The Half King

4

Cerise slept fitfully, dreaming of heretics and demigods and living shadows. Twice she awoke to urgent whispers in her ear, only to find herself alone and panting for air. The voice had seemed so clear when it had called her name, but she convinced herself it was a trick of the mind and closed her eyes until she fell asleep again.

She finally rose for good with the sun and dressed in one of the gowns from the local temple. The frock was identical in style to her old gown but constructed from a light, gauzy material that made her feel exposed, even though she wasn’t. On her way to the first floor, she found the palace abuzz with nervous chatter. The staff was so consumed by gossip that the servants barely took notice of her. She caught snippets of conversation as she glided along the corridor, murmurs of a horrible beast and in her bed . It wasn’t until she strode into the foyer and glanced through the open doors onto the lawn that she realized what had caused the stir.

An animal lay on its side in the grass. It looked like a desert panther with its limbs outstretched, rigid in death. She felt an odd mingling of regret and fascination as she eyed the panther’s hairless body and its long, hollow claws, known for drawing moisture from the ground. She had never seen anything so magnificent except in books at the temple library.

She descended the steps for a closer look and found Father Padron outside with several of his priests. He gave her a grim smile when their eyes met, as if apologizing for whatever had taken place during the night.

“What happened, Your Grace?” she asked him.

“Lady Champlain retired to her chambers at midnight and found this”—indicating the panther—“waiting for her. She owes her life to Father Bishop’s weakness for sweet cakes. He was halfway to the kitchen when he heard her screams and ran to help. After he killed the beast, it took three royal guards to drag the carcass outside.”

Cerise noticed there were no wounds on the animal’s leathery hide. The priest must have slain it with his magic. She had seen it done once before, when a badger had burrowed under the courtyard wall to attack the temple hens. With a wave of his hand, Father Diaz had stopped the creature’s heart, but then Father Diaz had collapsed and lost consciousness. It had taken a full day for him to awake. Nothing required more magical energy than dispatching death.

“Lady Champlain should send sweet cakes for his recovery,” Cerise said. She recalled what Daerick had told her about the woman. “Isn’t she the king’s—”

“Courtesan, yes,” Father Padron finished. “His Majesty is understandably upset. He insisted on accompanying the guards into the city for an investigation.” Using his shoe, he nudged the cat’s hindquarters, where a circular brand was singed into the flesh. “This is the mark of a local trader.”

Cerise doubted any trader would be careless enough to unleash a panther into the palace with his brand on display, but she supposed the investigation had to begin somewhere.

“Do you think His Majesty will return before sunset?” she asked. She had just worked up the nerve to meet the king, and delaying it for another day would have her stomach dancing again.

Father Padron shook his head. “Probably not. And he’s wasting his time. The trader didn’t do this, and I doubt the courtesan was the real target.”

“Do you mean His Majesty was the target?” Cerise asked. “How could anyone kill him after sunset? He disappears into the shadows.”

“And awakes at sunrise wherever his spirit is drawn, which at the moment is to Lady Champlain’s bedside.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that.” Cerise had always assumed that the king’s mortal body appeared in a place of significance, not in the presence of a particular person. For his body to follow the pull of his spirit was an oddly romantic element of his curse that she hadn’t anticipated. “Is it the same when he loses daytime hours? Does he reappear beside Lady Champlain then, too?”

“For the time being, yes,” Father Padron said. “Like all young people, his feelings have been known to change.”

A king with a wandering eye? That was no surprise. “But who would want him to die any sooner than he has to? An empty throne would mean war. That’s everyone’s greatest fear.”

Father Padron shifted his focus to the foyer, where the noise of approaching boots grew louder. His gaze tightened. “Not everyone’s greatest fear.”

The moment Cerise turned to regard the owner of those boots, she took an instinctive step backward. Storming toward them was the largest man she had ever seen, at least two heads taller than Father Padron and twice as broad. Tattooed flames covered the skin on the man’s shaven scalp, and his chest stretched the limits of his guard uniform. But it was his expression that turned Cerise cold. His lips were hard as slate, his eyes wild with fury.

If violence had a face, his would be it.

Father Padron rested a hand on her forearm. No words passed between them, but his touch held a promise of protection. “General Petros,” he greeted coolly.

Now Cerise understood Father Padron’s comment about war. It was a Petros who had forged the weapon to slay the goddess during the Great Betrayal. As punishment, Petros firstborns carried the curse of bloodlust. A man like General Petros would love nothing more than a battle for the throne. Scarier still, his dynasty would probably win.

“Your Grace,” the general rumbled through clenched teeth. “I just received word of another incident, this time in southern Calatris.” He looked from one priest to another, glaring at them hard enough to engorge the veins at his temples. “I swear by the blood of Shiera that if you don’t get your—”

His voice went mute, and his body froze. Cerise tasted the coppery tang of energy and glanced at Father Padron, who hadn’t moved a muscle. He stood calm and relaxed, as though paralyzing a mountain of a man caused him no strain at all.

