, some of them so tall that the artists need ladders to work on them.
With chisels, hammers, and buffing rags, the men painstakingly ensure that every piece is kept in pristine condition. The sculptors are always working, whether it be to create more carvings or to preserve what they’ve already made.
I can tell that they’re uneasy being watched by me, but they keep their gazes pointedly away, working without pause. I’m just about to pick up my ledger again when a new worker comes out, purple uniform matching the others.
My eyes lock on him immediately, and for a moment, I have to blink to separate what I’m seeing from what I once saw.
With an artisan tool bag belted around his waist, he walks over to the sculpture of a sword standing on its point and begins to polish it with a rag, dusting off collected snow.
He’s bald, and four prominent wrinkles run along the top of his head like a tiger’s stripes. He has the gruff jaw of a man who could hide a sneering mouth behind his full white beard, though I’m too far away to see if it’s true or not.
As he looks his piece over, he rummages in his tool belt before pulling out a pair of spectacles and propping them on his nose. Sharp air hisses through my teeth at the sight.
He looks like my father.
It’s not him of course. Not unless he made a deal with the gods to be raised from the dead. But the beard, the bald head, the tanned skin, those Divine-damned spectacles, even the knuckled grip on his hammer, it’s all very reminiscent of the one who sired me.
Silenus Midas.
Sile to everyone, father to me, though father is a term used very loosely. He was nothing but a village drunk who sometimes managed to stumble out of the house to do carpentry work in town.
As for me, I was just the bastard son he loathed. He hated that he had to sacrifice some of his money on food and clothes for me, when he’d rather spend it on ale.
I’m not sure if hate was in my own nature or if he nurtured it, but it was something we had in common for each other. I never knew my mother, but I loathed her too.
Apparently, she was flighty. A loose woman who went too far into the cups in a pub one night and ended up in Sile’s bed, breeding me nine months later.
As soon as I was born, she dumped me on his doorstep with a jug of wine and six gold coins, and never looked back. Sile either couldn’t track her down or didn’t bother to.
I’m not sure what I detested most about him. His laziness, his drunkenness, or his tendency to beat the hell out of me.
Actually, maybe what I hated most was that he was such a joke to the village people. Everywhere he went, he was followed by sneers or mockery or pity.
They bestowed that same treatment onto me as well. I was nothing. Just the bastard son of a bastard drunk, too poor to rub two coppers together, and I was never going to escape that sorry excuse for a life.
Which is why the moment I became a legal Orean adult, I stole a jug of wine—in a mocking tribute of my mother—and left it for him on his soiled bed in our tiny, broken down cabin.
It didn’t take long for him to drink himself into a blacked-out stupor. Took even less for me to spark the flint and set fire to the derelict shack of a house. It was always dry in Fi
rst Kingdom.
“Sire?”
I pull my gaze away from the sculptor and find my main advisor standing just outside of the gazebo, between the iron balustrades.
“What is it, Odo?” I ask, reaching for the ledger before tucking it in the inside pocket of my vest.
“My King, we have a problem.”
My eyes narrow. “Is it Prince Niven?”
Fulke’s son is a whiny little prat who’s proven to be difficult. Yet another delicate matter I’ve had to handle with care.
“It’s not the prince,” Odo says as he stands there awkwardly, gaze darting around to ensure no one is close by. Aside from the sculptors, my guards were told to wait at the entrance of the castle where six of them stand sentry.
“Then what is it?” I ask, irritation coating my tone at being interrupted.
“It’s your wife, Sire.”
Tension tightens the line of my shoulders. “Hmm. Finally received a message?”
“Yes, but not from her.”
My eyes bore into him as I wait for him to divulge.
Odo leans forward, bracing a hand on the railing so his words don’t carry. Even ice sculptures have ears in Fifth Kingdom.
“Apparently, the pause in communications was not due to storms befalling Highbell. The queen has purposely stopped all correspondence going in and out of the castle. All the messenger hawks we sent finally returned, none of them bearing any letters.”
I sit back, head turning forward again as my mind works, finger tapping on my thigh. “What is Malina up to?” I mutter to myself. I can’t say I’m surprised that she’s up to something, not after she tried to confront me about my plan to double-cross Fulke, but I am surprised at her daring.
Odo continues. “Your eyes in Highbell claim that the queen has made an appearance in the city. She was seen passing out goods to the people, though I heard there was some trouble with dissenters.”
“She went to the city for charity?” I say incredulously. Malina would never concern herself with the people of Highbell unless for a specific purpose.
When some of the sculptors look over at the sound of my voice, I stand up and stride out of the gazebo. Odo hurries to catch up to my side while I stalk down the stone walkway, ignoring my guards at the door.
“There has been some talk amongst Highbell nobles as well,” Odo tells me as we walk through the wide entryway of the palace. My footsteps are cushioned by a long purple runner, the glass and stone walls lit up from the ten-pointed-star window framed with wooden arches in the ceiling.
“What are they saying?” I ask as I turn sharply for the stairwell to head for my chambers. For now, I’m still staying in the guest wing. With Niven alive and Fulke’s death fresh, it’s best for appearances’ sake. For now.
Odo’s breathing becomes labored as he trails after my quick steps up the stairs. “That the queen is...well, she’s wearing white, Sire.”
I stop in my tracks, whirling around to face him with a frown. “What?”
Odo grips the banister of the stairway, panting out puffs of air before he answers. “She’s not wearing gold in public, Your Majesty. None of the golden gowns. Not any of the crowns you’ve gold-touched, even her personal Queen’s guards have had an armor change. I’ve had it confirmed from several sources.”
