Surprised the answer wasn’t Taillefer, Renard asked, “The healer from the Itspi? What was she doing here?”
Menon’s lips thinned. “Attending to your mother’sphysicalneeds.”
Collette made a small noise. “She wanted a child, my king. As you were aware.”
Ah. Yes. Renard knew little of that side of healing and would rather keep it that way, but he was not completely uninformed as to what was necessary to achieve a viable heir. “Bring the medikua to me.”
“She retired to the Itspi—”
The king pounded his fist on the table, and Menon’s answer died yet again, this time in a gasp and a flinch. That fury Renard had held back flooded forth, no reason now for pleasantries.
“I don’t care.”
Renard did not attempt to steady his voice. Vibrant anger laced the words, his teeth clenched as not to bite. He was a mountain lion, after all.
“Pay her, kidnap her, fly her here on a dragon. Bring the medikua and her potions to me as soon as possible or I shall have to do with two councilors instead of three.”
CHAPTER 10
FERDINANDawoke in the fresh air, smelling salts making raw work of his nostrils. His mind was fuzzy like a mountain caterpillar, and his vision took longer than he would’ve liked to clear—doubling and shifting until he homed in on the Basilican sky.
It was fully night now, the stars above. Rapidly cooling stone pressed at his back—not scratchy like the boulder but worked smooth by skill and time.
Blinking slowly, Ferdinand tried to make out more about his surroundings before moving further. There was a stirring shadow to his side—Osana. They weren’t bound, but they also weren’t alone. He felt the distinct presence of someone watching him. Directly past the crown of his linen-filled skull.
“I see you blinking.”
A man’s voice. Not too old. Not too young. Not one he recognized.
“If you’re working over your options, let me help you out because those sleeping darts can muddle the mind better than a marble pestle. There’s no unguarded exit unless you desire a hundred-foot drop over the railing. I am unarmed and so are you. Any attempt at an attack and a blade will be buried in your back before you can form a fist. Therefore, I would not advise it if you would like to live long enough to ask all those questions I can see forming in your brain.”
Calmly and carefully—no sudden movements, a calculation of body language to make himself look smaller—Ferdinand rolled from his back to his knees and stood to face in the man’s general direction. Even from this vantage, it was hard to make out who had addressed him. Shadows of night doubled with the natural shade from a permanent awning to cloud the speaker’s presence. What Ferdinand could tell: They were on a balcony at the Aragonesti.
To his right, past Osana’s stirring form, were panoramic starlit views of the royal quay, beaches, and the Basilican harbor and the sea beyond. To his left were a set of doors leading into the castle proper,a guard standing watch from inside, closer to him than to their host, in case he put up a fight. Past where the speaker was standing was a curve in the design, the balcony snaking along the side of the castle—likely all the way over to the mountainside. It was very easy to guess that they were on the former king’s balcony as Domingu seemed the sort to want to view all aspects of his kingdom at once.
And then, of course, there was the hint from the guards who had found them.
They were to be taken to the king.Protocol.
Basilica had sorted its succession quickly. Ferdinand had no clue which of Domingu’s heirs would be crowned, nor did he particularly care. What was interesting, though, was that the man they’d elevated knew him on sight.
“Hello, Ferdinand,” he said. “Your mother wasn’t kidding, you’re the spitting image of your father, even if you shareourfather’s name.”
As his heart kicked into a drumbeat, Ferdinand remained outwardly calm. That was the gift of his birth mother—but she was not to whom this man was referring.
Next to him, Osana stirred, rolling to her knees. Eyes on the likely king, and still careful to make his movements nonthreatening, Ferdinand dipped his right hand toward her—an offering to help her stand. Osana accepted it, her grip cool as he pulled her to her feet, recognizing that the dart’s poison was likely more difficult for a person half his size.
Osana squeezed Ferdinand’s fingers but did not drop his hand, her attention catching on the breathing shadows before she dipped her chin with more reverence than Ferdinand had witnessed from her since they’d met. He watched her reaction as the first hints of dawn flashed in the west—he’d been wrong about it being fully night; the night was so full it was now morning.
The man in the shadows stepped forward. Visible, yet still a stranger to Ferdinand. Yet, Osana lifted her eyes and greeted this king like a foregone conclusion.
“Father, I thought we might meet you here.”
Stars. Of course—he could see it. The way this man with his skylight eyes and dark hair looked at once like Osana, like Geneva, like Amarande. Father, brother, uncle. Though technically to Ferdinand he wasn’t anything except a king to face.
“I did not know you would be king.”
Osana’s father raised his brows. “Nor did I. The formal coronation is later today, but they are already calling me King Zavier—eager to please, these folks.” He smiled at her. “Which means you are Princess Osana now.”
