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  Liselle studies him. The light from the fireplace highlights the smooth planes of her pretty face and makes her amber eyes glow. “Well, I hope you are telling the truth. It would be good to have a king who cares for all his subjects—not just the ones with rounded ears.”

  He nods. “I’ll do my best.”

  The corners of her lips twitch into a smile, but it slips away so quickly Ghyslain isn’t certain he didn’t imagine it. She stands and starts toward the broken bookshelf.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To clean up.”

  “Don’t be silly. You shouldn’t have to clean up after Drake’s mess. I’ll deal with it. Let’s find Elisora and get you home. Do you have any idea where your mistress is?”

  “I think she’s still with Pierce LeClair, Your Majesty. Last I saw, they were resting in that sitting room they dragged you to last night, sleeping off the whiskey. I can find them on my own.”

  “That’s not necessary—”

  “Please.” She stops in the middle of the library and turns to him. “I’d like a few minutes of privacy, to . . . think about what just happened. Don’t worry, Drake won’t be looking for me—he’ll need some time to get over his wounded pride. You’re clearly exhausted, and I can make my way through the castle easily enough on my own.” She opens her mouth to say more, bites her lip, then rises onto her toes and presses a whisper-soft kiss to Ghyslain’s cheek. Her brazenness stuns him so much that it hardly registers when she murmurs, “Happy coronation day, Your Majesty. I have a sneaking suspicion that you are going to be the best king we’ve had in generations.” She grins at him, then turns on her heel and strides away, her lavender skirt swishing around her legs as she walks.

  7

  After cleaning up the mess in the library, Ghyslain trudges to his bedroom and falls into bed with a groan. He unclasps his cloak and lets it fall into a pile on the floor. He doesn’t bother to change out of his thick doublet or take his hair out of its ponytail as he stretches out atop his silken sheets and falls asleep.

  A loud pounding on the door wakes him a few hours later. He rises and tugs self-consciously at the hem of his rumpled shirt, hoping whoever is outside doesn’t realize he’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Outside, the sun is high in the sky—it must be sometime around noon—and the rays streaming through the window illuminate the dust motes hanging in the air. Ghyslain runs a hand through his hair, which had fallen out of its neat ponytail while he had slept, and ties it back before opening the door.

  “Yes?”

  “Zendais is in the council chamber, Your Majesty.”

  He blinks at the guard, still groggy from his nap, and frowns. “Which one?”

  “Drake, Your Majesty.”

  “Oh. Oh, right, yes.” He vaguely remembers ordering one of the guards he had passed in the hall earlier that morning to find Drake. “Is he under guard?”

  “He is.”

  “Good. Keep him there and let him wait. Send for my servants, please.” When his stomach rumbles, he adds, “Have them bring lunch.”

  “We’re sorry for any offense we caused yesterday, Your Majesty,” Jett says as he scuttles into the bedchamber fifteen minutes later. He places the platter of food he carries on the vanity table and turns to Ghyslain. “It’s just . . . we’ve served your family for so long that preparing you for your coronation brought back lots of memories of your father’s coronation.”

  “All of us on the castle staff thought King Alaric was invincible,” Orson adds. “We expected him to be on the throne for years and years. We may be slaves, but we cared for him, and losing him so suddenly and so unexpectedly was . . . an adjustment, to say the least. I cannot imagine how you and your mother are taking it.”

  “We’re, um, managing.” Ghyslain makes a face. He turns to his wardrobe, where Jett is already shuffling through various drawers, then stops, remembering his conversation with Liselle and what his mother had said that morning about treating his servants more kindly. “I want you to know that I appreciate the work you do around here. I know you don’t exactly have a choice in the matter, but, uh, it hasn’t gone unnoticed.” In all the years Jett and Orson had attended him, they had never spoken outright about their enslavement. They seem content enough, but it had always grated on Ghyslain that they had no freedoms of their own.

  “It is our pleasure to serve, Your Majesty,” Orson quips.