Frustration has my teeth grinding. So this is how Malina thinks she can test me? It’s not just a color she’s refusing to wear; gold is a declaration of my power and reign. It’s not a simple wardrobe change. It’s a message.
“What would you like me to do, my king?”
I think for a moment before saying, “Nothing, yet. I want all the reports brought to my desk. I’ll decide in the morning what to do with her.”
“Very good, Majesty. And there is also the matter of the gold requests. We’re still getting more and more every day.”
“Remind our requestors that the kingdom is still in mourning. I do not need to flaunt my power while they just lost their king,” I say with rigid chastisement. “Whatever debts this kingdom has, I’ll pay them. As for the nobles looking to line their pockets, give them coin for now.”
“We’re out, my liege.”
My face goes stony. “We’re out? Of all we brought?”
Odo tries to suppress a wince but doesn’t quite manage it. “Well, there were quite a lot of requests. Everyone wanted to have a token of your power. All of the gilded trinkets we brought are nearly gone as well.”
My teeth gnash together so hard that my jaw bone pops. I’m running out of time. If I don’t make a show of power soon, my grasp here might weaken, which can’t happen.
I turn and walk up the steps again, but my pestering advisor follows me all the way to my private chambers. With a dark look, my guards hug the wall, making sure to leave us a wide berth as I enter my room.
“Sire, there’s one more complication,” Odo says quietly, his liver-spotted hands wringing in front of him after he shuts the door behind us.
A sharp sigh escapes me. “What now?” I need to read the reports about what’s been going on in Highbell since I’ve been away. I need to deal with my cold bitch of a wife.
Once I know the details, I can plan. Then I can go check on Auren. She’s been sleeping for two days now, clearly exhausted from whatever she endured with Fourth’s army. I’ve let her be, while I’ve also had as many comforts delivered to her as I can think of. The softest of silks, the plushest of pillows. I’ve plied her with books and perfumes—I even had a brand new harp delivered to her.
Hopefully, once she rests, she will feel like herself again. I need her to get back on track since I can no longer delay on making changes to the castle and filling the coffers.
My tenuous grip on Ranhold depends on filling the nobles’ palms with gold, on reminding everyone who I am and why it would be in their best interest to support my presence here. I’ve already done it once in Highbell, so I know how to take over a kingdom. You pour out wealth at first, fascinate the nobles and advisors with benevolence, be a shining presence to the commoners. And then you cinch it off little by little, making them dependent and wanting, fighting each other for the king’s favor so that they might reap the benefits.
By the time I’m done, there will be no contest as to who they would rather keep. Me, who can make their kingdom dazzlingly rich, or the prig son of the dead king.
“As you know, the saddles were checked over by the mender once they returned, at your instruction,” Odo informs me.
I cock a brow. “And?”
“The mender just confirmed it and sent word immediately.” My advisor brushes down the ring of gray hair at the back of his head in a nervous gesture. “It...appears as though one of them is with child.”
I freeze.
All thoughts screech to a halt as his words trickle down my spine. A second passes before I burst forward and grip him by the collar of his golden shirt. “What are you saying?”
Odo’s milky blue eyes go wide, his entire body rigid as I yank him up on his toes. “Sh-she claims the child is yours, Your Majesty,” he whispers quickly.
A bastard child...
I roughly release him and he stumbles, catching himself on the wall at his back. “The whore is lying, obviously. She wants to try to bribe me for gold or gain attention. She wants something, Odo, that’s all this is. My saddles take herbs. It’s never failed.”
“Yes, Sire, it never has in the past, but the mender confirmed—”
I cut a hand through the air, making him flinch. “Then she fucked someone else. She was with Fourth’s army, and the damn snow pirates before that,” I point out. “Have her dismissed immediately from my service. I won’t have an unfaithful saddle in my employ.”
Odo runs a shaky hand down the wrinkled front of his shirt, watching me as I begin to pace. “The mender was disbelieving of her claims too, which is why he took longer than usual to alert me. He wanted to be sure, but he believes that she’s nearly
three months pregnant, which would mean that she was still in Highbell at the time she was bred.”
My mind spins, pulse pounding in my head like the sculptor’s hammer, a chisel to my skull as it chips down into aggravation. I don’t like surprises.
My saddles were nearly as protected as Auren. I had a very strict rotation of guards. None of them would’ve dared to sneak in and fuck my saddles. I make a note to change out the guards too, just in case.
If the mender is correct about the timeline, if the babe is truly mine…
“Who else knows of this?”
“No one,” he assures me. “The mender came directly to me, Your Majesty.”
I nod absently.
Odo’s hands fidget as he watches me think. “Would you like me to do anything?”
“Not yet,” I say. “You’re dismissed.”
The man bows quickly and makes a hasty retreat, no doubt grateful to be gone from my presence.
Now that I’m alone, I go over to my desk and brace my hands onto the top, eyes locked on the neatly stacked papers, though not really seeing any of it. My mind is too busy navigating a plan like a sailor charting the stars.
My fingers flex over the wood, irritation locking my knuckles. Malina, Auren, the whore—all my problems are caused by Divine-damned women. This is exactly why you can’t trust females. My mother taught me that.
I’m doing important work, and I can’t allow anything to bring me off my path.
I was the one who pulled Highbell out of debt and made it into the symbol for gleaming wealth and prosperity. And now, Malina dares to test me? She is nothing but a bitter, useless woman, unable to even give me an heir. She’s lucky I married her in the first place and allowed her to keep her crown.
Memories rush in—of my father, of the village children sneering at me, at the parish tossing me out for being unclean, at shopkeepers whispering “bastard” wherever I went.
After all these years of doing my duty and trying to breed that cold fish of a woman, and this is the thanks I get.
Gleam (The Plated Prisoner Series Book 3) Page 5