Ruenen’s gaze kept traveling upwards. His jaw dropped.

A large marble staircase twisted up to the second floor. The vast windows brought in streams of natural light, which made the gold paint in the tiles shimmer. Ornate lanterns and chandeliers lined the walls and ceilings. A large stained-glass circular window was the focal point in the entry hall. Its vivid colors created a design upon the walls when the sun shone through. Flying buttresses and beams crisscrossed above his head.

But despite its grandeur, the castle had a stifling atmosphere of emptiness. He saw no one other than guards.

“The throne room is through here, where the Lord Steward awaits you,” said Avilyard, indicating a set of large oak doors to his right. There was a matching pair of doors to his left.

Ruenen swallowed, heart pounding, as two guards opened the door and he saw his throne for the first time.

Chapter 10

Rayghast

“What is this?”

Rayghast slammed three coded messages down onto the long table. His council, commanders, and spies shifted guiltily in their seats, none of them meeting his black-eyed gaze.

“Why has no one cracked this code yet? Why am I still being brought these letters?” he asked with quiet fury.

“Dozens of these letters are going out each day, Your Grace. The same message, copied over and over again, but it changes daily. We try to intercept all of them, but they seem to be coming from every point in the city: the fortress, taverns, inns, markets, even the army barracks,” said Falien, one of Rayghast’s best decoders and spies.

“We’ve questioned the owners of these establishments, everyone within the vicinity, but most are completely oblivious,” Commander Shaff, Boone’s replacement, said in the council chamber. Shaff was a large man, tall and broad, dark and severe, but had none of Boone’s vigor. “We’ve found messages glued to the bottoms of goblets, in packages, bags of grain, beneath a horse’s saddle. It’s a whole network.”

“And the rumors are certainly not helping,” added another commander, new to the position.

“Rumors?” repeated Rayghast.

The young commander flinched. “Yes, Your Grace, rumors are circulating all over the city . . . about you . . .” He bowed his head as Rayghast stood from his throne.

“And what do these rumors say?”

Rayghast approached, and the man shrunk lower in his seat.

“That you are cursed, Your Grace. That you cannot have a child. That your wives are destined to die.”

Cronhold hacked out a cough. “That’s preposterous! Our King is virile and beloved by the gods!”

“Yes, of course, you are, Your Grace,” stammered the commander, receiving a scathing look from the council, “but the problem is that the people are beginning to believe it. They have doubts.”

Rayghast remembered the two servants whispering in the hallway the previous day. Since then, he’d certainly garnered more stares than usual, more nervous glances.

“Well, this seems easy enough to solve,” Wattling, who was built like a tree stump, said. “The queen must become with-child immediately. All those silly rumors will disappear once we have a healthy male heir.”

“The fault clearly lies with Queen Rhia,” Dobbs said, caterpillar-brows furrowing. “You’ve been married for eighteen months now. It’s taking far too long, and she has a duty to give you a son, Your Grace. That’s all she’s here to do. The queen must try harder.”

“It didn’t take this long with your previous wives. I suggest, Your Grace, that you, uh, visit her rooms tonight, and every night thereafter to ensure she gets, uh, with-child,” Cronhold said, receiving several agreeing murmurs from the table. “She must do everything in her power to produce an heir.”

“What good is taking over Nevandia if Your Grace cannot pass the territory down to your son? We are building an empire,” Wattling stated, giving Rayghast a simpering smile.

Rayghast turned to the young commander, who sheepishly met his gaze. “Is that the only rumor?”

The man hesitated, biting his lip. “Some people say that darkness, an eerie miasma, surrounds the fortress–”

“Yet again, the answer is simple: arrest those circulating the rumors and we’ll have them hanged,” Wattling said to Shaff and the other commanders at the table.

Shaff stood and bowed low to Rayghast. “Your Grace, I will hunt down all those who wish to stir up discord in our city.”

He pulled the young commander to his feet and dragged him from the hall. Rayghast knew the new commander would submit to punishment from Shaff and may even be stripped from his position for the words he spoke at the meeting. But he’d alerted Rayghast to a worsening problem in Dul Tanen. Was his control slipping?

Rayghast found himself outside Rhia’s door, listening to the commotion within. He’d decided to come early for their nightly appointment, as he intended to visit the dungeons again all evening.

“You look magnificent, Your Grace,” said one of her ladies, rather loudly.

“Aren’t you scared of those rumors? That you will also die in childbirth?” another girl asked. “What if he is indeed cursed?”

“Don’t you dare speak such treason about my husband,” snapped Rhia haughtily. “There’s no truth to those rumors. Lirr has blessed our lands. She favors our king.”

A loyal wife was hard to find. The rumors were spreading like a festering wound throughout the fortress and city, and Rayghast was surprised to hear her strong support, that she wasn’t taken in with the idea, too.

Rayghast slowly opened the door connecting their rooms. Unaware of his presence, Rhia studied herself in the mirror. Her ladies had dressed her in a gauzy robe, so pellucid that it left nothing to the imagination. Rhia’s long, straight hair was wet and draped across her shoulders. Rayghast could smell her fragrant bath soaps from the door.

A beautiful woman. A meaningless quality. But loyalty . . .

He stepped into the room. Rhia’s silent ladies fanned out behind her, darted curtsies, and hustled out past him.

“My King,” his wife said in a silky voice, lowering into a grand curtsey. “I wasn’t expecting you so early.”

She wasn’t repulsed by him, the way his other wives had been. They’d always screamed and struggled when he’d visited them. They’d avoided him in the halls, kept to their rooms or the gardens. Rhia, however, understood duty. She understood power. She never complained, never flinched. The magic prowling in his veins was bored by her.

If he ever felt affection, Rayghast might have some for her.

He stalked towards her, and undid the buttons of his trousers. Rayghast never removed his clothes. He wouldn’t become intimate with her.

His blackened hands touched her covered shoulders, shoved her backwards onto the bed, and lifted her nightgown.

It was brief. Perfunctory. He made no sound, showed no pleasure, and neither did she. Rhia sat up and adjusted her nightgown as Rayghast made for the door.

“I hope you find whoever has been spreading those horrible rumors,” Rhia said, halting his hand on the doorknob. “Any update from your decoders on those mysterious letters?”

“No.”

“How disappointing.” She curtsied low, eyes on the floor, then put her dainty hands to her womb. “I pray that today’s joining will finally produce results, Husband.”

“I won’t be at dinner.”

Rayghast left then, closing the door behind him, and listened to the faint sound of a drawer opening and closing within, and the soft, contented humming of his wife.

Chapter 11