Alarik’s blood roared in his ears. His left eye twitched, but all his words – including his favourite litany of swears – left him.
Vine threw her head back, releasing a wheeze of laughter. ‘This is so much better than anything I imagined.’
Alarik shot her a withering look. He had never been so horrified in his life, and he had been to war. Several times.
The steward went on, babbling through the King’s thunderous silence. ‘It’s a fine selection, as you can see.’ He reached out to caress a violet frock coat before frowning at the missing gems along the collar. ‘But still very much in progress. Your mother designed these herself and personally oversaw their completion with the palace seamstresses. Of course she wouldn’t dream of choosing your ceremonial coat without your …’
He trailed off as Alarik raised his sword. Blood still singing, the king stepped towards the first suit of armour and with a swish of his blade, knocked the helmet from its body. With a second swish, he sent the rest of it clattering to the floor, frock coat and all.
Then he looked up at Lief and said through gritted teeth,‘No.’
The steward swallowed thickly. ‘You don’t like the tails, then?’
Alarik swung at the next suit, which was little more than a mass of cream ruffles. It went flying, the clatter of metal reverberating around the room. ‘No,’ he said again, the word coasting on a growl.
Lief cleared his throat, taking a careful step backwards. ‘Perhaps I should fetch the dowager queen,’ he said, glancing towards the door. ‘I know she’s particularly fond of this violet one.’
Alarik fired the lemon. It bounced off the coat, dislodging another fistful of gemstones, before falling to the floor with a splat.
The steward looked down at it and gasped. ‘A lemon … alemon!’ He clapped a hand against his forehead like the answer to some great riddle had at last been revealed. ‘Of course! You favour the colour yellow! A nice pale tone to match your hair.’ He scrubbed his brow, chuckling to himself. ‘How foolish of us, really, not to have prepared a single garment in—’
‘Lief,’ hissed Alarik, swinging at another suit of armour and knocking it over. ‘You’re not listening.’ He kicked the torso away. ‘I don’t care about frock coats and frills.’ Alarik decapitated another suit of armour, imagining it as one of Regna’s soldiers. He had felled half of them already, and still he stomped, swinging and shouting. ‘War is coming to Gevra, and for some incomprehensible reason,youthought it would be a wise idea to interruptmycouncil to drag me to this insulting parade of ruffles and silks.’ He swung again, toppling a suit of armour and then kicking it across the room for good measure.‘So, unless you have something meaningful to offer me and Captain Vine about the art of Vaskan warfare, I would advise you to run very fast and very far away from me before I run out of things to behead.’
Lief was silent for a long moment, his face scrunching like he was truly reaching for something worthwhile to offer his king. ‘You know, in their own way, weddings are not unlike war …’
‘Holy snow,’ muttered Captain Vine. ‘What iswrongwith this guy?’
Alarik struck again, sending another suit of armour crashing into the wall. He shoved aside chairs as he moved, stalking the trembling steward all the way around the table.
‘You said this was important!’ he shouted. ‘You stole my war room, displaced me to a damned orangery and then interrupted my meeting for the kind of mindless frivolity even my sister would turn up her nose at.’ Deep down, Alarik knew he was overreacting, but his temper had broken free of its short leash. All the stress of the last few months crowded in on him; his feral beasts, his waning army, the rising threat in the north – and worse, the rising fear that he was a weak king, a poor imitation of his father, that the weight of Soren’s legacy was slowly crushing him.
Another swing, this one lobbing a helmet across the room, to where Captain Vine ducked to avoid it. ‘I think you’ve made your point,’ she said, picking it up and polishing the visor with her sleeve.
Alarik turned on Lief, eyes flashing. ‘Have I?’
Lief nodded. ‘On reflection, maybe this was a bad time?’
‘You think?’ snapped Alarik. Only three frock coats remained standing, their glimmering buttons taunting him.He slammed his foot into one and slashed at another, making his way towards the last one standing. It was a black velvet frock coat, inlaid with gold brocade.
Alarik brought his sword down in an arc, sending the entire suit of armour careening to the ground in a crashing blow.
It yelped as it fell.
Alarik froze.
He blinked, once, twice, the mist of his rage clearing.
And then he saw her, a trembling maidservant huddling behind the shattered suit of armour. She was covering her head with her hands and crouched so low in the dimness that had it not been for her scream, he might not have noticed her at all.
The helmet stopped spinning, and silence descended. Alarik stared down at the cowering maid, waiting for her to look up at him. Guilt prickled at the sight of her, but he was not typically in the business of apologizing to servants. Or anyone, for that matter.
He cleared his throat.
Slowly, she raised her head, a pale, heart-shaped face appearing in the cradle of her arms. Her skin was smooth and snow-kissed, save for three silver scars brushing her left cheek. Strange. She stared up at him, her wide eyes caught somewhere between blue and grey. They moved to his right hand, where his blade was still raised.
It occurred to Alarik that she thought he was going to kill her. He quickly sheathed the sword and stepped back. She stood up, brushing a stray copper tendril from her face. Instead of excusing herself, she pointed to the velvet frock coat that lay in ribbons between them and said in a voice that now possessed no fear at all,‘For what it’s worth, that one was my favourite.’
For the second time in as many minutes, words deserted Alarik. He watched as she deftly arced around him and bent to retrieve something from the floor. It was the lemon. She frowned as she set it on the table. ‘There are people starving throughout your kingdom.’ She raised that dauntless gaze, revealing to him the storm of her anger. ‘Next time you decide to waste food, you should remember that.’
