Page 17 of Shadows and Roses (The Dark Queens #1)

When Castien returned to the palace, a pair of rose guards led him to the Queen’s Wing. They felt like they were guarding him this time, instead of guarding against him. He hoped it stayed that way.

The Queen and her Escorts received him in a large study, sitting around a large table on one side of the room. Cabinets and shelves lined the walls, except for a small fireplace in the opposite wall.

Castien bowed, erring on the side of caution. Anais nodded when he finished his report.

"Well done. Thank you, Castien." She stared across the table into the empty fireplace. It was unlike her to be distracted. In fact, the general mood of the room felt muted.

He frowned. "Is something wrong?"

She grimaced. "Darius, prepare him for next week’s festivities."

"Festivities?" Castien couldn’t think of any holidays. Coronation day, perhaps?

Her lips thinned. "Vern, please accompany me." They left the room.

Expressions around the table ranged from sad to resigned as most of the others also departed.

He turned to Darius, who shook his head. "Her birthday is next week." It sounded more like her funeral.

Raising a brow, he inquired, "Is there some grotesque event to celebrate her birthday?"

"The day itself isn’t the problem." Darius sighed. "Her mother was killed two days after her twentieth birthday."

Castien’s eyes widened as he realized that coronation day was three days after her birthday. "I see."

Darius’ smile didn’t reach his eyes. "Next week’s celebration will encompass both her coronation day and her birthday. Dual reminders of the terrible event, decorated with dance, music, food, debauchery, and all of it anointed in blood."

While the court would expect nothing less than excessive extravagance for such an event, it would be tantamount to torture for her. He had never known grief or loss, but he’d have a difficult time watching her endure the next week.

"She must attend and participate the entire week. Some nights, she asks for me." Darius paused, giving him a frank stare. "Consider taking my place. It’s not a command or an expectation, and she didn’t ask me to step aside. Just… think about it."

The Escort barely gave him a chance to process the words. "Right, the festivities. First event will be the dance. Your dossier was quite eloquent about your abilities—please do stand in for me there. This is me begging. By tradition, the dance is chosen when the music begins. I always miss the opening steps."

Castien nodded, his mind not on any dance. A moon ago, the Queen had been a nightmare creature, someone he was glad paid him no attention. And when she finally did, it wasn’t the insanity he expected, but insanity nonetheless.

He wanted the chance to taste her. Maybe it would be enough to satisfy this terrible craving. He'd never desired another like this—not without it being shortly satisfied. That was the only possible explanation.

"She doesn't mind if I step in?" The fact that Darius—perhaps all the Escorts—had noticed his interest wasn’t a surprise. Vern had noticed .

Darius' smile was knowing. "Oh, she won't mind in the least."

Good. Then he could quench this fire and regain his sanity.

Anais

"To Jana." Vern’s voice rasped as he lifted a glass of wine.

Anais leaned forward and clinked her glass against his. "To Jana."

His smile was strained, but she was still glad to see it. It had taken two years for more than fleeting glimpses of a smile to appear on his lips. Now, he was almost as she remembered.

Almost—more protective, quicker to anger, slower to trust. The pain in his eyes—she didn’t think he’d ever stop feeling that pain. She looked away.

A vase of white roses sat in the center of the gazebo. One year after her mother’s death, Anais had found this little homage. The gardeners’ tribute. White had been Jana’s favorite color.

Her mother had not been an easy woman to love. Respect, honor, obey—yes, the Inner Circle had done all that without question. But they had not surrounded her in the love that Anais knew as a child, these men and women who had helped shape a princess into a Queen.

Except Vern. Vern had looked at Jana like she was his light. Her mother had told her the story of rescuing him, stealing him from a lady who would have forced him to her bed and to marriage. Vern showered Jana with gratitude and affection. Even though she did not return the affection, he never stopped. Not even when she grew tired of the gifts and demanded that if he insisted on leaving things in her room like a stray cat, he ought to bring her the head of a troublesome noble. He did.

From then on, Jana had fondly accounted the string of corpses he’d laid at her feet—until she finally appointed him the Master of Assassins and asked him to her bed.

Something sharp had sprouted in him the day his light died, thorns that time had helped soften.

Vern emptied his glass and reached for the bottle, filling hers as well. His hand didn’t shake. His hands never shook.

