All eyes, save for his.
He stared openly at the porcelain statue perched three chairs down from him, her godparents seated between them. The statue with that iridescent usuru draped around her slender throat. The statue determinedly ignoring the weight of his one-eyed gaze, just as she had been ignoring him all morning, making him wonderwhy he and Calix had been summoned to this blasted meeting in the first place.
His kirei. Seraphina.
Beautiful, stubborn,irritatingSeraphina.
Her features were drawn. Dark circles marred the pale flesh beneath her eyes. Even her chestnut hair seemed dull, as if it were losing its shine. With a frown, he let his attention wander toward her mouth; her bottom lip was chewed to bits.
She looked dreadful—a wraith in blue silk.
Aldric absentmindedly drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair. What was wrong with her? Was she ill? Had she not been sleeping?
Was she wasting away at the thought of marrying…him?
What does it matter?he snarled to himself in the next moment, forcing his own thoughts away from the impending wedding. Seraphina de la Croix might be his fiancée, his ally, his futurewife, but that didn’t mean he had to like her.
Nor that he had to worry about her well-being.
His left thigh ached, still healing from where she hadstabbedhim. The rest of him smarted as well, still strangely raw after the Truth-Reading she had subjected him to.
She had tortured him. Humiliated him before all his men.
She absolutely deserved whatever discomfort she, too, was currently experiencing.
Aldric’s left eye twitched when the double doors abruptly exploded inward, revealing a dozen Queensguard led by SirArkwright. In their midst stood a pox-scarred lad in irons. A lad who stank of urine and fear.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Seraphina blanch further.
“This is the one, Your Majesty,” Arkwright announced over the clatter of the lad’s chains and the stamp of booted feet as the knights herded their prisoner into the room. “William Hasty. One of the upstairs servants.” The doors slammed shut behind them, making the boy flinch and the queen’s usuru, Alyx, hiss.
Aldric shot another look that way, tracking the way his kirei swallowed hard. The way she tucked her hands into her lap to hide their visible tremble.
“Surely, we are mistaken,” she called out, sparing a glance for the rest of the room. But again, her storm-gray eyes skimmed right past him, as if she couldn’t even bring herself to acknowledge his existence. “This is a boy, not a criminal.”
From his place seated at the other end of the table, the Duke of Coreto dryly observed, “Even boys are perfectly capable of committing treason, Your Majesty.”
His kirei’s godfather, Lord Chancellor Percival Umberly, ceased stroking the head of the great white beast that was supposed to be a dog lurking beneath the table. Reluctantly, he confirmed, “Unfortunately, thisisthe culprit, Your Majesty. We have his confession.”
Sir Easome, the Lord Constable, grunted his agreement. The Count of Wellane—the Lord Exchequer—stared blankly ahead, as if lost in his own thoughts. Spymaster Olivia, Seraphina’s attack weasel, pulled a flask from somewhere and took a swig.
But when his kirei entered into a quiet conference with her holy advisor, Father Perero, and her godfather rather than immediately sentencing the prisoner to a summary execution, Aldric huffed out a sigh through his nose.
He had a feeling this meeting was about to drag on for far longer than necessary. The lad had committed treason. He had confessed. The boy’s age was unfortunate, but what was there to discuss?
Unfortunately, Coreto seemed to agree. “You can’t possibly be considering pardoning this young man, Your Majesty.” For some reason, the duke’s icy stare slid towardhimwhen the older man softly added, “Had your impressive luck not held that night, you would be dead. All thanks to this William Hasty ensuring your balcony doors were not properly secured.”
The details of what exactly happened that night were supposed to be a secret known only to the queen’s inner circle. And him. And his Twelve Sons.
Aside from one crucial detail, the truth of which only he carried—thatheand not the assassin had brought the witchblade into her bedchamber that night; thathehad been intending to use it against her on his brother’s orders.
An action worthy of execution.
And shewouldkill him if she knew.
Yet for all of that, Coreto looked at him as if he knew good and well that luck had nothing to do with the queen’s survival the night of the assassination attempt. As if he knew Seraphina de la Croix had only made it through that night alive becausehehad already been in her room. Trying to convince himself he needed to kill her first.
Before he changed his mind and risked his life to save hers—for some stupid, still-unknown reason that irked him every time he thought about it.