“You will not threaten me,” Father Padron said smoothly. “Or anyone in my care. As much as His Majesty values your tactical advice, he values the Order more. You will remember your place, or I will continue to remind you of it.”

He released the enchantment and freed the general, whose body trembled with rage. For a moment, the general curled his hands into fists and held still. Then he gave a throaty roar and punched the ground hard enough for Cerise to feel a tremor beneath her shoes. His bones cracked. When he stood up, his hand swung limp and mangled by his side. He didn’t seem to notice. He simply turned toward the gatehouse and stalked away.

“Don’t worry about his hand,” Father Padron said as he watched the general enter the gatehouse. “He’s on his way to the temple to visit his mistress. She will heal it.” He added darkly, “He thinks I don’t know. It’s a disgrace.”

“You know of the affair?” Cerise whispered. “And you…” haven’t stopped it? She caught herself before she rudely questioned his judgment, choosing instead to file away the information for later. At this rate, she wouldn’t have any space left inside her head.

“Some battles are best saved for the future,” he said.

She held her tongue because there was nothing more she could add. Temple Seers, even those with the added gift of healing, weren’t magically bound to celibacy like members of the Order were. Priests couldn’t engage in physical intimacy. They didn’t even desire it. That was the price they paid for their gift. But while the act of love wasn’t expressly denied to Seers in the sacred scrolls, it dimmed the Sight. Most Seers refused romantic company for that very reason. Those who took a lover were encouraged to repent or else sent away to parts unknown until they atoned. Cerise had never seen it happen. She had only heard stories.

“I’m sure I don’t have to worry about your virtue,” Father Padron added, but in a questioning tone that negated his words.

“You don’t,” Cerise told him. Her inner eye was sightless enough without inviting a lover to muddy her vision.

He lifted an apologetic hand. “I don’t mean to offend you. It’s just that I’ve lived at court long enough to know how laymen think. They’ll consider you a prize. You’re special, so they think that winning you will make them special, too. But they care nothing about your future or what a dalliance will cost you. Do you understand?”

Cerise nodded, trying to look somber while her lips begged to smile. The high priest of Shiera thought she was special. She couldn’t imagine a greater compliment than that.

“The goddess will test you,” he said. “I only want you to be prepared.” He offered his elbow. “Let’s put it behind us. Will you join me for morning prayer?”

By way of answer, she took his arm and let him lead her to the sanctuary. The small, domed building stood slightly apart from the palace, connected by a long, covered, open-air corridor that bordered one of the palace gardens. The sanctuary earned its name the moment she stepped across the threshold. There were no silken carpets or magical embellishments in the prayer room, only the familiar black and white floor tiles to symbolize balance between darkness and light. As she lowered onto a floor cushion and closed her eyes, she felt something no enchantment could provide.

Peace.

She spent most of the day there, praying for guidance, and at his invitation, she enjoyed lunch with Father Padron in his sitting room. He listened without judgment as she told him the truth about her lack of Sight. He didn’t even flinch when she asked about the elderly woman who had touched her skirts the day before.

“I thought you would be angry,” she confessed, “that I brought it up.”

“Angry?” His face softened into a smile. “The fact that you want to save the fallen is a testament to your purity of heart. How could I feel anything but admiration for you, Cerise?”

A blush crept into her cheeks. “Then the woman hasn’t been…dispatched?”

“Dispatched?” He drew back. “My goodness, is that what you think happens under my watch? Abuse? Murder?”

“No, Your Grace,” she said, but in truth, the Order wasn’t known for its tolerance. “Of course not. I shouldn’t have assumed the worst.”

“I assure you the maid was given a warning and released,” he told her. “Her punishment was the loss of her position here at the palace, but I believe she has already found another posting in the city. I’m nothing if not merciful. How can we expect the goddess to forgive our sins if we’re unable to forgive others?”

Relief washed over her, and not simply for the elderly woman’s sake. Father Padron was the head of Shiera’s Order, and she was glad to find he wasn’t cruel, that he was a good man. She was still obligated to protect the revelation, but today, in her heart, Father Padron had taken a step toward being an ally.

His kindness mattered more to her than he probably knew.

“May I ask one more question?” she said.

“As I’ve told you, Cerise, you may ask me anything.”

“Nothing was explained to me when I was sent here,” she began. “I’ve heard that the people in the city expect me to do miracles. I’m already going to disappoint them by being ordinary. I don’t want to be incompetent as well. How can I impress the king when I meet him tomorrow? What will my first day as emissary look like?”

“Let me put your mind at ease,” Father Padron said. “The king will expect very little, if anything, from you in the way of political guidance. And as for spiritual guidance, you needn’t waste your efforts.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you remember how His Majesty spends his days?”

“In his chamber with his courtesan.”

“The king is seldom seen and rarely heard,” Father Padron explained. “He dismissed the majority of his court several moons ago. Since then, he has withdrawn from the daily business of rule. The people you saw yesterday were mainly palace servants, along with a few courtiers who chose to remain. There are no meetings for you to attend, no public audiences or hearings, because he cancelled them all.”

“Are you saying I have nothing to do here?”