One day. One hour. One minute .

She wanted just a single moment when she could let go. When they could all stop pretending. Just once. But she was afraid that if she did, she’d unravel and never pull herself together again.

Castien

Next week came quickly. In addition to his regular schedule, they added dance and music practice. The court swelled, and he joined the other Escorts in monitoring the large crowds. The nobles were inclined to behave themselves a touch better with a reminder that the Queen was watching—at least counting.

The Queen’s birthday dawned rather noisily, as though no one in the palace had slept. Servants rushed about even in the Queen's Wing. Dodging them, Castien managed to join the other Escorts as they paraded to the Great Hall. All her Escorts were in attendance for these events. A row of guards fell in line on both sides as soon as they exited the wing.

Music grew louder with each step. A variety of instruments colored the air—harps, viols, drums, and flutes all melding together in a strange, lilting melody .

The Great Hall had been entirely redecorated. He’d roamed the hall during the preparations, but it practically glowed now. The only tables that remained were set against the opposite wall to the hearth and piled with gifts. The hearth itself was dimmer than usual despite one man’s lagging efforts to feed the flames. His chained, bare arms were already reddened. A Nadraken spy, Anais had mentioned. While the nobles didn’t care who walked, someone was expected to suffer today.

The nobles stood in serene, respectful, orderly rows, presenting themselves as the aristocracy he would have expected on his first day in the palace. A pity the illusion wouldn’t last. They displayed an alarming splash of colors, covering the entire spectrum from dark to bright. No theme had been announced; perhaps it was another game to see who could match the Queen best.

Crystal and metal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, emphasizing the numerous glimmering satin banners and stringed jeweled beads hanging from the walls. Beneath the largest chandelier, slow-moving dancers spun and hovered in time with the music, their billowing fabrics floating like a cloud.

The Escorts stopped partway into the hall, lining up in front of the pretty, temporarily well-behaved courtiers. Castien wore the same attire as his companions: a silvery-grey silk shirt with an emerald sash tied at the waist and snug dark red pants.

The music stopped. He caught his breath.

From between the large wooden doors, the Queen entered alone. Black silk hugged her body, collaring her neck and caressing every curve. Small, glinting diamonds drew attention to the slightest movement. Thin, black gauze clung to her arms. Only the stark pale skin of her hands was unadorned, but for the red painted tips of her buffed claws. The black silk parted at her right hip, extending to where the fabric barely missed the ground. Blood-red gossamer encased her legs, ending in soft black leather around her feet.

The Queen paused before she passed him. In a ringing voice that carried above the music, she commanded, "Escort. Join me." She extended her hand without turning her gaze from the dancers.

Castien placed his hand in hers and they stepped onto the dance floor. The performers' swirling silks spread around them like parting waters until they formed a circle, widening to give the Queen and her partner space. At the same moment that the pair stopped walking and faced each other, the dancers all lowered themselves to the ground with the susurration of settling cloth.

The Queen wore a faint smirk but her eyes were bright. Dance , she mouthed, barely moving her lips before the music sped and she spun away.

Every Night Courtesan knew how to dance. Castien was exceptional. On the stage, in front of an audience, he fell into the rhythm without thought. A few beats to recognize the music and he moved in perfect step—the opposite direction of her. Another few seconds and they met again. Inches apart, the speed of their movements caused their hair to collide in a twirl but nothing else touched.

It was a fluid, almost violent dance that tested their trust, reflexes, and endurance. There was no time to adjust to a partner's misstep, no chance to catch up to the demanding beat. Anything less than perfection would end in an embarrassing heap of painfully tangled limbs on the ground. Performed well, it was a natural and dangerous display of narrowly avoided claws at his throat or his leg extended where she should step but instead, she curved around him.

It was exhilarating to be himself in this court. And unexpectedly intimate .

Dances like these were always challenging tests of skill, an exhausting performance for the pleasure of the nobility. But now, as sweat gleamed on their skin and their breaths came faster, he found himself mesmerized by the intensity in her eyes. Not the piercing cold of sharpened emeralds that she directed at the snakes, but a heated, delighted evergreen that tempted him to close the distance.

Shift an inch at the right moment and their lips might touch like a passing breeze.

