Glint (The Plated Prisoner Series Book 2)

by Raven Kennedy

  The gold-touched saddle returning to her king.

  Despite the fact that I can sense them watching me, I don’t feel the weight of hate or enmity anymore. I wonder what Orea would think if people knew the truth about Fourth’s army. If they knew that they weren’t monsters, not bloodthirsty villains set on killing.

  Formidable? Definitely. Deadly? Without a doubt.

  But they were honorable. Not once did I fear for my life, not once was I abused or used. Instead, I was treated with respect, and I suspect there’s one person in particular to thank for that.

  An army is only as good as its commanding officer.

  As if my thoughts conjured him, a spiked form on the back of a black stallion breaks away from a line of soldiers and heads toward us. My ribbons coil around my waist, breath hitching at the sight of him.

  Right now, Rip looks every bit the imposing commander of Fourth’s army. In full armor, missing only his helmet, he’s a reckoning come to demand retribution. He wears a fierce expression bracketed with the brooding line of his spiked brows and the sharp angles of his jaw.

  His black hair is swept back as his horse rides toward us, the pale skin of his face more prominent from the scruff of his jaw and the black of his eyes. With spikes glinting on his back, jutting from perfectly melded armor, he’s making it clear that the sword at his hip isn’t the real weapon. He is.

  My horse slows to a stop as Rip approaches. He nods at Osrik in greeting before stopping his horse beside mine, instantly dwarfing me on my mare. His energy is tense, like the snapping teeth of a beast, aggravated and sharp, wanting to maim.

  Beside him, my nerves flip and flounder, a fish tossed on the shore. He doesn’t speak to me, offers no greeting. He simply dismisses the three guards behind us and then starts to lead Osrik and I toward Ranhold—toward a royal envoy flying a golden flag with Highbell’s emblem proudly displayed on it.

  With Osrik on my left and Rip on my right, I get herded toward the line of men I don’t know, not a single familiar face in sight.

  “What about the other saddles? The guards?” I ask.

  “Their release is part of the negotiation. They’ll be escorted to Ranhold tonight,” Osrik answers.

  I peer over at Rip, but his gaze is straight ahead, expression stone-faced. I see the muscle at his jaw tighten, like he’s clenching his teeth.

  There’s definitely no pendulum swinging inside of him. He’s not wavering, not contemplative. He’s just pissed.

  I know that it’s directed at me. Even after I sent the messenger hawk, his anger wasn’t like this. I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me for choosing Midas, even though I warned him time and time again that I would.

  Osrik must feel the animosity too, because he keeps glancing over, as if he expects Rip to snap.

  A sadness settles over me, like the soft silt of sand. It covers my skin, so many tiny particles that I know will continue to cling to me for a long time.

  I hate how we’re leaving things. Even though it’s only been a short time since I’ve been with him, and even though I was technically his prisoner, I never once felt that desolate, empty discontent here that I felt back in Highbell. I wish I could tell him that.

  But Midas... They don’t get it. I can’t stay. Midas won’t let me go, not ever.

  I don’t care how fierce Rip is, or how powerful King Rot is. Midas will stop at nothing to get me back, and I can’t let anyone try to step between that. It wouldn’t be fair—not to Rip, not to Midas.

  I couldn’t do that to Midas, either. He and I are connected. Not just through gold, but through time. Through love. I can’t abandon that, can’t abandon him. Not after everything we’ve been through together.

  I open my mouth to try and explain, to try and say something, anything, to make Rip hate me less, but then we’re suddenly there, stopping in front of the envoy, and I’ve lost my chance.

  My ticking pendulum ran out of time.

  “Your king’s gold-touched saddle, as requested,” Rip says, his voice hard as steel, his expression even harder.

  The men in the envoy approach on their shaggy white horses, and I have to try not to frown at their golden armor. I never realized before just how garish it looks.

  I once thought of it as elegant, but next to Osrik and Rip, it just seems silly. Unlike Fourth’s, whose armor bears the marks of battle, their gold gleams without a single imperfection, like it’s all just for show.