  “What do you think about this one?” Jett holds up a simple, fitted emerald green tunic.

  “That’s fine,” Ghyslain says distractedly. He can’t get what Liselle had said that morning—about the way the nobles speak about and treat their elven slaves—out of his head. To them, people like me are no better than shit in the streets. “What would you do if you weren’t slaves? If you could do anything you wished?”

  “We’re very happy right here in the castle, sir.”

  “No, don’t tell me what you think I want to hear. I really want to know. If you could do anything, go anywhere, what would you do?”

  Jett pauses in the middle of searching the wardrobe and eyes Ghyslain uneasily, uncertain whether this line of questioning is a trick of some kind. “Well . . .” he says slowly, “I would quite like to travel to Rivosa, Your Majesty. Perhaps I’d take up tailoring, maybe open a shop of my own.”

  “My father used to do woodcarving,” Orson adds. “He traveled all over the countryside in merchant caravans while my mother took care of my siblings and me. He taught me some of his tricks. I’d like to do that, but I’m afraid even if it were possible, I wouldn’t be able to leave my family alone for such long periods of time. My daughter would miss me.”

  “You have a daughter?” Why didn’t I know this before? Why hadn’t I bothered to ask? For all of his grandstanding about fixing the wrongs done to elves, he hadn’t even bothered to speak to the people who had been serving him all his life.

  “Mm-hm. She’s three. She and her mother live in Beggars’ End. Celia, my wife, works in a general store in the Plaza and does laundry on the side.”

  “What’s your daughter’s name?”

  “Raven.”

  “Do you have children?” he asks Jett, who shakes his head.

  “Don’t have a wife, either. The castle staff is my family.”

  Ghyslain nods, and the slaves return to their work—Orson making the bed, Jett helping Ghyslain dress—in silence. When they finish, they bow and start to leave, but Ghyslain stops them before they reach the door.

  “Would you like to stay and dine with me?” he asks. He gestures to the platter Jett had brought, laden with more food than Ghyslain could ever hope to eat. “There’s plenty to share.”

  “It . . . would not be proper—” Jett begins, but Orson cuts him off with a sharp jab of his elbow to Jett’s ribs.

  “Yes, Your Majesty. It would be our honor.”

  They join him at the small dining table beside the window, and while they eat, Ghyslain peppers them with questions about their lives and their work in the castle. Jett remains quiet, his gaze fixed on the napkin in his lap. Orson is much less concerned about propriety; he chatters on and on about his daughter and his wife, about their meager home in Beggars’ End, about selling himself to the castle when he was only a few years older than Ghyslain is now. Realizing how little he had known about these men saddens Ghyslain. Every once in a while, his thoughts return to Liselle. She is from Beggars’ End, but had been raised to the honor of a rich woman’s handmaid. She sees both sides of the city: the lives of the richest and the poorest people. What would it be like, he wonders, to have someone like her on his council? How valuable would it be to have someone who isn’t afraid to speak her mind as his advisor? As much as he appreciates the work his father’s council has done, they have no idea what is happening inside Beggars’ End. They don’t know anything about the slaves who serve them. Elves make up over a third of the population in Sandori; can the nobility really afford to keep ignoring and enslaving them? Will there ever be a day when
Ghyslain can abolish the immoral act of slavery without fear of riots from the rest of the city?

  Don’t be ridiculous, he chides himself. You’ve been king not twenty-four hours, and you’re already trying to shift the very fabric of this country. Better watch your back, or the people will see your head on a spike, just like poor late King Silas.

  “Thank you for this, Your Majesty,” Jett says, startling Ghyslain from his thoughts.

  “For everything,” Orson agrees, nodding.

  “Oh. You’re welcome. Anytime. I enjoyed speaking with you.” He stands and helps Jett gather the dishes and stack them on the platter. The slaves thank him again and let themselves out of his room, with reminders of several meetings his mother had prepared for him later that afternoon. They close the door behind them when they go.

  Ghyslain groans. Now to deal with Drake.

