A conclusion Wycke had also reached.
Saris wiped a tear off her cheek with the back of her hand, giving a loud sniff. “Tears won’t help. What he needs is for his queen to act the part. I’ll atone for my mistakes later.” She crossed the room to her mate. “Broen?”
King Broen stared down at her. “Who are you?”
To her credit, Saris didn’t flinch.
Much.
Wycke waited outside Radre’s bedroom door, granting Saris privacy, though Aberfrer escorted her inside for her own protection. Piers stood quietly behind Wycke, one hand resting on Wycke’s back, providing comfort. Jess gripped Wycke’s other shoulder.
Sir Broderick leaned against a far wall, silently waiting. At one time, this room would have held couches and chairs instead of emptiness.
Wycke’s father once occupied these quarters, though Wycke didn’t remember ever coming here as a child.
Though no tapestries kept out drafts here in the antechamber or elsewhere in the castle, and many floors needed sweeping, the former servants had rallied together in an attempt to make the place more livable.
Saris came out of the room mere moments later, red-nosed and teary-eyed, trailed by a silent Aberfrer. “That’s not Radre.” She grabbed Wycke, holding so tightly he fought for breath, then pressed her lips to his cheek. “We must face facts. Our brother is gone.”
Their brother. Gone. Which pushed Wycke onto the throne he didn’t want, in a kingdom laid to waste by greed. Let the wilds reclaim the pile of stone for their own, and gargoyles make their homes in the lofty heights.
Sir Broderick offered his arm; Saris clung to him, only letting out the sob she’d held in when she thought herself out of Wycke’s hearing. Jess trailed behind them, a consoling hand on Saris’s back as they left the antechamber for the hallway.
Good thing they’d resolved their differences. Although many ladies-in-waiting usually hovered around Saris, she called none of them true friends or confidantes. She needed what the human realm called a BFF, now more than ever.
Wycke nodded to Aberfrer. “I’ll have to see Radre.”
Aberfrer opened the door. Wycke cleared his mind. He’d no idea what to expect, so anything he found would be a surprise.
The room didn’t smell of decay, like some sickrooms he’d been to in the past. No, this one smelled of fresh herbs. The windows stood open, but magic blocked the outside elements, keeping the room reasonably warm, despite the bare walls.
Wycke preferred stained glass panels and tapestries to bare walls. He sat by Radre’s bedside in a rat-chewed chair while Aberfrer assumed a spot by the window, giving the illusion of privacy. Instead, the meddlesome old fart probably heard every word.
Not Wycke’s problem right now. Piers stood in the middle of the room, uncertainty etched on his face. Wycke held out his hand, showing Piers his place—at Wycke’s side. Piers laced their fingers together. Wycke felt better already.
Once this was all over, he’d court Piers properly, get to know him better, even if insistent magic made them go about the joining process backward.
For the first time, Wycke felt a keen sense of loss over his brother, the companion he could have been, the role model. No, Saris played mentor instead. Radre couldn’t even bother to call Wycke brother.
The paleness of Radre’s skin nearly matched his hair. Eyelids closed over the eyes usually full of hate. But, unlike with a sleeper, his eyes didn’t move. Except for the rise and fall of his chest, Radre Bertillian appeared dead.
According to Chynne, via Piers, he’d died a long time ago. At what point had he been lost? Had Wycke been cruel to a man in no control of his actions? There’d never been love lost between them, even in the best of times, but Wycke and Radre shared blood, history, family.
An aura of power hung about Radre, magical bonds woven by Aberfrer and his mages, pinning Radre to the bed and dampening any magic contained within his shared form. Nyanda wouldn’t escape into another body again.
Ever so slowly, Wycke reached into his belt and pulled out the hidden dagger. This last act of supposed kindness must be performed without magic.
The quiet shuffle beside him reminded him he wasn’t alone. Aberfrer and Piers kept silent vigil with him. Neither spoke or tried to stop him. As Radre’s close kin, if this task must be done, it fell to Wycke. He wouldn’t put such an unpleasant duty on Saris’s gentle heart.
Even with his many sins, Wycke had never taken a life. Now he sat with a knife in his hand.I must do this as a kindness to my brother.There is no other way.Radre, with his legendary pride. Nyanda’s presence in his body must be killing him.
Radre’s eyes snapped open, golden-eyed gaze roving over Wycke’s face, then moving past to Piers. “Come closer,” Radre’s voice said.
“Sorceress Nyanda Gimitri,” Aberfrer intoned, “you have no more power here. I don’t understand how you’re even alive, but you will gain nothing from anyone in this room.”
“I just want to see my son!”
Aberfrer nodded. Wycke, still seated on the chair, clutched Piers’ hand. Piers squeezed his fingers.