  “Lady Auren.” A man with white-blond hair jumps down from his horse and steps forward, the rest of the envoy stopping in a line behind him. “We are here to deliver you to King Midas.” He looks up at me expectantly, though not daring to come any closer.

  “Aren’t you going to help her down?” Rip asks, and the tone of his voice could only be explained as a growl. It makes the man’s face go pale, the others shifting on their feet.

  The golden soldier clears his throat. “No one is allowed to touch the king’s favored.”

  Rip’s head turns slowly toward me. I can feel the judgment in it, and my cheeks burn beneath the cover of my hood. I don’t have it in me to look at him.

  “Of course. How could I forget the rules of your golden king?” Rip replies with open disparagement.

  Feeling increasingly uncomfortable, I remove my right foot from the stirrup, preparing to jump off my horse. But just as I swing my leg over, Rip is there, hands gripping my waist.

  A surprised gasp slips through my lips, and my gaze snaps to his face. He’s so stern, so intense. His black eyes carry a thousand words, but without any light for me to read them.

  There’s a sound of hissed shock that comes from Midas’s soldiers, but I don’t look away. I’m too busy letting my eyes run over Rip’s face, like I’m trying to memorize him.

  “Commander, I must insist that you don’t touch King Midas’s favored.”

  “I must insist that you shut the fuck up,” Osrik drawls.

  Rip doesn’t look away from me, doesn’t pay them any attention at all. He simply lifts me off the horse as if I weigh nothing and helps me down.

  Awareness surges through my body with every dragged inch as he slowly lowers me to the ground in front of him. My heart is pounding so hard that I know he can hear it. I can feel the firmness of his grasp and the heat of his palms. Even through the layers of his gloves and my clothes, it makes me warm all over.

  But when he brings me down far enough that our faces only have an inch of separation, I lean away from him on instinct.

  The instant I do that, Rip’s expression snaps.

  Face hard again, the intensity in his eyes goes shuttered. A shadow falls over his features like a fast approaching dusk, darkening the scales of his cheeks until he regards me with nothing more than cold apathy.

  The second my feet hit the ground, he releases his hold on me like I’ve burned him. All the warmth I’d felt from his touch is gone, leaving me bereft. He turns without a word, already walking away, while guilt freezes in my gut.

  I watch him go, one foot poised to walk after him, the other foot firmly on the ground. My mouth is dry, but my eyes are wet. I want to say everything, yet I say nothing.

  And so, the pendulum swings again, ticking with my choices. Somehow, it sounds like the hooves of Rip’s horse as he rides away from me.

  Chapter 35

  QUEEN MALINA

  I’ve never liked taking the ride down the mountain.

  It’s winding and steep, dangerous even on clear days, the road always icy and littered with slick divots and rock. But when there’s a winter storm—and there usually is—the road becomes even more treacherous.

  I keep the curtain drawn tightly closed against the window, my teeth clenching every time the carriage jolts.

  I suppose I’m lucky that it’s only slightly windy and snowy right now. I refuse to return to the castle tonight if there’s a storm, so all I can do is hope that the weather holds.

  Jeo reaches forward,
squeezing my thigh. “It’s alright, my queen. Nearly there.”

  I give a terse nod, saying nothing, a hand pressed to my miserable stomach.

  “Why take this trip into the city when you’re so frightened of the carriage ride?” Jeo asks.

  My eyes slice over to him where he sits beside me. “I’m not frightened. The route is frightening,” I argue sharply. “There’s a difference.”

  Jeo flashes a stunning smile. “Of course.”

  I narrow my gaze on him, unamused, but he just smiles wider. He’s as relaxed as can be in my golden carriage, legs spread out as much as the space allows, head resting against the wall, a quiet whistle on his lips.

  The fact that he’s so unworried, worries me.

  It seems like a weakness, if I’m honest. The intelligent are always considering the what-ifs, the could-happens. Our minds a constant spin of possibilities and outcomes.

  If you don’t worry, you’re either a fool or you’ve been fooled.

  I watch him from my peripheral. At least he’s a pretty fool who knows how to use his cock.

