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
Ruenen
He’d spent his whole life running from this throne, but the moment he saw it, Ruenen’s emotions swelled. Twenty-two years and so many deaths to make it there. He thought of Amsco and Nori, and Master Chongan. His caregivers. His saviors.
I hope they’re watching.
The exquisite throne itself was made of glossy wood, bone, and pure gold with a plush green cushion and upholstered armrests and chair backing. Empty. Waiting for him. And there he finally stood, transfixed. The throne beckoned to Ruenen like a siren’s song.
The room was not a hall, as Ruenen expected. It was a more intimate space, made from the same white marble and granite as the rest of the castle. Twenty steps, and Ruenen could reach the dais, where the throne was perched. An emerald green rug ran the length of the room from door to dais. Behind the throne stood a wall of floor to ceiling windows. Green and gold drapes and banners hung from the ceiling and columns.
Paintings of past kings and queens paneled the walls. Ruenen’s eyes rested on young King Vanguarden and Queen Larissa’s portrait nearest the throne. They’d made an attractive couple. Vanguarden and Larissa both had the Middle Kingdoms’ dark hair and eyes, sun-kissed skin, but Ruenen only saw himself in Larissa. Vanguarden’s face was longer, with softer features than Ruenen’s.
A long, polished table sat to the right side of the throne, surrounded by twelve chairs. Three of those seats were taken by men in formal black robes. The man at the far head of the table had a white and green collar over his robe, and a Nevandian broach pinned near his heart. His shoulders slumped forward slightly, lines etched his face, gray hair receding. His mouth sagged, as if the man lived life in a constant frown. Ruenen guessed he was the Steward.
As one, the three men stood when Ruenen entered, several guards still at his sides.
Commander Avilyard bowed to the Witenagemot, the formal title for the Nevandian royal council. “I present Master Ruenen and his personal guard.” Avilyard stepped back, but didn’t go far. He and his men retreated to the corners of the room, spreading out, watching with hawkish eyes.
Ruenen and Marai bowed to the Witan, who stared, faces impassive. Sweat dripped down the back of Ruenen’s neck.
“You’ve come with quite the declaration, young master,” said the Steward, his voice taut as a bow string. He was taller than Ruenen, and thin as a reed. His fingers trailed across an ornate wooden chest, decorated with carvings of the Nevandian sunburst, on the table in front of him. “Forgive us if we find this rather hard to believe. We take these matters seriously, for if there is actually a ‘lost prince,’ his arrival will affect the entire fate of our country. And we’re not deaf to the rumors of what happened recently in Dul Tanen.”
“I understand, my Lord Steward,” Ruenen said with another slow incline of his head, “and I respect your caution. A wise Steward of the Throne wouldn’t trust a stranger so readily. I do not come here with the intention of leading you astray. I’m not a liar. I do not seek fortune or glory. I’m here out of duty to my land and people. To my blood. I promise you, my Lords, that I am the real heir of His Grace King Vanguarden Avsharian.”
“Why come forward now?” asked the bald, heavy-set councilman on the right. His round face was all hard lines and judgment. “It’s been nine years since King Vanguarden died. If you were truly the heir, why not return at the news of his passing?”
“If I’m being honest, my Lords, I didn’t want to become king,” Ruenen said, heat creeping up his throat at such a shameful admission. “I admit that it was a cowardly, selfish thing to stay away for so long. Up until quite recently, I didn’t believe myself capable of running a country, especially one in a grueling war.”
“You believe yourself ready now?” continued the councilman, narrowing his eyes further. “Seems rather opportune.”
“Regardless, we are willing to hear your story,” said the Steward, giving the man on his right a subtle look. “I’m Lord Steward Koven Holfast.” He gestured to the wiry man on his left with long, dark hair pulled back in a plait. “This is Lord Councilman Fenir,” then the bald man on his right, “and Lord Councilman Vorae. Please, have a seat.”
Ruenen let the Witan members sit first, then he took a hesitant seat in the closest open chair at the table; Marai lingered behind him. Councilman Vorae examined Marai with brown, suspicious eyes.
“You may go, girl,” he said with a dismissive gesture.
“She stays,” Ruenen said, causing all three men to blink in surprise, then Vorae sneered.
“Very well. Do you not want to sit, then?” he asked, taking in Marai’s black cloak, crossed arms, and steely expression.
