Lord Akin spat on the floor beside the bed. "And you're a used up whore," he said. "Everyone knows the King only wants your sister. They sing songs about it in the capital."
Sevrin waved his hand once. They left.
The door had barely closed before Yvara turned.
"Majesty." Her voice was raw now, the performance gone entirely. "There is no way that was safe for the ch?—"
The candleholder left his hand without warning and struck the far wall.
Yvara went silent. Sevrin stood with his arm still extended, his eyes on her. His voice when it came was entirely even. "There is no child, Yvara. Stop the lies."
He smirked as she wiped the mess from her face, her eyes still burning with tears. "It is no fun being kept in the dark, is it, Lady Yvara?" His voice was dark, the amusement gone.
Her hands began to tremble. She pressed them flat against the sheet. His eyes moved over her face and something in them changed, a slow red rising beneath the surface that was there and then contained, pressed back down into stillness. "But that is not the greatest of your crimes," he said. "The greatest is what you did to Asharin."
"That useless wh?—"
"Shut up." He crossed the room in three steps and his hand found her hair before she could move, fingers closing around it, pulling her toward him with a force that was controlled and absolute.
"Yvara," he said, his voice dropping until it was nearly gentle. "I want you to know something."
She did not speak.
"Your sister," he said. "If she were mine, I would never allow another man to touch her." His eyes held hers without looking away. "You are nothing more than a worthless whore I paid in promises. Covered in the filth of the lowest servant in my palace.”
He released her hair and she fell back against the pillows.
He looked at her with something that was almost reflective. "Perhaps you will get pregnant after all."
The color left her face completely. Then, beneath the fear, something else surfaced. She lifted her chin. "You are insane," she said. "Asharin will never love you. She only wants Cols?—"
He laughed. It was not the sound she expected. It was not cold or controlled or performed. It came from somewhere real, harsh and uneven, his head lifting with it, his eyes bright.
He looked at her. "That is where you have me mistaken," he said.
He was quiet, his hands loose at his sides, something in him that had been held very tightly for a very long time releasing into the air of the room. "I do not need your sister to love me," he said. He looked at Yvara as though she had revealed something about herself rather than him. “Reciprocity is a human need. I have no such requirement.”
“Proximity.” His hands moved at his sides in a faint, involuntary motion he did not appear to notice. “That is all I require.” He exhaled once. “And make no mistake. The moment that is notenough, she will be mine. But she does not need to love me. That was never necessary.”
He straightened his cuffs. "Just know this, Yvara. From the very beginning, the throne was never going to be yours." He looked at her with something that was almost kind. "You were simply preparation for what is to come."
He called for the guards. They entered with their eyes down, an attendant rushing in behind them. Sevrin said without looking at her, "It is time."
The attendant produced a brown dress, plain and rough. Yvara pulled it over her head with shaking hands. The guards respectfully averted their eyes.
"Escort Lady Yvara to her new lodgings below," Sevrin said. "I heard from Kinsad that the cell next to Pinovar's is now free."
One of the guards cleared his throat. "Aye, Majesty. Though there was another harvi outbreak in the west cells, apparently bad, the bugs are everywhere. The caretaker has said the place must be cleansed."
Sevrin considered this. "Tell him he can wait a while before that." A brief pause. "Pinovar murdered a child, if I recall correctly." He looked at Yvara. “And Lady Yvara seems quite comfortable around vermin.” He smiled at her. “Perhaps they will provide you…entertainment while you await your sister’s visit.”
She screamed as they took her arms.
He watched her go. Then, as the door closed behind her, he called out pleasantly, "Do tell Gizzy I say hello when he takes your pot tomorrow."
The Painted Room was dark when he entered, the ambient glow from the corridor enough to move by. He walked along the mural wall slowly, the way he always did, taking in each image in sequence. His eyes moved over them without hurry. He had commissioned these months ago now. The painters had been discreet, talented, and handsomely compensated for both qualities.
He stopped at the image near the far end. "She sleeps in a dungeon full of bugs now, Asharin. I did not kill her. You may do that yourself.”