  Letting out a breath, I reach up and smooth back his blood-red hair. “I need to make an appearance. Under the right patronage, peasants can be a powerful group to utilize. I intend to use them to my advantage. There’s dissent among the impoverished, and I want to ensure that dissent is pointed at Tyndall, not me.”

  Jeo winces a bit. “Word of advice? Perhaps don’t call them peasants. Or talk about using them.”

  I wave him off, my fingers gripping the edge of the velvet seat when we hit another bump.

  Jeo pinches the corner of the gold curtain at the window on his side and peers out. “We’ve made it all the way down,” he tells me reassuringly. “We’ll be on the bridge soon.”

  I’m finally able to sit back in my seat and let out a tight breath. Shoving my curtain aside, I watch as we roll along the ground, blessedly off the narrow road of the mountain.

  Soon, the carriage wheels are clacking over cobblestones, the sound of a bustling Highbell making its way to my ears. When I normally visit the city, I only go to the affluent part to dine or to shop.

  Today, I’ll be going right into the middle of its haggard heart.

  My guards ride in formation around us, horse hooves clopping. When the carriage stops and my footman opens the door to let me out, I already have the queenly mask covering my expression, posture perfect, my white gown pristine.

  As I step into the market square, my opal crown diffracts the brittle daylight, the bottom of my dress sweeping the snow-littered ground, polishing it clear.

  The guards have blocked off a part of the square, a long table set up ahead of time. A crowd has gathered already, since news seems to travel faster than royal carriages.

  Behind the curious spectators, the square teems with vendors, shoppers, and beggars. In the distance, the Pitching Pines loom over the city, the enormous trees casting shadows across the city’s roofs.

  As I walk forward, the crowd’s surprised murmurs begin to ripple out at my presence. All three of my advisors—Wilcox, Barthal, and Uwen—are here already, waiting for me by the table. They’re wearing matching white overcoats to set them apart as mine—not Midas’s—just as my guards also wear new steel armor.

  No gold anywhere. Exactly as I want it.

  For the next hour, I sit at the middle of the long table, Jeo and my advisors on either side of me, as we pass out coin, food, bolts of fabric, even small handmade dolls to give to the peasant children.

  One by one, I win their favor.

  They call me their cold queen. They curtsy and cry and thank me. Chapped faces, work-worn backs, tattered clothing, heads covered with sprinkling snow, faces strained with the weight of their poverty. They may not look like much, but these are the ones Tyndall ignored—they’re the ones who hate him most.

  So I intend to stir that hate, to let it simmer, to make it into something I can use. All while I separate myself—make them love me with equal ferocity that they loathe him.

  The crowd doubles, triples, quadruples as word spreads that I’m giving away gifts, and my guards work hard to keep everyone in line.

  Soon, we’re nearly out of things to give out, and I’m relieved, because I don’t want to sit here for much longer getting snowed on. Despite my furs, I’m cold, and want to be back in my castle next to a roaring fire before nightfall.

  Another woman is led up, and I wear a serene smile on my face. She’s huddled in a coat with patches at its elbows, and I’m not sure she’s got anything to wear underneath. Her eyes are gaunt, her teeth rotted, and she has a babe on her hip and another one clinging to her leg.

  I can’t help the twinge of jealousy that surges through me at the sight. I should have born a strong son. A dutiful daughter. My castle should be full of my heirs, but instead, it’s an empty gold tomb.

  The woman approaches with jerky, stumbled movements, and I can tell that the guards picked her out of the crowd simply because she looks so bedraggled.

  “Come forward,” I call.

  As she walks up, her eyes skitter over the table laden with diminishing piles of gifts.

  “Coin and fabric for the woman, toys for her babes,” I say, my voice clear enough to carry.

  My advisors grab her offerings and pass them off to a guard, who approaches her with the pile. She looks at the armful, to the guard, and back to me, but she doesn’t take them.

  I tilt my head. Perhaps she’s daft.

  “Your queen has bestowed great gifts on you, miss,” Barthal says, his dark brows drawing together in impatience. “Thank Her Majesty and take her offerings.”

