Tomorrow had yet to come.
Though Alarik would not deny his mother’s summons now – or ever – it pained him to be in her company, to look into her glassy eyes as she looked right through him, thinking of her other son. Her better son. Ansel.
Even Anika, Alarik’s fiery, sharp-tongued sister had sailed south a year ago, removing herself from the whorls of grief that surrounded the palace in pursuit of the love she had found with a witch from Eana called Celeste. Often in the midnight dark, when sleep evaded him, Alarik thought of his sister and envied her freedom to travel far beyond the bounds of Gevra. Freedom from the weight of their father’s crown, and from the grief that stalked these hallowed halls in his absence.
But Alarik was the king, and the king did not get to leave. Not the country. Nor its pain.
Drawing a breath, he knocked on the door.
His mother’s response came at once. ‘Come in!’
Alarik blinked at the chirpiness in her voice. He stalked inside, barely registering the staggering beauty of the domed stained-glass ceiling, which was coated in a blanket of fresh snow. Aside from the library and his painting studio, his mother’s reading chamber was his favourite room in the entire palace. It was warm and inviting, the walls bordered by curving walnut shelves filled to the brim with all manner of books,from dense Gevran war treatises to tales of swashbuckling adventure. Everything a young prince could possibly want. A king, too.
A glittering snowflake chandelier hung from the high ceiling, and in the middle of the room, a set of blue velvet couches were arranged around a roaring stone fireplace. On the glass coffee table between them sat a silver tray of tea and sandwiches, warm butter biscuits and coconut cream tarts. The king’s favourite. And jutting out of an ice bucket on the side was a vintage bottle of frostfizz.
Alarik frowned at the bottle, suspicion grumbling deep in his bones.
A study of poise and stillness, the dowager queen was seated by the fireplace. Her flowing silver dress was the same shade as her sheath of long hair. Her skin was pale but there was colour in her cheeks today. Colour in her eyes, which were as bright and blue as his own. Beside her sat Lief, the Queen’s Hand and longest-serving steward, a middle-aged man who gave the vague impression of a forest nymph from a children’s fairy tale. He had smooth golden skin, a veil of long white hair and unnervingly large eyes of pine green. He was as tall and narrow as a beanpole, and always smiled with every one of his teeth.
‘Good afternoon, Your Majesty,’ he said, smiling now.
The grumble of suspicion inside Alarik grew.
His mother waved him over. ‘Come and sit, Alarik. I hope we haven’t interrupted anything important.’
‘I was about to spar with a mountain lion.’
Lief burst into laughter, the sound dying in his throat when he saw that the king was deadly serious. ‘Terribly sorry to keep you from … uh … that rousing activity,’ he said,hastily. ‘This shouldn’t take long.’
Alarik lowered himself on to the opposite couch, looking between his mother and her steward. ‘It’s been a while since we’ve had tea together, Mother.’ His gaze flicked once more to the bottle. ‘Or indeed frostfizz …’ In fact, Alarik could not remember the last time they had cause to celebrate anything.
Valeska knitted her hands together on her lap, sharing a conspiratorial smile with Lief. Which reminded Alarik … ‘Lief, I don’t believe you and I haveeverhad tea together.’
Lief dipped his chin. ‘It is myhonour, Your Majesty.’
‘Yes, it is.’ Alarik kicked his legs out and looked to his mother, brows raised. ‘To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’
‘Lief,’ she hissed. ‘The frostfizz.’
The steward practically leaped across the table, hands trembling as he popped the cork, sending it soaring towards the domed ceiling. He poured it into three goblets. Valeska scooped hers up, prompting the steward to do the same. She looked expectantly at Alarik.
He did not move to take his goblet. ‘What are we toasting to?’
Valeska’s lips curled and if Alarik didn’t know her better, he might not have noticed the anxiety vibrating around the edges of her smile. ‘Your upcoming wedding.’
There was a thunderous silence.
Alarik stared at his mother, waiting for the joke – terribly misjudged as it was – to land.
‘Such glad tidings!’ crowed Lief, before the silence strangled him. He took a loud slurp of frostfizz. ‘It’s been so long since Grinstad has had such a joyous—’
‘Shut up,’ snapped the king.
Lief nearly swallowed his own tongue.
Alarik had not broken his stare with his mother, the same frosted-blue eyes meeting across the room.
She cleared her throat, summoning a sliver of the authority she’d once wielded like a sword. ‘Alarik, the time has come for you to take a bride.’
