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  “I’m sure he’ll regret it tomorrow, along with the massive hangover he’ll have to endure,” Ghyslain responds, grinning.

  “Uh-uh. I have a surefire hangover cure. It works every time.” Her brother props himself up on his elbow and gestures for Pierce to hand him the whiskey. Pierce obliges, and Drake smiles at the new king before pulling the crystal stopper off the decanter with his teeth, then spitting it onto the ground. He makes a grand show of taking a long swig. “The key,” he announces when he finishes, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “is to drink more.”

  Thirty minutes and several glasses of whiskey later, Elisora opens the door an inch and peers into the hallway. The party is still raging in the great hall, a few lingering notes of whatever song the band is finishing hanging in the air over the voices, and Ghyslain is certain it’s a miracle that his mother hasn’t found him yet.

  When the band starts a new song—a slow, sweet melody—Elisora bounces on her toes and claps excitedly. She whirls around, her eyes wide and excited, and holds out a hand to Ghyslain. “Oh, I love this song. My mother used to hum it when I was a child and couldn’t fall asleep. Dance with me, won’t you?”

  “Of course, my dear.” He takes her hand and leads her to the center of the room. With Pierce and Oliver’s help, the four of them push the furniture out of the way, including shifting the couch on which Drake is snoozing to the far wall. Drake merely grunts, shoots them a drowsy glare, and reaches again for the now-empty whiskey decanter, tucking it into his side as if he were a child with a teddy bear.

  “You useless oaf,” Elisora mutters, frowning down at her brother. “How he convinced a gem such as Eydis to marry him will forever be a mystery to me.”

  “How he plans to teach his son to become an upstanding, hardworking citizen is the real question.”

  “Let’s hope the kid takes after his mother.”

  “I’m drunk, I’m not deaf,” Drake murmurs, throwing an arm over his eyes. “You two are terrible.”

  “Says the man who couldn’t walk a straight line if he tried,” Pierce shoots back, nudging Drake with an elbow.

  “If I desired to do such a thing, I would be magnificent at it—as I am at everything.”

  Pierce rolls his eyes at Oliver, who still stands stoically in the corner. Despite claiming to stay to watch over them, he doesn’t look the slightest bit concerned about Drake’s condition.

  “Oh, whatever,” Elisora says, tugging on Ghyslain’s sleeve. “Dance with me—we’re going to miss the song.”

  “It would be my honor, my lady.” Ghyslain bows, then slips his arms around her waist and tugs her so close they’re standing flush against each other—closer than they’d ever dared stand before. His breath catches when Elisora leans her head on his chest and begins to sway to the music. He can feel his heartbeat racing, his palms sweating, his intoxicated mind fixating on every tiny detail of their dance—the way her hair tickles his cheek, the sweet yet smoky scent of her breath, the way her soft body feels pressed against his.

  By the Creator, this woman will be the death of me.

  Elisora looks up at him. “What are you thinking right now?”

  “Nothing,” he responds too quickly.

  “Your hands are shaking.”

  “No, I— It’s just that—" He pauses, uncertain whether to continue. How can he possibly begin to tell her how crazy she makes him? How he holds his breath every time she looks at him, waiting to see that special, intimate, indescribable thing he had seen pass between his parents in her eyes; how he waits to see her smile shift ever so slightly when she grins at him, like they’re a part of some inside joke no one else knows; how he wonders when, after all their years of friendship, she had finally seen him—really, truly seen him—as more than an acquaintance. How can he tell her that he isn’t sure any of that has ever happened, that he’s still waiting for that invisible bond to tighten between them? How sometimes, when she tilts her head and watches him with that slight smirk on her full lips, her eyes glittering with mirth, he feels like they’re the only two people in the world, and how other times, like earlier that day, when she had said a simple ‘thank you’ to his declaration of love—she’s never actually said it back, a doubting voice in his head whispers—makes him feel like he had just plunged headfirst into ice-cold water. How can he possibly voice his fear that she had only said yes to his proposal because, after so many years of being inseparable best friends, it had felt like the next logical step in their relationship?