  A slow-simmered flame seems to catch in her gaze as she looks back at me. “What does this do?” she demands, voice hoarse.

  My white brows draw together. “Pardon me?”

  The babe on her hip fusses, rooting around at her shoulder, its gummy mouth sucking a wet spot on her dirty coat.

  “All of this,” she says as she gestures to the table. “What does this do?”

  “It’s my gift to the people. To help ease any suffering,” I answer.

  The woman laughs. An ugly, crass sound, as if she spends her days steeped in smoke, or maybe the cold has frozen the chords of her voice.

  “You think giving away a few coins and dolls is goin’ to ease us? Our great Colier Queen blessin’ us with a single coin. How grand. Must be such a sacrifice, when you’re up there livin’ in your gold palace.”

  “Shut your mouth, woman,” the guard snaps, taking a threatening step forward.

  I hold up a hand to stop him. My eyes dart around at the crowd, finding people watching her with interest, some of them nodding their heads.

  I grind my teeth in frustration.

  This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. I want them kneeling gratefully at my feet. The plan was for the people to see that I’m the one taking care of them, while Midas continues to ignore them.

  This stupid woman is ruining everything.

  “Where you been, year after year, while the shanties get ignored?” she asks.

  I need to take back control of this situation, need to turn it back in my favor. “King Midas ignored you, but I—”

  “You ignored us too,” she says, making my advisors gasp that she dared to cut me off. The crowd seems to take a step forward, the energy in the air spiking with something ugly.

  “While you’re warm in your palace, do you know how we live? How we die from cold and hunger?” she demands. “No, you’re just a snow bitch pretendin’ to care. I don’t want your flashy tricks. We want real help!” she cries.

  She ends her rant by spitting on the ground, and even though it doesn’t land anywhere near me, I feel as if she spat in my face.

  My guards surround her in an instant and begin dragging her away, but she just gets louder, more belligerent, her children adding to her shouts with their own wails and screeches.

  “Don’t touc
h me!” she hollers before she turns her vehemence to the crowd. “Don’t take the bribes of the Cold Queen so she can feel better when she sleeps in her gilded bed!”

  Whatever else she says is drowned out by the crowd as she’s yanked from the square.

  Beneath the table, my fingers have curled into fists. I slice my gaze over to my advisors, feeling my anger simmer. “Bring the next person forward. I want to get this over with,” I order.

  Wilcox shoots me a look of concern, though I’m not sure if it’s for me or the shifting crowd. Some of them are laughing and cursing at the woman as she’s dragged away, but most are watching, thinking about what she said, flinging dubious expressions at me like spoiled fruit.

  They’re considering whose side to be on.

  “Next!” a guard barks.

  But no one steps forward.

  The gatherers have gone guarded, angry. Watching me not with reverence or awe, but with hostility. Not one of the threadbare people comes up to take my offerings.

  My mouth tightens.

  “Time to leave, Your Majesty,” Uwen murmurs beside me.

  “I refuse to let this mob dictate what I do,” I snap.

  Jeo comes around to whisper in my ear. “Look at them, my queen. You’ve lost the crowd. They’re looking at you like they want to rip you to shreds. We need to go.”

  My eyes dart around, and I realize the truth of his statement when I see the people moving in closer, ignoring the guards’ shouts to back away. The energy has changed in the blink of an eye, as if they were just waiting for a reason. The air is brewing with threat, dirty hands fisting, cold cracked lips pulling into sneers.

  “Fine,” I bite out, conceding to retreat, though it irks me.

  Foolish, ungrateful lot. How dare they snub their true queen!

  I rise from my chair, refusing to look flustered. With Jeo at my side, I start to walk back to the carriage, but as soon as I do, the crowd begins to shout, heckle, hiss. As if my retreat broke the tentative speculation.

  Eight guards surround Jeo and me as we walk to the carriage, and my saddle grips my arm, urging me to walk faster. My heartbeat races when people begin to hurl things at my guards, my own gifts being thrown back at us, items clanging against my soldiers’ new armor.