Page 24 of His King Enslaved

The king’s bodyguards pulled up to a stop, their horses snorting and frothing. “Your Majesty,” one said, clearly relieved to have his charge in his sights again. “We nearly lost you!”

“Oh, no,” his consort said, sighing. To Ardor, he asked, “May I be of service?”

“You missed the ceremony. Are you all right?”

“It’s just a stomachache. I’ll be fine.”

“No,” Ardor said, warning sharpening his tone. It was one thing to be kept in the dark. It was quite another for this man to lie to his face. “I asked a question, and I expect an honest answer. Are you all right?”

“No. I suppose I’m not. I’m sure it seems silly to you.” He glanced aside toward the stables. “They keep telling me a king shouldn’t be so soft.”

“I think the world would be a better place if more people were ‘soft,’” Ardor said. “This marriage is more than duty or a contractual obligation to me. Despite the consequences, I want a baby, and it’s my choice to make. Do you understand?”

His consort shifted in his saddle, uneasy. “Of course.”

Was the man as obedient as Ardor hoped? It was time to find out. “You said you’d give me anything. I want to amend the contract. I want six children. Five human children, and one Flower. I expect to space the human children two years apart.”

“Six. Will that…” His consort frowned, doing the math. “That’s too many. It’s too risky.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter,” his consort said, his voice sharpening for the first time, and Ardor’s heart fluttered, surprised by the strength in his tone. “I want my children to know you. I won’t—” Something flickered in his expression, something important, but it was gone too swiftly for Ardor to decipher. “I want them to have happy childhoods. Nothing is more devastating than the loss of a parent.”

Ardor had the authority to disagree. He’d had mixed feelings about his father’s death, and a lingering sense of guilt, but there had also been relief. He would never have to please his father again. His father’s expectations were no longer a chain draped around his neck, tightening with each passing day.

“I can survive six children,” Ardor said. Technically, that was true. But in his case, survival required a lot of things to go right, and so far, many things had gone wrong.

“Why must you have five human children?” His consort’s tone had sharpened again. “We don’t need that many. We only need two.”

“For stability. There must be more than…” What was the word the Kysanians used for royal children other than the designated heir? “In a hereditary monarchy, it is safer if there are at least four… Forgive me, what is the word for children other than the heir?”

“Spare,” his consort said, with a note of bitterness. “We call them spares.”

Things were different in Pavar. The Archon would choose the strongest child to succeed her, and the rest of her children would be assigned positions of responsibility according to their interests and abilities. Birth order was irrelevant. But in a hereditary monarchy like Kysan, birth order was everything. It was the difference between absolute power and a guarantee of children versus being lost to obscurity. “If there are only one or two spares, the children will be at odds, and it will be unhealthy for Kysan. My studies suggest I should have at least five human children, to account for any political upheavals and ensure the family has a healthy dynamic.”

His consort looked him in the eye. “Two human children. No more.”

Ardor’s mouth dropped. “You’re not in a position to negotiate!”

“I am, you need my swimmers to make it happen!”

“Two children aren’t enough,” Ardor insisted. “If one dies, or they turn against each other… No. Civil war is a very probable outcome. I’m not putting my people through that.”

“Well, I’m not putting my Flower in an early grave! I spent all last night doing the wretched math, and I’m not budging. Six children is absolutely out of the question.”

“Five,” Ardor shot back.

“Four,” his consort said. “If you’re here to watch them grow up, you can teach them what’s really important. They’ll be like you. They’ll want to honor you, and they’ll do what’s right.”

Ardor gazed at him for a long, steady moment. The set of his consort’s shoulders was firm, his spine straight, his tone even. For the first time, Ardor saw a man who could lead his people to prosperity. This man could govern fairly. The skill would not come easily, but the capacity for leadership was in there somewhere, waiting to be unearthed.

“Four children,” Ardor said. “The human children will be spaced two years apart to limit competition, and I want full control of the Flower’s upbringing and the final say in their marriage contract.”

“Two years apart.” His consort paused, measuring his words, and Ardor waited for his counteroffer. Haggling over the waiting period was quite common. Technically, a Flower could be forced to produce children every five months with no waiting period, but it took a great toll on the body. Most contracts stipulated one child per year to allow for some recovery.

“Two years,” his consort repeated, clearly working something out in his head. “Based on what I read, that seems short. Will that be enough time for you to fully recover?”

Ardor blinked, surprised by the question, and answered without thinking. “Technically, three years is optimal.”