Behind Renard, the sycophant Dunixi leaned down. “Excellent plan, Your Highness.”
Yet the remaining councilors were as sour faced as curdled milk. Renard’s father had always walked away from a fight, and when he was attacked by Eritri, it was Sendoa and Ardenia who saved him. These councilors had been there for that, too, and were similarly shy when it came to bellicose maneuvers.
It was so incredibly boring.
“My king, these games… they are unwise.” Collette’s carefully powdered cheeks seemed to wobble, but the fact that she pushed back at all was something.
Menon’s chin tapped the front of his robe as he nodded, while ancient Laurent scratched his wizened face.
These councilors had supported him out of complete shock and fear, and yet that magical cocktail appeared to be dissipating. They were falling into the patterns Renard knew he would’ve faced if he’d actually been crowned upon his wedding night.
Ones they used with his mother. His father. His grandfather.
Did they think he knewnothingbecause of his youth? If anything, Renard felt because he was intimate with the particular void of near-death, he knew more than they did, despite all of their years combined.
“Simply becauseyoudon’t understand doesn’t makemefoolish.” Renard’s words were short and taut, all sarcasm gone, the anger that compelled him rising to the surface—as astringent and biting as sagardon splashed straight in the eyes. “I have my plans and you need not be a part of them. Now, you will leave me. The medikua and I must talk.”
The councilors did as they were told, skirting away in silence. They would whisper about him in secret, Renard knew. It didn’t matter. The king would have them sent to the dungeons if they defied him again.
Immediately, the medikua stepped into the room, and Dunixi closed the door, standing guard outside. He was probably listeningin and most likely had heard everything that had already been said. That didn’t matter either.
Renard gestured to a table that had been dragged to the center of his study—the cartons of vials were stacked in a crescent around it, a comfortable chair pulled up for her ancient bones. The first carton was already on the table and open, a mixture of cobalt and clear bottles shimmering in the candlelight and ringed with thick plain wax. Somewhere in all of that were two vials of the tincture needed to keep him alive. Hopefully, the vials were full. If not, that was another question.
“Medikua, you will sort Taillefer’s vials so that we may have a definitive understanding of all the contents, but yourhighest priorityis separating out the astral ember. We must understand the supply as we wait for your batch to age to full strength.” The woman nodded—she’d known her assignment before he said a word. She lowered herself into the chair and touched the first bottle. “If the amount we find is not sufficient, I would assume you have other ways to locate additional tincture?”
She shrugged her bird-like shoulders. “I have my guesses.”
The answer wasn’t as flip as her previous ones, but the king was growing tired of her ornery tendencies. Talent or no.
Renard placed a very heavy hand upon the medikua’s shoulder and lowered his gaze to her so that there would be no misunderstanding the fury and promise within his expression.
“You best hope we won’t need to guess.”
CHAPTER 43
AMARANDEand Luca were in the Itspi yard, assessing the training that General Xixi and her team were giving the members of the Torrentian camp—and squashing any skepticism before it rooted itself in the rebels’ minds—when a commotion came up from the guard tower that caused nearly every head to turn.
There, two riders burst forth onto the grounds upon lathered horses.
For a split second, Amarande was back in their meadow, one hazy moment away from kissing Luca, when the specter of a similarly fevered rider raced across the distance with life-changing news. Every nerve in her body seized as she peeled away from the scrum of men and women and toward the open field, angling for a better look as Luca fell in step beside her.
A coming attack? Bad news from Ferdinand? A blow of another kind?
Amarande broke past the last line of bodies as the riders were almost upon them. Her strong legs went soft at the knees with relief when she saw the familiar figures of a tall brawler Myrcellian and a petite Torrentian with a sword pommel caressing her shoulder.
Urtzi and Ula.
“Your Highnesses! We bear news!” Ula yelled, as the pair of them pulled up short on the edge of the yard, the royals in question skidding to a halt.
Luca steadied the horses as Ula and Urtzi dismounted, gasping and haggard. Both looked as if they’d been up two days straight, their clothing slick with sweat and crumpled into a million fine wrinkles. Dark crescents hung under their eyes, yet they were bright, eager, and completely brimming with the need to speak.
Ula held up a hand, trying to calm her heaving lungs enough to get out exactly what she needed to say.
“Some water, please?” Luca called out in the general direction of the crowd, and immediately a handful of Torrentians stepped forth with waterskins.
Ula accepted one but spoke first, voice as breathless as her body. “Ferdinand was taken captive by Geneva—”
Luca and Amarande both bit out a collective “No!” but said no more as Ula shook them off, gathering enough breath to finish.