“That is exactly what I’m saying,” he told her. “Try not to worry.”

Oddly, it didn’t make her feel better to learn that she had no role in the palace. There must be something for her to do; otherwise, the Reverend Mother wouldn’t have Seen the image of her studying “quite dutifully” at the emissary’s desk. But she kept that thought to herself, and she left Father Padron to his duties.

She didn’t realize how long she had spent inside the sanctuary until she noticed the low sunlight slanting across the foyer. Judging by the scent of roasting meat, dinner would be served soon. There seemed no point in returning to her room only to leave it again, so she drifted outside in search of the garden she had seen last night from her balcony.

The air began to surrender its moisture as the sun slid closer to the horizon. She decided this was her favorite time of day in Mortara, and when she reached the garden, she noticed with pleasure that she had it all to herself. The flowers in Mortara were different than the ones in Solon, blooming in vibrant blues, pinks, and purples, but not as delicate. They were thicker to the touch and less satiny, with tough stems. The harsh climate had made them strong. She wanted to be strong, too.

A sweet chirping from nearby drew her gaze to a wooden trellis, on which perched the tiniest frog she had ever seen. She had never come across anything like it in her books. Vivid blue and about the size of her thumbnail, its form was delicate, unlike the tough plants all around it. Its eyes were large for its face, giving it an undoubtedly cute appearance. She crept slowly toward the trellis, trying not to startle the frog. Once she had moved close enough to touch it, she stretched out a hand to welcome the tiny creature into her palm.

A sudden rush of movement whizzed past her ear, followed by a thud . The next thing she knew, the frog was dead, pinned to the wooden trellis by a dagger. Gasping, she whirled around to see who had thrown the weapon.

That was when she met His Majesty Kian Hannibal Mortara.

A thrill passed through her at the sight of him. She had seen his official portrait many times—shoulder-length ebony hair parted down the middle, framing a copper-hued face and a pair of gray eyes she considered more dangerous than attractive. But in person he commanded a bold presence that oils couldn’t capture. Instead of his royal military jacket, he wore canvas pants and a black silk shirt rolled at the sleeves, revealing strong, tanned forearms made taut by clenching fists. He hadn’t smiled for his portrait, and he wasn’t smiling now. He was glaring at her as though she were something vulgar he had discovered underneath a rock.

“Didn’t they teach you anything at the temple?” he demanded. For a sliver of a second, she thought she saw more than anger in his eyes. He seemed…disappointed.

Catching herself, she dipped in a low curtsy.

“Not that, you insipid girl!” He flung a hand toward the frog. “That.”

Insipid girl? Her lips parted in offense. She was of noble birth, and king or not, he had no right to treat her like a serving wench. “I am…” Her voice trembled, and she lifted her chin to try again. “I am a lady of the temple, and you will address me as such.”

The king broke into laughter—a slow, menacing chuckle that did nothing to warm his gaze. “I see you’ve met my high priest.”

She didn’t like the way he said my high priest, as if the sacred Order was a commodity to be traded among laymen. “I’ve met Father Padron, yes.”

“A pity he spent more time overinflating your ego than teaching you which creatures to avoid.” He jutted his chin at the frog while striding toward it. “Like that one. It emits toxins through its skin. One touch, and not even Padron could have saved you in time.” He pulled his dagger free and pointed the blade at her. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Cerise realized she was backing up, and she stopped. She wouldn’t let him bully her. “If that’s true, then I owe you my gratitude, Your Highness.”

“If that’s true,” he repeated while raking a disdainful gaze over her. “You’re the emissary they sent here to deliver me from evil? Forgive me if I lack faith, my lady , but you don’t look like much. You don’t even have the Sight, do you?”

She clenched her jaw, refusing to answer him. Clearly, he had heard the same rumor that Daerick had told her about. And she had been right in predicting that the king would hate her when he learned the truth.

The king’s gaze dipped to the throbbing pulse point at the base of her throat. One corner of his lips curved up. He thrust his dagger into the trellis and then began inching toward her. “Do you want to know how I can tell you have no Sight?” he asked. “True Seers possess a calm that comes from the ability to See the paths around them. But you’re more frightened than a rabbit staring down a viper, aren’t you?”

Her confident mask slipped. He couldn’t possibly know about the rabbit kit and the lowland flamewinder, could he?

“Let me predict something for you, my lady of the temple.” His voice, already deep, turned sinister. “You will find evil here, in the most unexpected places. By the time the shadows consume me and I dissolve into nothing, you’ll wish you could forget all the things the temple has hidden from you.”

Cerise swallowed hard and held her ground at first. But as he quickened his steps, advancing toward her with no hint of stopping, she scurried backward, nearly tripping over the hem of her gown. His tall, broad frame began to fade at the edges, curling into smoke. Still he advanced, until she was certain their bodies would collide. She balled her fists and closed her eyes, tensing for the blow, but instead of impact, a cool breeze rushed over her, brushing back her hair.

She opened her eyes and blinked.

All that remained of the king was a pile of clothing at her feet.