The Half King

7

Cerise.

The whisper tickled her inner ear, rousing her from dreams.

Wake up, Cerise.

She batted at the sound.

Wake up!

She came to with a gasp, whipping her gaze around her bedchamber for the owner of the voice. Much like her previous nights in the palace, only darkness surrounded her, the deep black that came before dawn. But as the haze of slumber faded, she detected a slight difference in the air. A scent that didn’t belong. Sniffing again, she realized—it was smoke.

She scrambled out of bed, ran through her suite, and continued all the way into the lamp-lit corridor, not bothering to change out of her nightshirt. She knew there were no hearths in Mortara outside of the kitchens, so if there was a fire in the palace, it wasn’t the good kind.

She called out, “Fire!”

When no one responded, she remembered that the other suites along her corridor were empty. A tint clung to the air, growing thicker at the opposite end of the hallway. The source of the fire was close. Even though the king had dismissed his court, maybe a visitor had arrived during the night and was trapped inside a burning room.

Cerise followed the trail of smoke until she reached a suite with blackened fumes pouring from underneath the door. Again, she shouted, “Fire!”

This time, someone heard her call. A royal guard rounded the corner at the other end of the hallway. He saw the smoke and ran toward her, but as he approached, his footsteps slowed and grew clumsy. He made it within ten paces of her before he dropped to his knees and collapsed onto the floor. A moment later, two more guards rounded the corner, but both of them tripped over their boots and crumpled, unconscious, beside the first man.

Cerise shook the guards’ shoulders, but she couldn’t rouse them. Since it was clear that no one else was coming to help her, she used the back of her hand to test the doorknob’s temperature. The metal was only warm to the touch, so she opened the door and immediately cringed as heat tightened her skin.

She dropped to her knees, scanning below the smoke. She identified two more unconscious guards on the suite floor. In the adjoining bedchamber, a woman was slumped halfway over the mattress as though she had lost consciousness while trying to escape. The source of the fire was contained near the balcony, where flames engulfed the curtains. The fire hadn’t spread to the furniture or the carpets yet, but it would if she didn’t extinguish it soon.

She crouched low and darted into the room. Smoke stung her eyes and blurred her vision. Blinking furiously, she snatched the blanket off of the bed and used it to bat at the curtains. The gauzy fabric disintegrated into spirals of ash, which she then smothered with the blanket before she pushed open both balcony doors to clear the smoke.

With the flames extinguished, she pulled in a cool lungful of air, then another. Had a breeze ever tasted this good? A gentle wind swirled inside the suite, pushing the smoke out of the opposite doorway and into the hall. Cerise blotted her eyes with her nightshirt and turned in a clumsy circle to survey the damage.

Numbly, she took in the room, feeling like a spectator in someone else’s dream: debris scattered everywhere, chairs overturned, the blood-orange glow of sunrise on the horizon, the murky cloud that tumbled through the balcony doors. But when the cloud blew back her loose hair, smelling of clean, male skin, she realized what she was witnessing.

The king had arrived.

She watched a ball of shadow gather at the foot of the bed and materialize into flesh. The king’s feet appeared first, long and bronze, followed so quickly by a pair of lean calves and muscular thighs that before her heart could finish its beat, Kian was fully formed.

And completely naked.

Her breath caught. She knew that she should look away, but her eyes only widened to take in more of him. She had never seen a man’s body—not like this—and she found herself captivated by the dusting of hair that covered his skin. Dark and glossy, the king’s curls were sparse in some places, like along the contours of his chest, but they converged at his abdomen and led south, where they encircled his navel and formed a thick trail that drew her focus between his hips.

Oh, stars .

Cheeks heating, she jerked her gaze to his face.

Thankfully, the king hadn’t noticed her watching him. He glanced around the room and muttered, “What in damnation?” until he caught sight of Cerise’s bare legs and arched a brow. “My lady of the temple, you are not dressed.”

She studied the carpet at his feet. “Neither are you, Your Highness.”

There was a rustle of fabric as he ripped the top sheet from the bed and wrapped it around his waist. “My apologies. I don’t suppose priests flaunt their nudity at the temple.”

“Only the toddlers,” she said to the floor. “They remove their clods every chance they get.”

“A natural male trait, the disdain for pants,” he told her.

She peeked up with a grin that she found reflected in his eyes. They looked at each other for a moment until he seemed to remember his surroundings, and then he peppered her with questions. “What happened? Was there a fire? What are you doing here? What am I doing here? I usually wake up with—”

“Lady Champlain,” Cerise interrupted. She rushed to the side of the bed, where the young woman was still unconscious. “This must be her.” She rolled the woman face up and discovered she was right. “I was so focused on putting out the fire that I forgot to check on her.”

Kian gently pried open Delora’s eyelids, revealing pupils so wide they nearly eclipsed her irises. He glanced over his shoulder at the guards while he sniffed the air. “Do you smell that?”