  I can’t, he realizes. I can’t say any of that. Not to her, not to anyone. Ever.

  “Ghyslain?” she whispers, searching his face for an answer.

  He shakes his head and forces his lips into a smile—which he’s certain misses the mark completely. “It’s nothing.”

  “You shouldn’t lie to your future wife.”

  “I didn’t.”

  She buries her face in the hollow of his neck and sways with him to the faint strains of music which slip through the crack of the open doorway. When the song ends, Ghyslain drops his arms to his sides and steps away from her so suddenly she stumbles. Confusion flickers across her face, but her attention is—thankfully—diverted when Pierce stands up and asks her for the next dance. Ghyslain takes his place sitting on the floor, his back against the front of the couch upon which Drake lies, and watches as Elisora and Pierce spin and laugh along with the fast, jaunty song the band plays.

  “Something on your mind?” Drake mumbles. Ghyslain glances over his shoulder to see Drake peering at him from under the arm he had slung over his eyes. “I thought you said it’s a day to celebrate.”

  “I’m trying.”

  He scoffs. “You Myrellises are so serious. Liven up a little, okay? Have another drink.” He hands Ghyslain the crystal decanter of whiskey, inside of which only a few drops of the amber liquid pool at the bottom.

  “I would, if someone hadn’t drunk it all already.”

  Drake lifts his head, frowns at the empty decanter, then swears under his breath. “That wasn’t me.”

  “Sure, it wasn’t.”

  “Well,” he says, “I guess I’ll just have to go find more, won’t I?” He pushes to his feet and sways, dangerously close to crashing back down onto the couch—or Ghyslain—before straightening. He waves away Ghyslain’s steadying hand. “I’m good, I’m good.” He strides right through Elisora and Pierce’s dance on his way to the door. He waves away his sister’s objections and steps into the hall, swinging the crystal decanter as he whistles in time with the band’s song.

  Ghyslain turns to Oliver. “Go with him, won’t you? Make sure he doesn’t break his neck on the way to the kitchen.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Oliver nods and starts after Drake, the metal of his light armor clanking with each step.

  Ghyslain sighs and stands. He crosses the room and picks up his ridiculously heavy crown, tucking it under one arm as he smooths the wrinkles in his tunic and straightens his gold cloak. “I’d better head back to the celebration.”

  Pierce pauses in the middle of spinning Elisora. “Now? Stay a little longer, won’t you?”

  “I can’t.” He places the crown atop his head, cringing when his neck immediately begins to ache. Slipping away with Pierce and the others had been a short—but welcome—reprieve from his duties, but he’s king now. He had better start acting like it.

  He hopes no one smells the whiskey on his breath.

  Pierce straightens the crown and gives him a once-over. “You look good. Regal, if a little disheveled.”

  “I think you look marvelous,” Elisora announces. “Very dashing.”

  He searches her face for . . . something—something different from the way she looks at Pierce and the others. He isn’t sure if it’s love—that seems like much too small a word to describe the way his father used to look at his mother—but he’ll know it when he sees it, or so he hopes. They’ve known each other for thirteen years. He should be able to read her like a boo
k. Yet when she marches over to him and kisses his cheek, he can’t detect the slightest change in her expression.

  “Thank you,” he chokes out, an invisible vise tightening inside his chest. He turns and bolts before she has a chance to question his reaction.

  Nice job, idiot, he curses himself as he closes the door behind him and strides toward the great hall. He feels his ears grow hot, flushing with embarrassment. She’s only your best friend in the whole world and your future wife. She certainly won’t suspect anything is amiss.

  But if she can’t tell how infuriatingly in love with her I am, how well can she truly know me? he retorts. Then he groans and stops in the middle of the hallway. “She’s got me talking to myself in the middle of an empty hallway,” he mutters. “Great. Just great.” He stares at the ceiling imploringly—at the Creator, at his father, at whoever is looking down at him from the heavens—and says, “How do you expect me to run a damn kingdom if I can’t keep my head around one measly girl?”

