Page 81 of Lord of Ruin (The Age of Blood #2)

Chapter Forty-Five

Shan

S han dismissed the serving girls with a wave of her hand, taking a step back to study the set-up.

A perfectly arranged tea service was spread across the King’s desk, the space cleared for the occasion.

Elegant bone china stood on matching saucers, exquisitely rendered rose buds nestled in a bed of ivy.

Two full tea kettles brewed the King’s favorite blend, featuring the same hand-painted motif.

A three-tiered cake stand held a collection of small pastries and biscuits, each individual treat carrying the delicate work of the King’s personal patissier.

Really, given the timeframe she had to accomplish this get-together and the time it took to find a bird, it really was a little triumph. The summoning had been sent, the gathering arranged just so, and Shan still had several minutes to spare.

She should have been proud of her work, but now that she had a moment to gather her thoughts, the only emotion that ran through her was a dull sense of disquiet, muted by her own shame that she dared not look at head-on.

Snatching her reticule, she pulled out a cigarette and lit it, inhaling deep off the nicotine as the buzz hit her, soothing her frayed nerves.

The window latch was freezing under her touch, but she opened it to the frigid air, letting the blast of flurries dance around her.

It should have hurt, the bite of winter on her face, but she was numb to it all.

The early sunset cast the capital below in a cloak of shadows, dusk blurring all the details into obscurity, the sudden winter squall blocking out even the brightest of witch light, the lanterns that lit the grand boulevards snuffed out.

Strange to think that it was only this morning that she was summoned to the Blood Treasury, that she had seen Isaac in all his glory, that Mel had met her grisly end. Only hours ago that Samuel had made his move against the King, not that she could blame him.

She had done foolish things for love as well, but none quite as foolish as this.

For now, somewhere below her feet, the Eternal King had Samuel in his grasp, doing heavens knew what to him.

She had seen the depths to which the Eternal King could fall, had stood by his side as he had dragged her under.

No. That wasn’t right—he hadn’t forced her. He had held out his hand, a simple offering, and she followed him into the darkness. If it was the price of power, of knowledge, of every ill-gotten thing she ever hoped for, she would let herself be ruined.

She hadn’t expected it to be the ruin of Samuel as well. He had been hers to protect, hers to have and hers to hold. And yet, he had slipped through anyway.

The wall in the back of the room creaked, the telltale sound of the King’s private passageway sliding open. Bracing herself, Shan turned to watch, the bookshelf rotating on its pedestal with a great groan.

Samuel staggered out first, the Eternal King shoving him forward.

His white shirt was stained with blood and sweat, his hair a long and matted tangle down his back.

He bore thin, scabbed lines across his throat, a bruised mass centered over the tender hollow—the wounds only slightly healed, closed just enough so that he wouldn’t continue to bleed out, but not enough to be fully gone.

Raising his arm, Samuel braced himself on the edge of the bookshelf, and Shan traced her gaze over the horrid mess of meat that was the inside of his right wrist—the skin scarred and raised, deliberately mis-healed, and Shan swore she could still see the imprint of where the King’s blunt teeth had been.

It was a petty kind of suffering that the King had left him in, a cruelty that he enacted just because he could. It was lesson and punishment all in one, and Shan inhaled deeply off her cigarette to hide the tremor in her breath.

Following Samuel out, the King looked as pristine as ever, his skin shining with vitality.

He looked so vibrant and powerful, emerald eyes glinting and mouth pulled into a smirk that sent shivers down her spine, no matter how much she tried to suppress it.

There was something magnetic and magnificent about him, daring her to lean in.

“Samuel,” he intoned, and something slick and dark slid into the air, wrapping around the shaken man like shackles. “Take a seat and remain silent.”

Samuel snapped upright, like someone had seized him by the back of the shirt and yanked him into place.

He moved towards the first chair he could reach as if puppeteered, his movements stiff and ungainly, before collapsing into the sturdy chair.

He ducked his head low, breath shaky, not bothering to hide the tears that streaked down his face.

The Aberforth Gift, finally fully taken from him, but given to the Eternal King, a new terror unlocked.

