Page 7 of Given to the Black King

“Iona.”

“Does the council expect me to marry him?”

Perr drops the seal case. Wax cylinders roll across the floor.

Callas looks at the clerk. “Leave us.”

“No,” I say. “He stays. If you intend to trade me, someone should hear the terms.”

“I intend to keep Serath from being invaded.”

“By giving him what?”

“Whatever prevents ten thousand people from dying.”

The answer is not an answer.

He knows it.

I kneel to help Perr gather the seals. My hands stay steady until I close one around a wax cylinder.

It cracks in my palm.

A sharp edge bites below my thumb. I set both halves into the case before Perr can see the red mark.

“Tomorrow,” I say, “I speak first. I negotiate the treaty. You do not offer my body, my hand, or any other part of me without my consent.”

Callas’s face tightens. “You do not command this delegation.”

“No. I’m only the person expected to pay for it.”

For a moment, nobody speaks.

Then something hits stone outside.

A heavy crack.

Another.

We all turn toward the windows. The sound comes again from the yard below. I cross the room and open the shutter Callas just closed.

The Black King is in the training yard.

He has stripped off his coat. His shirt is dark with sweat between the shoulders. Each time he strikes the practice post, the whole frame shudders.

His hands are shaped like a man’s, though much larger. At each fingertip, a narrow seam opens in the flesh and a dark claw slides free when he strikes. They tear four clean lines down the wood.

He strikes again.

The post splits.

Perr whispers, “Gods.”

The king’s head lifts.

He turns toward our window.

Straight toward me.