“Smoke?”

“Not just smoke. Something else, almost…sweet.”

Cerise inhaled again and noticed it, too—a nearly imperceptible layer of scent below the acridity of scorched linens. “Yes, it reminds me of burning leaves in the fall.”

The king strode to the balcony and picked up what appeared to be a bundle of charred twigs. He sniffed at the bundle and then recoiled. “Dream weed,” he said. He pointed at Delora. “She would have burned in her sleep. They all would have.”

“Dream weed?” Cerise asked. “Is that a drug?”

“A strong one. The stalk makes an anesthetic when it’s dried and burned. But it’s not easy to find.” Kian crushed the charred bundle in his fist. “There are at least a dozen stalks here. Someone went to a lot of trouble to collect these.”

“So the fire was set on purpose,” she realized.

“With the intention of killing everyone in this room.”

“Was it the same person who loosed the panther, do you think?”

The king didn’t seem to be listening. His eyes were still fixed on Delora. “She was supposed to sleep in my chambers last night. She must have thought I was the target of the panther attack, so she moved to a different suite to protect herself. She even stationed guards at the door, for what little good it did.”

“You are the target,” Cerise told him. “It’s no secret that you appear next to Lady Champlain each day at sunrise. And it can’t be a coincidence that both attacks happened moments before dawn. Someone is trying to kill you. If Father Bishop hadn’t slain the panther, it would have sliced you to ribbons, and you would’ve bled to death before the sun could have set and made you whole again. And if I hadn’t smelled the smoke from my chambers, you would have materialized in a burning room, too drugged to—”

“Save myself, I know,” Kian interrupted. “It’s lucky for all of us that you…” He trailed off and narrowed his eyes, first at the guards and then at her. “My lady of the temple, why didn’t the dream weed affect you? You should be asleep like the others.”

Cerise realized he was right. Every guard who had responded to her call had collapsed in the hallway, and she had inhaled more smoke than all of them. She suddenly became aware of her sister’s pendant resting slightly heavier than before between her breasts. She touched the warm metal ring through her nightshirt and wondered if Nina had been right about the necklace’s protection.

“The goddess works in mysterious ways,” was all she said.

The king cocked his head to the side and studied her with an intensity that raised the tiny hairs at the back of her neck. His gaze bored uncomfortably into hers, almost as if he were trying to see beneath her skin. She could swear that it worked. Those slate-gray eyes made her feel exposed, and for the first time, she remembered she was undressed.

She crossed both arms over her chest. “I should put on some clothes.”

“Should you?”

There was a flirtatious tone in his question that brought a blush to her cheeks. She hoped he didn’t notice, but he probably did.

“Yes, and so should you, Your Majesty,” she said. “I’m meeting with Daerick so he can teach me about my role as emissary. I want to be prepared to assist you when you resume your duties today. And you will resume them, won’t you? You remember our talk in the garden?”

Instead of answering her, the king stared silently at Delora’s sleeping form. Cerise couldn’t tell if he was worried for his courtesan or simply deep in thought. Just when he opened his mouth to speak, Delora began to stir, moaning and clutching her head in both hands, and Kian moved to her side to comfort her.

“Lie still,” he murmured to Delora, brushing back her long, brown waves with so much tenderness that Cerise had to avert her gaze. She didn’t know why, but watching him attend to Delora made her chest ache. When he started making gentle shushing noises, she decided it was time to return to her suite.

“I’ll take my leave now, Your Highness,” she said. “Will you please remember that you made me a promise?”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Kian answered. After a long pause, he added, “Enjoy your lessons, my lady of the temple.”

With a dip of her chin, Cerise made her exit.

…

Gossip about the fire spread through the palace faster than the actual flames. By the time Cerise had bathed away the stench of smoke and dressed herself in a fresh temple gown, a trio of young maidservants had arrived in her suite and arranged a breakfast fit for a queen.

A small, round table had been delivered to her sitting room. Draped in a starched white cloth that bore a gold-embroidered Mortara crest, the table offered the finest place setting Cerise had ever seen, each plate rimmed with precious metals and gilded art. A sparkling crystal decanter of juice stood alongside a silver teapot, and etched silver trays offered an assortment of berries and melons, eggs and salted meats, and crème-filled pastries so delicate and enticing they made her mouth water. One of the maidservants placed a single pink rose on the edge of the table, along with a note that read:

With gratitude from His Majesty’s Royal Guard .

Cerise placed a hand over her heart. She thought back to her years at the temple, to the shame and the envy she had felt watching the other Seers succeed where she had only failed. All she had ever been was a disappointment. Now, to look upon the lavish display of appreciation from the palace guards made her eyes water. She blinked furiously to stop herself from crying in front of the maidservants.

She cleared the thickness from her throat and said, “Shiera’s light upon you.”