  Drake is lounging in the head chair at the end of the long table in the council chamber, his arms crossed behind his head and his feet resting atop the table. His chair is balanced on its back two legs. “Your Majesty,” he says by way of a greeting when Ghyslain enters. The two guards who are standing watch over Drake frown at him when he does not rise and bow to the king, but Ghyslain ignores the slight.

  “Thank you for coming, Drake—”

  “Your guards barged into to my home and ordered me to come. I didn’t agree.” Drake drops his feet to the floor with a thud and leans forward. “I’ve been here sitting here for over an hour. What’s this about, Myrellis?”

  “Your Majesty,” one of the guards growls.

  “Your Majesty, right.” He flaps a hand dismissively. “So, Your Majesty”—he shoots a dirty look at the guard—“what must you tell me that cannot be said by a messenger?”

  Ghyslain narrows his eyes, rage at his flippant attitude and his actions that morning rising. “Guards, dismissed.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. We’ll wait outside.”

  Drake’s self-satisfied smirk slips a fraction as the guards file from the room and let the heavy redwood doors of the council chamber slam shut behind them. He studies Ghyslain, then he shakes his head, chuckling. “Don’t tell me this is about this morning—”

  “That’s exactly what this is about, Drake!” Ghyslain snaps, his temper flaring. “How could you do that to that girl? What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “She told you I forced myself on her, didn’t she? She was making eyes at me all evening, staring at me when she thought I wouldn’t notice. Well, she found me in the library earlier, we got to talking, and one thing led to another . . .” He spreads his hands in a What can you do? gesture. He leans forward and points at Ghyslain. “Bet she didn’t tell you she enjoyed it.”

  “I doubt she enjoyed being groped by her mistress’s brother.”

  “Uh-uh. I can tell when a girl fancies me, Myrellis.”

  “You slammed her into a bookcase.”

  He shrugs. “She likes it rough.”

  “You have a wife and a newborn son at home.”

  “And a couple elves on the side.” He nods as if this is common knowledge, as if everyone commits adultery with the people who work for them. “Eydis is usually too tired from dealing with the kid to be much fun in bed—she acts like it’s a chore—so I found a few girls who are better. It’s not a big deal, you know. Plenty of nobles have similar arrangements in their households.”

  “Is Eydis aware of this . . . arrangement?”

  “She doesn’t like it, but she knows.”

  “I’m not surprised that she doesn’t approve of you raping your slaves.”

  “Woah—I don’t rape.” Drake frowns. “I have some standards.”

  “Not that I’ve seen.”

  “I have standards when it suits me. I’m no rapist.”

  “That’s not what it looked like in the library. Stay away from Liselle, Drake. I’m serious. Stay away from all your slaves. You do know that rape is a crime, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do. And you don’t have to worry—I keep my hands off them unless they say otherwise.” His lips twitch into a smirk and he leans forward, like he’s letting Ghyslain in on a secret. “In fact, I’ve heard quite from a few reliable sources that that’s what they like best—my hands.”

  Ghyslain makes a disgusted noise and pushes his chair back. “I don’t need to hear your technique—”

  “Don’t you? Don’t you want to know what to do when you sleep with my sister for the first time? You wouldn’t want to disappoint her on your wedding night.”

  “Stop trying to change the subject.”

  “I’m sure the library has a few books on what to do. Better yet, find yourself an elf to bed. There’s no better way to improve than to practice.” The corners of his eyes crinkle when he suddenly smiles. “That Liselle is awfully pretty—curly hair, nice body, sweet smile. You’d never expect such beauty to come out of Beggars’ End. The Creator made a big mistake when he made her a knife-ear.”

  “Cut it out, Drake. This is about you and her, nothing else. I don’t want to hear anything more about you sleeping with your slaves, understood?”

  Drake’s grin grows, and Ghyslain immediately regrets his inability to hide his frustration. Drake leans back, holding his hands up in supplication. “Very well, my lord and liege. No more sleeping with slaves. May I go now?”

