Page 4 of Given to the Black King

My mouth floods.

A pulse beats somewhere on the pass road, too far away for me to hear and somehow already inside my jaw.

“The delegation has been sighted,” Ghenn says. “They’ll reach the gate before full dark. Do you want the customary three-day wait?”

“No.”

He studies me.

“First audience tomorrow,” I say.

Another claw pushes out. Then another. Dark points against black stone. Ghenn looks at my hand. I force them back beneath my fingertips.

It hurts.

“What is it?” he asks.

I do not answer.

Below us, riders appear between the last two bends of the road. The scent thickens until I can taste it.

One figure rides at the front beneath Serath’s green banner. Small at this distance. Straight-backed. Alive. Both fangs throb with her heartbeat.

A fourth groove opens beneath my hand.

IONA

The first thing I see is the horns. They hang above the gate in three black rows.

Some are broad and ridged, trophies taken from defeated enemies. Others are narrow. Pale. Almost delicate. My mare shies before I can study them.

“Easy.” I pull her back into line.

Callas rides close enough that our stirrups nearly strike. “Keep your eyes down when we enter.”

“I’ll need my eyes for the ground.”

“You know what I mean.”

I do.

For eleven days he has told me what not to do. Do not challenge the king in public. Do not mention the failed harvest until the gifts are accepted. Do not speak over Minister Callas if the king asks for concessions beyond my brief.

That last one is the problem.

“What did the council give you permission to concede?” I ask.

His hand tightens on the reins.

“We have discussed this.”

“No. You have avoided it.”

“We are at his gate, Iona.”

“Yes. It seems an excellent place to stop lying to me.”

Perr, riding behind us with the document cases strapped across his saddle, studies the back of Callas’s head. Our six guards ride behind him around the gift wagons, trying not to look up at the gate.