Page 51

“You’re dismissed.”

He was likely expecting me to rip him to shreds, so the instant relief that flooded his face was almost comical. The hop in his step as he moved out of my way reminded me of small prey when it realized the hunter missed his first shot. Shock, mixed with self-preservation and gratitude he got to live another day, moved the butler’s feet quickly down the hall in the opposite direction from the meeting. The sharp turn on my heel to the left startled the guard who was posted at the door, the one who let the butler in.

“Let’s go,” I snapped.

Sure, it was petty dragging along my own escort. But I was feeling particularly uncooperative now. His skin flushed a red visible even beneath his deeply bronzed complexion, clearly uncomfortable with being pulled into this little power struggle. “Should I send for General Zirch, or…”

“No, you are fine. I just need a witness.”

The guard’s nervous swallow was an audiblegulp.

Our short walk in silence did nothing for the guard’s growing nervousness, his blatant fear tainting the air and setting my beast to stirring in my chest. It was an instinctive reaction for a predator to become excited at the sight of prey. Having it so close beneath my skin would certainly help with the conversation I was about to have with the Royal Council. As we reached the door, the guard made to open it for me, but I cut him off.

Low murmurs from the men gathered around the table cut short as soon as I stepped through the doorway. Seven heads were bowed together and watching them all pop up at my appearance would have been comical if I weren’t so pissed off. Councilman Ittman was the first to speak, clearing his throat and standing from the long table as the other six straightened intheir chairs. He was at the end opposite the one I was expected to take, closest to the door.

“Your Highness,” he welcomed me in. “We are honored you were able to attend this meeting. Please, sit.”

My eyes narrowed at his pleasant expression. Ittman was not being as subtle as he thought with that little barbed greeting. He was the only one who appeared mostly at ease, hands now tucked behind his back, with a casual smile on his youthful face. They all wore the matching council robes over their regular clothes dyed a deep red to show their service to the crown and separate themselves from the rest of the nobles, even as they were selected from those families.

They didn’t know it yet, but I planned to change that as soon as I was officially crowned king.

Ittman’s crinkled eyes moved to the guard behind me, and he made a gesture of dismissal with a hand. “You may go, we have—”

“No,” I said plainly. “He’s fine to stay inside.”

With measured steps, I stalked across the expanse of the meeting room to take the offered seat. The slightthudfollowed by the rustle of a uniform told me the guard closed the door and took up a post beside it. The irritated twist of Ittman’s face was fast, but not fast enough.

“But Prince Irin, there are sensitive matters we need to discuss, and I don’t think it’s appropriate—”

The chair dragged loudly over the rough stone floor, cutting off his whining with a screech. “I read the agenda you sent a few days ago. I’m aware of what the council would like to discuss.”

It was the same things they’d been wanting to discuss since Father’s death almost five months ago. Just a hundred and thirty-eight days, and the council was already pushing to move on to crowning the next ruler they hoped to manipulate. I already made all the decisions a ruler did, and there was no civilunrest in Respar to validate a rushed ceremony. The common period of mourning was one hundred forty-four days, to reflect the number of days Joles spent creating the world, and the royal council could hardly keep from frothing at the mouths trying to put me in their throne of schemes. Father didn't care what they did as long as the country didn't burn, and I was reaping the consequences of his thoughtless actions. The royal treasury kept losing money, spies were rampant in the castle halls, the Guild of Finances was doing gods knew what with their own influence and backers, and we were now dealing with the possibility of imposters to the noble families and a murderous practitioner roaming the city.

Yet, every discussion since then had been over whatever details they wanted to verify that I’d already confirmed at least twice for the coronation, and who I would choose to marry from their stack of nominations hand-selected from the pool of nobility. It was a clever game of distraction I was no longer interested in playing.

Looking at the room full of old men so disconnected with the world outside the upper echelon of Gilamorst made me long for the beginning days of the Royal Council. An adaptation from the nomadic tribes that joined Julran refugees to make Gilamorst, the Royal Council used to consist of the general, merchants to represent the economic population, and representatives of the spellcaster guilds.

Over the span of only four generations of rulers, that tradition had deteriorated quickly to only cater to Highlans with a thirst for power and deep pockets.

Lost in my mourning of times past, I failed to hear what Ittman was going on about until he raised his voice slightly. “Your Highness?”

I took a deep breath through my nose. The scent of insecure men in this room was enough to make my bridge wrinkle. “Yes, please continue.”

“We were hoping you could give us some insight into your selection of a bride?” Ittman prompted. He pulled his own chair in and sank down, setting his arms on the table with hands clasped in front of him as if patiently waiting for an answer he already knew.

My mouth opened to give a scathing response, but Haron’s words stopped it in my throat. She was absolutely right to be frustrated at my inaction in favor of avoiding a solid commitment on the matter. The men waited, staring at me like their very lives depended on my answer. For some, it did. Several of those women were connected to the council in some form or another, mostly relatives, that they perceived would get them one step closer to practically sitting on the queen’s throne themselves.

“There will not be a selection.”

The air may as well have been sucked out of the room, with how the group collectively gasped at the response. Not one of them had the balls to speak out against me first. But I could see the arguments they wanted to say in the fiery gazes the councilmen lit in their sunken eyes. This was why I wanted the guard to stay in the room. I wanted to snuff this conversation once and for all and wanted a witness to keep the councilmen from twisting my words and sneaking around with their own agendas.

"Your Highness, I come with troubling news."

My hazy gaze, lids heavy with lack of sleep, lifted to the scout waiting patiently by the door for permission to step further inside the small meeting room I took over for my own purpose. Scrolls, maps, and pens lay scattered across the round wooden table, all the chairs moved to the left wall to allow for ease of movement around it. I had directed Sett to send anyone with a report on activity at the Golrath border to me in Beolf's absence, either out of paranoia or a need to feel involved in getting back control of this chaotic situation. The answers to my problems seemed just as far away as when I'd started this gods-damned research project three days ago. Why did Gennel run? Who killed Nebold? Why did Haron feel like she had to leave? What was her connection to the Clifftombs? What if she was attacked by bandits, or a Hollows hunting party, or a wild animal?

I was locked in place, surrounded by an army of questions attacking me all at once. Every time I swung at one, another blocked the blow and demanded my attention. The restless nature of the beast I tried so hard to suppress was beginning to gnaw at its cage, tired of being held back from chasing after Haron as its instinct demanded.

With a sigh, I slumped into the only cushioned chair nearby and pinched the bridge of my nose between two ink-smudged fingers. Black marks probably streaked all over my face fromwhere I'd rubbed it furiously in frustration, but I was too far gone to give a damn about looks. "Carry on, soldier."