AN AWKWARD SITUATION
Richmont was surprised by the summons borne to him by
the Green Foot runner. His cousin had done what she could to keep
her distance from him since the night he had witnessed the rite of
consummation. It mattered not, for he was still solidifying his
position among the nobles. Most were grateful to make his
acquaintance, knowing he had the ear of the new queen and could
grant favors or deny them.
And now the
lord-governors were beginning to arrive, having learned of the
sudden wedding. They demanded audiences with Estora and Zachary.
Formal requests had been refused, and Richmont knew Zachary had not
fully reawakened. The assassination attempt was not discussed, and
no one was led to believe Zachary was in anything but good health.
Mostly Colin Dovekey dealt with the lord-governors, but Richmont
insinuated himself into their good graces by promising to mention
their wishes personally to the king and queen.
He’d been speaking
with Lord-Governor Adolind and making his promise when the runner
arrived with the summons.
“You see?” Richmont
said to Adolind. “I can give the queen your request
straightaway.”
Adolind half-bowed,
deeply gratified. That was how Richmont wanted it—Sacoridia’s
powerful indebted and bowing to him. He strolled through the castle
corridors at his ease, not hastening his steps, though he was
curious to know what Estora wanted with him. He would not give her
the satisfaction, however, of answering her summons like an eager
dog.
When finally he
reached the royal apartments he was ushered directly into Zachary’s
chamber. He absently took in a mender touching Zachary’s forehead
and a servant on her knees sweeping up ashes at the
hearth.
A Weapon stood just
within the door, and another on the balcony outside the glass doors
looking for trouble from without. Estora stood at the foot of the
bed, hands clasped in front of her, attired in a creamy gown and
resembling one of the classical sculptures decorating the more
important rooms in the castle, even with the mourning shawl she
still wore over her shoulders. She gave the slightest nod of
dismissal and the mender removed himself from the room. The Weapon
stepped just outside the door.
Interesting, Richmont thought. It was to be a
private meeting.
“You sent for me?”
Richmont asked.
“I
did.”
“Is it the king? Is
he failing?” Richmont could not conceal the eagerness in his
voice.
“He is holding his
own.”
Richmont stepped
closer, a smile curling his lips. “No more reenactments of the rite
of consummation?”
“That is between my
husband and myself.”
Richmont took yet
another step closer, closer than propriety permitted. “Anything,”
he said very quietly, but distinctly, “that pertains to you and
your royal marriage shall be known to me. All the intimate details,
everything, should I wish it. As you know, I can acquire anything I
like whether you tell me or not.”
“Because of your
informants,” Estora said, “because of those you’ve bribed or
threatened.”
Richmont had
expected the coldness in her voice, but the rest of her remained
composed, oddly relaxed. He felt a warming in his loins at her
defiance, rather a surprise since he had not entertained fantasies
about using her body for his pleasure since she was a child.
Perhaps he was seduced by the power Estora had married into and
aroused by the thought of breaking that defiant streak in her, of
breaking her. He’d stayed away from her
and her sisters to retain his good standing with Lord Coutre, but
Lord Coutre was dead and gone and of no use to him
now.
Swiftly he
calculated the advantages and disadvantages of various
possibilities.
“I asked you here,”
Estora said, “hoping you would recant all that you said to me that
night, and that you would gracefully resign yourself from your
self-ascribed position as my advisor. I wish you removed from my
court.”
Richmont laughed.
How courageously, how naively she spoke. How he would enjoy the
breaking of her, savor it. “After all I told you about what I could
do to your reign, how I could bring down your sister in Coutre and
ruin your father’s name? After all my work you expect me to
gracefully bow away without my due reward?”
He grabbed her wrist
and drew her close. She did not fight him. He wished she would.
“You are no more than a whore,” he told her in a harsh whisper,
“used to breed the new king. You shall not be rid of me. In fact, I
see an even greater future for myself. For instance, if the king’s
condition should take a change for the worse.”
“What are you
saying?”
“It would be easy
enough to arrange, and with whom would you replace him? Oh yes, the
queen would need a suitable husband.”
“Are you
suggesting—”
“Suggesting? No, my
dear, I’m telling you that I would be your husband. I would be
king.”
“I’ve heard enough,”
came a voice from the bed.
Richmont’s heart
thudded. He dropped Estora’s wrist and stepped away. “W-what? My
lord? Did you speak?”
Zachary rose up onto
his elbows, his cheeks hollow, but his gaze stern. “You heard me.”
His voice was not at all weak.
Blood drained from
Richmont’s face as he thought furiously of what to say, what to do.
How much had Zachary heard? How long had he been awake? Estora did
not look the least bit surprised by his wakefulness. She must have
known and kept his true condition a secret from him. But how was
this managed? It was a trap, yes, a trap.
“This is a most
wonderful surprise, Your Majesty,” Richmont said. “To see you
looking so well.”