“And may her wrathful eye look away,” came the joint reply.

Though the maids had finished their work, they made no move to leave her suite. All three of them were young—barely fourteen, by Cerise’s estimate—with round, freckled faces and even rounder eyes that regarded her in the same way a child might gaze at a stack of presents left behind by the Harvest Fairy. In unison, the girls dipped into low curtsies, their gray linen skirts brushing the floor.

“If you please, my lady,” the first girl said in a voice that trembled. “May I have the honor of braiding your hair? I know the best plaits. All of the ladies at court used to request me to style them for parties.”

Before Cerise could respond, the second girl lifted a gilded plate from the table and asked, “May I serve you, my lady?”

The third girl quickly added, “And may I prepare your tea?”

Pressure built behind Cerise’s eyes. As she struggled to maintain her composure, she visualized the Reverend Mother standing in front of her, tall and regal, narrowing her gaze, shaking her head in disapproval, and chiding, Calm yourself, girl!

The mental image dried her tears at once.

“Thank you for your kind offers,” Cerise said. “I would love nothing more than to accept.”

All three of the maids beamed and then flew into action. Within moments, Cerise was seated on a plush, cushioned dining chair in front of the breakfast table while one maid tenderly brushed her hair and the others prepared to serve her. She briefly wondered what Father Padron would say if he could see her now, being showered with appreciation for her bravery. Would he join in and praise her? Or would he criticize her for enjoying the attention? She didn’t want to care about his opinion of her, but she couldn’t help it. She did.

Fortunately, the girls made it easy to forget him. She learned that they were triplets, and their mother had named them after her favorite birds: Wren, Lark, and Dove. As the girls attended to her, they took turns explaining their troubles—everything from unpleasant dreams and painful courses to diseased relatives and unwelcome proposals of marriage—and asking her for guidance. Cerise didn’t pretend that she could See their paths, but she promised to mention Wren, Lark, and Dove in her prayers, and that seemed to be a comfort to them. Then they told her some of the stories they had heard about the fire. Cerise had to bite her lip to contain a laugh when she heard a description of how she had extinguished the flames with the power of her prayers.

When Cerise had finished her breakfast of fruit pastries, honeyed oats, and spiced tea, a knock sounded at the door to her suite. She was still seated for her braid and unable to move, so she asked Wren to answer the door.

“It’s probably Lord Calatris,” Cerise said. “I’m expecting him.”

But it wasn’t the royal historian on the other side of the door.

The king’s courtesan had come to pay a visit.

Delora Champlain strode into the sitting room and smoothly lowered in a curtsy. Her glossy hair was loosely pinned in chestnut waves that spilled down the back of her silken gown, which was royal blue to match her eyes. She seemed as lovely and regal as ever. If not for the slight redness in her gaze, no one would guess that anything was amiss.

“My lady of the temple,” Delora greeted in a voice raw from smoke.

“Good morning, Lady Champlain,” Cerise said.

Delora looked from one serving maid to the next. “Leave us, please.”

“But my lady,” objected Lark, the maid braiding Cerise’s hair. “The plait is only half—”

“I will finish it,” Delora interrupted. She glided behind the chair where Cerise sat and then took over her loose sections of hair so gently that Cerise didn’t notice the transfer until Lark bowed and joined her sisters in leaving the suite. Delora resumed the braid in silence for a few moments, her fingers light and deft as they slipped through Cerise’s hair. Finally, she softly coughed and said, “I must apologize, my lady.”

“Apologize for what?” Cerise asked.

“The king explained what happened while I was incapacitated,” she said. “And when I listened to his story, I realized that he failed to thank you.”

“Did he?” Cerise asked. “I assure you I didn’t notice.”

“Nevertheless, the king owes you his gratitude, and I owe you mine.”

Delora completed the last section of braid and used a hairpin to secure the plait. With her long fingernails, she combed the stray hairs into place along the nape of Cerise’s neck, the gentle scraping raising chills on her skin. The sensation felt exquisite, and before Cerise could stop herself, she pictured Delora using that same sensual touch on the king. Her stomach sank an inch. She didn’t want to imagine them together. She shouldn’t be thinking of the king in that way.

Delora glided around the chair and faced Cerise, peering at the intricate braids as if to inspect her work. She nodded in approval. “Perfect.”

Cerise delicately touched her hair. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you . I could have died today.” Delora released another quiet cough and then shook her head. “And to think that I became the king’s courtesan because I believed it would save me.”

“Save you?” Cerise blinked. “Save you from what?”

“That’s a story for another day. I’m quite tired, my lady. I hope you don’t mind if I excuse myself.”

Cerise stood from her chair and gave a farewell nod. A small part of her wondered if Delora was exhausted from the dream weed…or if she had finally conceived the king’s heir.

Instead of asking, Cerise said, “Rest well, Lady Champlain.”