The desire almost shocked him out of rhythm but the song ended in another few steps, when the two dancers finally embraced. Castien stood frozen in her arms, lightning racing through his veins at every point where their skin met. They were joined in too many places—warm hands, taut legs, heaving chests, her breath panting into his ear.

He turned a fraction of a degree towards her neck, inhaling her lavender and rose.

Loud clapping and cheers broke his trance. The other dancers spun up around them and continued onto a new tune, almost drowning out the short laugh next to his ear and hiding the movement of her hip as she pressed briefly closer. He stifled a groan and backed away in embarrassment, answering her small smile with one of his own.

They glided out of the mass of fabric as smoothly as they had entered, every step a part of the performance.

But emerald ice slid back into her gaze when they took their place in the audience—her on the throne and him in the Escorts’ line that had shifted behind her.

When the final performers finished, servants quickly moved tables and trays of food into place. The Queen remained in her seat as tables were brought to her, and chairs for her Escorts. Vern, as steward, sat to her right, but the left remained empty. The captain stood closest.

"Sit, Escort Castien. My dear captain has an aversion to chairs. At times, I wonder if someone blisters his backside." Her slightly projected voice elicited a few cruel laughs. Jerome didn't react.

Castien slid into the seat. Her claws settled on his arm and tapped gently, absently.

The courtiers began mingling as the servants completed setting the tables, the murmur of conversation mixing with clinking glass. A few nobles passed by the Queen's table to pay their respects.

One lingered. She bowed to the Queen but her eyes flicked toward Castien when she spoke.

"Happy birthday, my Queen. That was the most beautiful Panther's Hunt I’ve ever seen. It seems the Night Courts have other talents."

His stare was blank.

Anais' claws dug into his arm. "Indeed. A terrible pity if you haven’t already sampled him. His bedroom talents are even more exquisite." And mine , her humorless smile declared.

Possessive. No woman had ever claimed him quite so thoroughly. This was all fake, all a game, but a smirk threatened his expressionless facade.

The lady blinked and bowed, a blush rising in her cheeks as she moved away.

More people approached throughout the day, weaving flattery and presenting gifts along with their personal requests. This was a subtler, deadlier dance with steps he did not know, but he tried to follow where she led.

While a lord explained his need for additional loans due to a poor harvest, she impaled a small sausage half the length of her claw and turned to Castien, bringing it to his mouth. He hesitated a fraction of a second at the cold in her eyes and the sharp edges of her claw .

The man stopped talking, instead watching fascinated as her claw slid from his lips.

"Silk?" Anais asked quietly, her eyes still on Castien’s lips.

The lord blinked. "What?"

She turned to him. "Your crop is silk, is it not, Lord Orlien?"

"Yes, your highness, that’s right. The best silk in all—"

"And the last few harvests were abundant, is that not correct?"

"Well, you’re quite right, my Queen. It's terrible how the fire spread so quickly—"

"Why were you not prepared for a single harvest failure?"

His smile faltered. "I— that is, we've been expanding, building structures so that more of the land can be used to produce and process more silk. It's an expensive endeavor, your majesty."

"Is that so."

The lord's simpering smile grew sweeter. "I wouldn't bother my Queen with those dull details. We only need a small loan, a hundred thousand gold, and the silk will flow like the raging Estes River."

Castien almost laughed at this man's idea of small.

The Queen swirled her wine. "Hmm. So if I were to send a surveyor to audit your accounts, they would find nothing more than an accidental fire?"

"Ah, of course, my Queen. But, some of the records were caught in the fire—"

"Enough," she snapped, her tone no longer bored. "Your request is denied. I'm fully aware of your debts, your penchant for losing records, as well as your more than sufficient treasury. The damage to your property, if not self-inflicted, was small. And if you truly cannot manage your finances, I'm sure another of this court could absorb your lands with little difficulty."

The lord gaped, closed his mouth, and slunk away.

There were a few legitimate concerns. A baron brought the complaint of a large pack of wolves that sounded like better predators than his guards. She berated the poor man, demanded recompense for her time, and sent him off with several squads of reinforcements. On this day, she could be almost magnanimous without inviting the nobles’ suspicions.

Almost. The spy’s screams weaved into the court’s laughter, and though she smiled, it was without joy.