The King turned to her with a gracious smile—a too gracious smile. There was something shifting between them, something that she couldn’t quite put her finger on, but it scared her to her core. “My darling, you’ve done a lovely job. Are the others coming?”

A knock resounded on the door, as if on cue, before a Guard swung it open. “The Royal Council of Aeravin,” the Guard announced, before they all filed in, one after the other.

The suspicion in their eyes turning to outright fear as they saw Samuel slumped in his chair, brutally beaten and broken.

“Your Majesty,” Lady Belrose said, dropping into a deep curtsy before the desk. The others followed suit, Lady Dunn and Lady Morse flanking her to each side, while Lord Rayne simply inclined his head, his shaking hands gripping his cane as he struggled to remain steady on his feet.

“Please, friends,” the King said, even crossing the study to place a steadying hand on Rayne’s shoulder as he helped him to a seat. “Do not stand on formality, have a seat.”

The unease grew stronger, the Councillors sharing furtive glances with each other as the King continued his little kindnesses, going so far as to pour a cup of fresh, fragrant tea for Lord Rayne.

The door to the room shut with a low thunk , and Shan had the absurd thought that they weren’t given the grace of privacy but trapped.

Alone like victims tossed in with a madman who was simply playing with his food.

Shan had learned her lessons well, from studying at her father’s knee to branching out on her own, building her own web of power.

The key to success was in learning the particular patterns and habits of her targets, of knowing how to respond and demur and fawn—but this attentiveness was not like the Eternal King.

Not with his Councillors, not with the Lords and Ladies of Aeravin.

No, this was a ploy of some kind, unsettling them so they could not find their footing. But for what purpose, Shan wasn’t sure.

Stubbing her cigarette out, she tossed the remains out the window before sealing it shut—the last opening to the world outside.

The King would want her by his side, and she had done so well capitulating to his demands already, so she couldn’t stop now.

No, her deception had only begun, and she would not give the King even a second to doubt her loyalty.

Taking her place by his side, she carefully poured out tea for the rest of the Councillors, handing them each a cup of the steaming rosehip blend.

Her hands didn’t shake in the slightest, not as she carefully cut the cake on the highest tier of the stand, offering equal slices of white sponge and delicate buttercream.

The Councillors all took it with a grateful incline of the head, though she could tell none of them were hungry, simply toying with their forks after taking the requisite bite.

She didn’t offer any to Samuel, who still sat quietly off to the side, an exile among his own peers.

The whole thing was a farce, and the battered remains of Shan’s heart railed against it. But the King only sent her one of those little sly smiles, there and gone again, making her feel like she was some grand co-conspirator.

And maybe she was, by the simple virtue of not fighting back. When had she become so afraid, so quick to fall in line? So desperate to cling to the scraps of power she had collected like broken seashells, fragments of their once glory, a pale imitation of what they had once been.

“Your Majesty,” Lady Belrose began, ever the brave one. “Not that we need an excuse to enjoy the fruits of the royal kitchens, but is there a particular reason you have called us here?”

“Of course, of course,” the King said, clapping his hands together. “I assume you’ve heard tell of what happened at the Blood Treasury this morning?”

He was still so cheerful, even when discussing the veritable disaster.

Shan chanced a sidelong glance over at Samuel, his hands gripping the armrests, fingers curled like claws, blunt fingertips digging into the armrest. Energy thrummed through him, a low vibration that suggested that he was crawling out of his skin—but he was still unable to speak, the command the King had bound him with holding him tighter than any chains or manacles could.

“I had heard, Your Majesty,” Belrose began, only for Morse to cut her off.

“The witch fire is still burning,” Morse said, expression drawn tight in a troubled frown, “and as such it is impossible to get an exact calculation of the full damage. But it is unlikely that any of our stock remains.”

Inclining his head, the King beamed at her, perching on the edge of his desk.

“Thank you, Penelope. Exact as always. That constant attention to detail and unwavering dedication to order is precisely why I picked you to be the Councillor of the Military. I know I can count on you for what is coming.”

Morse didn’t flush, didn’t stammer any soft words to demur. But her unease deepened, the King’s continued cheer at the discussion souring even Shan’s stomach.