Page 8 of Given to the Black King

The distance between us is three floors and half a courtyard. It does not feel like enough.

His head lifts. The line of his shoulders locks.

Every claw extends.

My body answers before I can stop it. My nipples tighten beneath my traveling dress. Heat pulls low in my belly.

His gaze drops as if he can see through stone, wool, and skin.

Perhaps he can.

The broken post creaks under his hand.

“Close it,” Callas says.

I do not move.

The king’s mouth opens slightly.

Two pale points catch the yard light.

“Close the shutter, Iona.”

This time I do.

The wood shuts out the yard. It does nothing to stop the memory of his face.

That night I lie awake listening to him destroy another post.

IONA

At second bell, Orrick opens the doors to the audience hall.

“Do not stop until you reach the black line,” he says.

A strip of dark metal runs across the floor sixty paces from the doors, with the dais just beyond it.

“What happens if I stop before it?” I ask.

Orrick considers me.

“The court assumes weakness.”

“And if I cross it?”

“The guards assume stupidity.”

Useful man.

I walk.

The walk is long enough for every person in the hall to inspect us, but the court is what holds my attention. Warlords in iron and fur. A woman with narrow green eyes and pupils like a cat. A gray-skinned creature crouched beside the fire. A giant with more teeth than I care to count.

They all watch us. Two of our guards remain just inside the doors; the other four are with the horses and gifts.

Then the Black King moves on his throne, and every other danger in the room becomes background. He is larger up close.

Black horns sweep back from his brow. His shoulders fill the throne. His hands rest on the stone arms, fingers relaxed, claws hidden.