“An unhappy surprise
for you since you were indicating you’d prefer my demise,” the king
said. “I heard every word, and have been told even
more.”
“Then you know what
will happen if you do anything to me. It’ll be the downfall of your
reign.”
“What I know,”
Zachary said forcefully, “is that I hereby strip you of all titles
and privileges, and that shall be the least of my judgments upon
you.”
Rage, blinding as a
stroke of lightning, surged through Richmont. He would tear Zachary
down, Estora would become his slave, and all of Sacoridia his
plaything. He drew a dagger from beneath his cloak. He would show
them, but before he could more than imagine plunging the blade into
Zachary’s gut, someone grabbed his wrist and his fingers went numb.
The dagger dropped to the carpet. Gray ash dust drifted from the
hand that held him.
The servant? His
mind reeled. He’d dismissed her existence, forgotten her presence
as one always did with servants, but this one did not have the meek
demeanor of a serving woman. She wrenched his arm behind his
back.
“No!” Richmont
roared. “You can’t do this! I’ve plans in place that will bring you
down! My valet stands ready with letters he shall distribute the
moment he knows something has happened to me. The information in
them will destroy you. Is that what you wish? Your reign torn down
in disgrace?”
“Richmont,” Estora
said calmly, almost kindly, which surely meant she mocked him.
“Meet Green Rider, and swordmaster initiate, Beryl Spencer.
Formerly Major Spencer, aide to Lord-Governor Tomas
Mirwell.”
Richmont shuddered.
He’d heard of her, known what she’d done to Tomas Mirwell, but the
rest was all rumor. Her secrets lay even deeper than Richmont could
dig. Now he identified that tone in Estora’s
voice—pity.
“Were these the
letters you were speaking of?” Beryl Spencer asked from behind him.
She shoved a bundle of letters beneath his nose.
Spane gasped,
recognizing his own seal on them.
She drew him close
against her and whispered in his ear, “Your valet proved most
cooperative. You and I shall have much to discuss.”
“I’ve nothing to say
to you.”
“How disappointing.”
But Beryl’s tone indicated she was not disappointed at all. “I’ve
already unraveled a good many of your schemes, picked apart your
connections and networks, questioned those whom you believed loyal.
I received many answers. Far fewer than you thought were truly
loyal. People, it may surprise you to know, generally dislike being
threatened and extorted, and most are more sympathetic to Queen
Estora than, say, you.”
Her voice was soft,
lovely, almost melodic. She terrified him.
“By the time we
finish our interview,” Beryl added, “you will reveal everything I
wish of you, and there will be a reckoning for the murder you
arranged for one of my fellow Riders. Your desires, your plans, and
any status you once enjoyed are perfectly meaningless while you are
in my hands. And finally, when I’m done with you, the king and
queen shall have you for judgment.”
Richmont was handed
over to the iron grip of a Weapon. Before he was led away, he cast
one more glance into the chamber. Estora stood by Zachary’s
bedside, neither of the two paying him the least attention, but
gazing at one another and talking quietly. Beryl Spencer walked
beside him, smiling pleasantly.
Richmont Spane
wanted to cry.
Estora sat trembling in the chair beside Zachary’s
bed. The scene with Richmont had rattled her more than she cared to
admit. She put her face into her hands.
“My lady?” Zachary
queried. “Are you well?”
“Yes,” she replied
firmly. And then more hesitantly, “No.”
He regarded her
silently for some moments before speaking. “It is never easy,” he
said, “to be betrayed by one who was trusted.”
He spoke from
experience, she knew. How could one in his position not? His own
brother had tried to destroy him.
“You’ve also been
burdened with far more than you should have while I lay here
insensible all this time,” he continued. “And this on the heels of
your father’s death. I know how responsibility to the realm
prevents the time and space for proper grief and grieving. Now that
Destarion has stopped dosing me so heavily, I hope I can remove
some of that burden from you.”
“But you are still
recovering.”
“And improving
daily.” He yawned. “Colin has told me a little of what is
transpiring in the realm, and I see there are things I need to put
to rights. And we must discuss this awkward situation between us,
but perhaps not just now.”
He was drifting off
to sleep. It would be a while before he was allowed to rise and
command the realm again. Today’s encounter with Richmont had been
too much, but he’d insisted on it, against Destarion’s
advice.
He had taken the
news of their marriage calmly, though she suspected Destarion or
Colin had broken it to him before she’d a chance to do so herself.
He’d remembered the rite of consummation as a dream, he said, and
an odd light had caught in his eyes. There was a sense of loss
about him she could not explain, which served only to make her feel
more desolate.
His chest rose and
fell in easy breaths, his face peaceful. She did not know what more
he wished to say about their “awkward situation.” Did he wish to
rescind the marriage? Punish her? Was the marriage one of the
things he must “put to rights”? She would not know until he awoke
again and pronounced his judgment.