  “Well—” Ghyslain begins to say more, but . . . what can he do besides issue a warning? Drake hadn’t actually raped Liselle—although he doesn’t doubt that he would have had Ghyslain not interrupted—and he had promised Liselle not to let rumors of Drake’s behavior spread to the people. He doesn’t like it, but she had sworn him to secrecy to protect her parents. He will keep his word. “Yes, you may leave. I’m serious, Drake. Keep your hands off her.”

  “Got it. Message received the first two times.” He stands and starts toward the door. When he passes Ghyslain, he leans down and whispers, “But if you change your mind, I can get Liselle for you. I’m sure she’d be happy to help you prepare for your wedding night. And don’t worry—it would be on the down-low. Elisora would never find out.” He claps Ghyslain’s shoulder, then saunters out of the room.

  Son of a bitch, Ghyslain thinks the second the doors bang shut behind him. Snake. He waits a few moments, then rises and opens one of the doors. He peers down the hallway to make sure Drake is out of earshot, then hisses to one of the guards, “Samson, have a guard stationed outside his house from now on. I want someone to keep an eye on him and the slaves. If the guard hears anything out of the ordinary—anything suspicious—he has my permission to intervene.”

  8

  The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of meetings and reports and documents. By the end, Ghyslain wants nothing more than to crawl back into bed and finally get the full night’s sleep he had been craving since the day his father died. Right after he returns to his chambers and sends Jett and Orson for hot water to fill his bath, a knock comes at the door, too soon to be his servants returning from their task. He quickly finishes undressing and wraps a black silk robe around himself as he moves to the door, frowning. It’s much too early for his mother to send for him for the dinner she had arranged with his father’s—now his—councilmembers. He opens the door.

  “Oh, good. Ghyslain, Jett said you were still in here—” Elisora pauses as she takes in his appearance. Her face flushes slightly, causing his to do the same. She had seen him in less, of course—when they were children, they had often passed entire summer days swimming just off the shore of Lake Myrella behind the castle—but knowing that they are soon to be married (and having Drake’s disgusting comments about pleasing her on their wedding night still ringing in his ears) changes things. “I, um . . .”

  Ghyslain tugs at the belt of the robe self-consciously. “What is it, Elisora? What do you want?” He regrets his impatient tone the second he speaks, and tries again. “How do you feel after last night?”

  She offers him a small smile. “Not terrible. I saw Drake in the Plaza
earlier today, looking perfectly fine. How he drinks so much without any repercussions is beyond me.” She shakes her head. “Pierce is quite a bit worse for wear, though. I passed him in the hall on the way here. He looks like he’d keel over with the slightest breeze.”

  “I know. I sent him to the infirmary a few hours ago to ask Healer Alyss for something for his headache.”

  “Well, apparently it didn’t work.”

  “Oh, if you’d seen him earlier, you’d be saying otherwise. From your description, it sounds like he’s feeling better.”

  Elisora’s grin grows, some of the awkwardness between them disappearing. “May I come in?” When Ghyslain hesitates, she adds, “I’ll be brief, I promise.”

  “Um, sure. Come on in.”

  “Thank you.” She marches into his room, stops in the middle of the floor, and turns on him the second he closes the door. “What were you thinking about last night?”

  “This again? Elisora, I told you, nothing.”

  “Come on, I know you better than that.” She crosses her arms and frowns at him. “As you reminded me yesterday, I’ve known you since we were five years old. We’ve hardly spent more than a day apart since we met. Do you think you can fool me? Do you think I don’t know what goes on inside that head of yours?”

  “If you know so much about me, why don’t you tell me what I was thinking about last night, hm?”

  “I want to hear it from you.”

  “So you don’t know.”

  “I have my suspicions.”

  “There’s nothing to be suspicious about—”

  “Then there’s no reason not to tell me the truth!”

  “Fine!” Ghyslain throws his arms out to the side, exasperated. He’s aware of their voices rising—anyone passing in the hall can likely hear every word—but he doesn’t care. “You want to know what I was thinking?”