  6

  “You were late to the coronation.”

  Guinevere’s voice is low enough that only Ghyslain can hear, but it carries an undercurrent of power nonetheless. She accepts the bows from the councilmembers to whom Ghyslain had been speaking with a graceful tilt of her head, her jeweled tiara glittering under the light of the great hall’s chandeliers, then swings her gaze around to meet her son’s. It is evident in the tight line of her lips and the slight narrowing of her eyes that she can hold in her reprimands no longer. If he were foolish enough to play the spoiled child, he would point out that he is now the king—and thus above any motherly scolding—but he suspects it would only place him farther from her good graces. Instead, he excuses himself from the councilmembers and waits until they join the few groups of revelers who remain—(the band had stopped playing an hour ago and the sun is beginning to rise in the east, but, apparently, those hints are too subtle for some members of the nobility to realize that it might be a good time to go home)—before he responds, “I did not intend to be late. I’m sorry.”

  “You dismissed your attendants again, didn’t you?”

  Ghyslain opens his mouth, closes it, then changes his mind and objects, “They were giving me those looks again. I don’t want their pity.”

  “If you don’t want them poisoning your breakfast later, I’d suggest treating them with a little more kindness. Elven or not, they’re still your subjects.”

  “Not according to the laws. If I uphold the laws as they’re written today—like I swore to do at my coronation, if you recall—they’re property. Nothing more. Don’t you think that’s a bit archaic? I know the Cirisian elves are our enemies, but most of the slaves in this country were born right here, in Beltharos.” When his mother scowls at him, he lowers his voice a notch. “Most of the slaves we have here in the castle have never even left Sandori. They do so much work for us, and they don’t even earn a wage. If they raise a hand against their owners, they lose that hand. Doesn’t that strike you as barbaric?”

  Her face pinches as if she had bitten into a lemon. “Ghyslain, we’ve discussed this before. At length. Maybe after you’ve spent a few years on the throne, won the nobles’ loyalty as well as their affection, you’ll be able to change the laws regarding elven rights. But right now, with everything in such a precarious position after your father’s death, it wouldn’t be wise to make any major shifts just yet. You may be king, but you still need the support and approval of your subjects.”

  “‘I will to my power ensure justice and mercy be executed in all my judgments,’” Ghyslain intones, echoing the oath he had sworn to keep not twelve hours earlier. “Is it justice to allow one man to own another, Mother? Is it merciful to stand idly by while that slave is worked to a premature death?”

  “The slaves of the nobility live in better conditions than the free men who live in Myrellis Plaza, Ghyslain. If they didn’t serve their masters, they’d be stuck in Beggars’ End with the rest of the unemployed and the degenerates.” At Ghyslain’s wounded expression, her tone softens. “I love that you care for every person in your kingdom, Ghyslain. It’s a sign that you’re going to be a wonderful ruler. But now is neither the time nor the place to be having this debate.” She kisses his temple, then scrunches her nose. “You and your friends were drinking quite heavily, weren’t you?”

  He looks away. “No.”

  “Don’t even try to lie to me. I can smell it on you.” She sighs. “I’m glad you didn’t make a fool of yourself in front of the guests.”

  “Did it really seem that likely?” Ghyslain asks, suddenly stricken with fear. If his mother had seen through his false confidence, how many of the nobles had seen through it, as well? How can he ever hope to win their respect as their king if his nerves are so transparent?

  “Not to most, but I’m your mother—I know you like no other.” When his expression doesn’t change, she runs her hands up and down his arms as if warming him. She smiles, crinkling the corners of her eyes. “Oh, stop worrying so much. It’s good that you were able to relax with Pierce and the others. After the chaos of the past few days, you deserve some time away from the demands of being royalty. Now that you’re king, it’s only going to get worse.”

  “Hm. I don’t like the sound of that. I don’t suppose this coronation thing is reversible?”

