I bite my lip at the sound of Abely’s weeping. The sound is wholly genuine, and though I may have been frustrated with him, compassion now overrules that. Vasnan spiritsare notoriously strong; Abely isn’t the first to fall under their spell.
The king still hasn’t said anything, but surely he can see the apology is heartfelt. Even so, it seems he wants me to respond, if his silence is any indication.
What would Mother say? No, she had no patience for Abely.
Cassandra? No, my oldest sister would probably toss her hair and have him beg some more.
I take a deep breath. I’ll simply have to do my best.
“Minister Abely,” I say, “I thank you for your apology. As we say in Vasna, the ocean washes all away. Let us let bygones be bygones and—”
A growl, savage and low, cuts through my words. Turning my head in alarm, I find the king staring straight ahead as if in a trance, yet his hands clench the blankets in a white-knuckled grip. Heat pours off him in visible waves, like the mouth of an oven.
“You dare show your face here?” he hisses.
When he turns toward Abely, the flames that sweep over the king’s eyes don’t catch me by surprise this time.
But the cascade of scales breaking out over his arms certainly does.
16
The scales rippling down the king’s arms are bone white, yet they glisten like pearls, and for a moment, I’m transfixed by their startling beauty.
Then the king leaps.
I suppose he flings the blankets off first, of course. He might even crouch to gather his muscles or glance over the bed to gauge the distance from him to Abely’s huddled form. I don’t see any of that. There’s only a snarling blur passing over me, followed by a hiss from my cat friend at being disturbed.
I yelp as the king’s feet hit the floor like a thunderclap.
“You knew the risks,” he says, his voice dangerously low. My heart leaps to my throat at the sound of it.
The risks of what? Failing? Not preparing me adequately?
Abely, sweat coursing down his upturned face, cowers. “I did, Your Majesty. I did not think the effects would be so extreme. I let my guard down.”
“We are dragons. We cannot afford tolet our guard down.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Something about Abely’s obsequiousness seems to enrage the king even further. He begins prowling back andforth like a caged animal, scales rising along his shoulders now. I startle as his flaming eyes cut to me, as they skip from my face to the jewel still at my throat.
Under the weight of that stare, I fight not to cower myself.
Flinging his gaze away, the king whirls on Abely. “Look at what you’ve done,” he roars, thrusting a finger my way.
Minister Abely eyes lift in jerky motions to take me in as the king did—face first, then jewel. His own face blanches.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, pity in his look, not for me but for theking. “I’m so sorry.”
Chills skitter across my skin at the sound of the king’s laugh. It’s no longer human.
“Sorry?” he says in a voice that rattles the windows. “You will be.”
Spines assemble down his back; his horns lengthen. He is going to transform right here in my bedchamber. Abely only lowers his head, a strange stillness overcoming him. That’s when I remember the exact phrasing of the king’s threat last night.
“I’ll bite off his head for this.”
Oh no.
