Page 11 of Given to the Black King

“Does the king often dismiss himself from his own audience?” I ask.

“No.”

“Does he often break his throne?”

“No.”

“Does he often grow claws at foreign diplomats?”

Vess looks pleased. “Those are better questions.”

“And the answers?”

“You’ll live longer if you stop asking them in public.”

She walks away.

Callas grips my elbow. “We are going back to the guest wing.”

I look at his hand until he removes it.

“Tomorrow,” he says through his teeth, “you will be less provocative.”

“I stood on the line you gave me and delivered the greeting you wrote.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No. Apparently nobody intends to tell me what anything means.”

Orrick leads us from the hall. As we pass the throne, I see the fresh damage clearly. Four claw marks score the stone arm.

One is deeper than the others. The king held back the thumb. I do not know why that detail follows me all the way to the guest wing.

It does.

At midday, a laundry maid comes for our traveling clothes. When she lifts the basket, a strip of torn black cloth slips onto the floor.

I pick it up before she can. The edge is wet with blood.

The maid goes pale.

“Whose is this?” I ask.

“Wrong basket, my lady.”

She snatches it from my hand and hurries out. Callas tells me to leave it alone.

I wash the blood from my fingers. The smell of iron and smoke stays with me until evening.

TORGAN

Imake it to the armory before every claw on my right hand forces free.

I hook them through my left sleeve and rake once.

Leather tears. Four cuts open along my forearm because I hold the thumb clear. Pain clears my head for one breath.

Then her scent reaches me through the hall doors, and the ache in my fangs returns twice as hard.