  “Ha, ha, very funny.” She lifts the crown from his head and instructs a passing slave to take it to the royal vault. Sweet, blessed relief, he thinks as he massages a kink in his neck. If he’s lucky, he’ll never have to wear that thing again in his life. Guinevere laughs. “Yes, I thought you’d like to finally take that off. Your father told me how much of a pain it is to wear.”

  “He thought so, too?”

  “I’m fairly certain every monarch since this crown was made has thought so. Go get some rest, Your Majesty. The guards and I will get rid of the rest of the guests.”

  “You’re sure?” he asks. After staying awake all night, the shadows under her eyes are even more pronounced than they had been the past few days. That, coupled with her sudden weight loss, worries him. “I think it would be best if you slept, Mother.”

  She shakes her head, then pushes a stray curl from Ghyslain’s forehead and tucks it behind one of his ears. “I know you’re the king now, but allow me to mother you for one more day, all right? It’s just . . . hard letting go of everything all at once. Your father’s gone, and soon you won’t need me at all. Give me one more day. Please.”

  Sensing the possibility of Guinevere suddenly bursting into tears, Ghyslain quickly nods. “Okay, all right, that’s fine. Thanks, Mother. But . . . promise me you’ll take a break as soon as the guests leave.”

  “I will, I promise.”

  “Good.” Ghyslain leaves her and the rest of the guests in the great hall and starts toward his room. His steps drag as he makes his way up the stairs, the energy and excitement of the celebration giving way to exhaustion. When he reaches the second-floor landing of the stairs, it suddenly strikes him that he hadn’t seen Elisora leave. It’s unlike her not to—at the very least—say goodbye. He freezes midstep. Had she been able to tell what he’d been thinking while they had danced? Could she sense his doubts?

  “No, I’m just paranoid,” he says to the empty hallway. “Annnnnnddddd . . . I’m talking to myself again.” He swears under his breath and shakes his head. I’m just tired. His eyes ache after being awake for so long; it feels as if the insides of his eyelids are coated with sand. Each time he blinks, it becomes harder to open them again.

  He’s only a few yards from his bedroom door when there’s a loud thump and a panicked shriek. Ghyslain jumps, his heartbeat stuttering. He glances down the hallway behind him—empty—and through the open doorway of the meeting room nearest him.

  Empty.

  It’s just a slave. Someone dropped something. That’s it.

  He reaches for the handle on his bedroom door and—

  “Stop! Let go of me—”

  Ther
e’s a soft scuffle, then a bang, and the sounds of several small things hitting the floor. Books—they’re in the library. Ghyslain sprints down the hall and shoves the massive door to the library open just as another shriek pierces the air. The door cracks against the wall. Someone gasps.

  “Who’s in here?” he demands. When no response comes, he stalks down the center aisle, peering down the shadowy rows of bookshelves with a scowl.

  Somewhere in the back of the library, someone whimpers. Another—a man—hisses, “Quiet!”

  “Show yourselves at once!” Ghyslain orders. He continues toward the back of the library, his footsteps silent on the ornate rug which runs the entire length of the center aisle. Every few yards, a settee and several small chairs are clustered around a coffee table piled with books. At the rear of the library is a massive fireplace, dark except for a few glowing embers. A lit lantern hangs from a hook on the end of every third bookshelf, and Ghyslain grabs one as he nears the area near where he had heard the people whispering. The light bobs as he rounds the last bookcase and sees—

  “Drake?”

  He’s standing with his back to Ghyslain, a skinny girl cornered between him and the wall of shelves. He shifts so his torso blocks Ghyslain’s view of her—hiding everything but a glimpse of her dark hair. Several books litter the floor at their feet, splayed open and spilling torn pages.

  Drake laughs and peers over his shoulder at Ghyslain. One of his hands is braced against the bookshelves beside the girl’s head. The other is lost under her skirts, which are hiked up around her hips. “Whoops. Guess you caught me. Say, you don’t think we can keep this between you and me? My sister doesn’t need to know, and my wife certainly doesn’t—”

  “I think it’s time you left.” Ghyslain grabs Drake’s shoulder and pulls him back, but Drake swats him away.