The Half King

9

After the lesson ended, Daerick returned to his chambers to continue his research on the origins of the noble curses and how to undo them while Cerise sat alone at her desk, eating a luncheon of cold meats and cheeses and thumbing through the late emissary’s journal.

She worked her way backward through a year’s worth of entries, not only to learn what an emissary’s daily life should look like but in hopes of discovering what might have driven Mother Strout to cut short her own. So far, the journal contained nothing more than a collection of painfully mundane details from palace meetings. Strout must have been bored out of her wits, because she’d sketched odd designs in the margins of each page. The images weren’t recognizable, just the casual scribbles of one with a restless mind. Unless boredom had stripped Mother Strout of her will to live, the answer to her death wouldn’t be found in her entries, and there was no mention of curses. Not a single clue to be found.

So much for destiny.

Cerise closed the journal and rubbed her weary eyes. Each day at the palace seemed to pass like a year at the temple. She gazed through her open doorway to the window, where the afternoon sun struck the edges of the glass panes and sprayed colorful prisms on the floor. As she peered beyond the lawn to the trees stirring in the breeze, she felt something wistful building inside her, a longing of sorts. She recognized the feeling from her years at the temple.

She needed to find the palace kennels.

She took the journal with her as she walked out of her office suite, and she noticed Lark, the young maid who had braided her hair, carrying a tray of scones toward the open-air corridor that led to the sanctuary, possibly for Father Padron’s afternoon tea.

“Excuse me,” Cerise called to Lark. “Can you direct me to the kennels?”

Lark colored visibly, grinning. She attempted a curtsy that was more of a wobbling of knees. “Yes, my lady. I’ll take you there myself.”

“There’s no need—”

But Lark was already placing her tray on the floor, insisting that a priest would have to come and fetch the scones anyhow, as maids weren’t allowed inside the sanctuary. She waved Cerise toward the kitchens, and as they walked, Lark continued to blush and avert her gaze.

The two of them exited the back of the castle and continued through the rear gardens, near which stood the stables, the barracks, and beyond that, presumably, the kennels. But what drew Cerise’s attention was the sight of the king administering his duties. Two companies of guards were running drills, presided over by Kian, who looked very royal indeed as he nodded in approval and clapped General Petros on the shoulder.

“Now that’s something I haven’t seen in a while,” murmured Lark.

Cerise turned to her. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, my lady, I’m sorry. I only meant that the king stopped his drill exercises with the soldiers, and I know the men have missed his presence. It’s nice to see him do it again.”

Cerise couldn’t help but smile as she shielded her eyes from the sun. “It certainly is,” she said quietly.

Kian was keeping his promise to her.

She and Lark stood in silence for a moment as the soldiers finished drilling. Some of them formed pairs and began to spar. Another group converged around General Petros while the rest headed back to the barracks.

“I can find my way all right from here, thank you,” Cerise said. She added, “Shiera’s light to you,” and flourished a hand as if dispensing blessings.

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

Lark smiled and hurried back to the castle, and Cerise veered toward the practice field. As she neared it, the knot of soldiers around the general seemed to grow more boisterous, and those who remained on the field quickly came over to join the crowd. Curious, she picked up her pace as much as propriety would allow. Soon she drew close enough to hear cheers and groans, punctuated by the smacking of fists against flesh. It seemed a fight was underway—and a sensational one, judging by the thick audience. It didn’t take long for her to identify General Petros as one of the opponents, light armor now shed, his tattooed head easily visible above the spectators. All she could see of the other man was an occasional blur of skin as his knuckles connected with the general’s face.

No one noticed her as she joined the crowd and made her way closer to the front. When she could go no farther, she stood on tiptoe to peer over the shoulders in front of her. At first the general stood with his back to her, his fists raised, his massive frame concealing his opponent. But then the pair circled around, and she recognized a familiar male torso, dewy and bronze with a trail of ebony hair that ringed his navel and disappeared below the waistband of his pants.

She tugged a nearby sleeve. “Why is the king fighting?”

The steward beside her kept his gaze fixed on the match, cringing when the general landed a fist in Kian’s stomach. “Sparring practice. These two are the best in the city. I used to watch ’em all the time, but the king quit his lessons moons ago. Now that he came back to drill the men, they talked him into it. The general’s taking it easy on him, if you ask—” The man cut off when he glanced at her for the first time. “Oh, apologies, my lady. I didn’t know who I was talking to.”

His comment prompted the guard in front of them to turn around. Cerise didn’t recognize him, but the gratitude in his eyes hinted that he was one of the men she had saved from the fire that morning. “Make room,” he ordered, shoving onlookers aside to create an opening at the front of the circle. “Make room for the blessed oracle!”

The gap in the crowd gave her a perfect view of Kian, who paused and locked eyes with her. He lowered both fists, his dark gaze holding her spellbound, and in that moment, General Petros landed a shattering blow to his ribs.

The crowd gave a collective, “Ooooh!”

Kian doubled over and dropped to his knees. He sucked a breath through his teeth, eyes clenched, hair glued to his face by sweat. Cerise cringed in sympathy. She couldn’t help feeling partly to blame for distracting him.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” the general said in a tone that implied the opposite. “I didn’t realize we had taken a break. Speaking of breaks , I believe I felt some of your ribs crack. Shall I send word to the temple? I know a healer there.”

“ Intimately , I’ve heard,” Cerise blurted. The crowd broke into laughter. She hadn’t meant to speak the words aloud, but when the king glanced up and rewarded her with one of his rare smiles, she was glad that she’d said it.

“No need,” Kian told the general as he stood and gingerly brushed himself off. He squinted at the sky. “The sun will go down in a few hours. Your healer can save her energy for…other pursuits.”

There was another round of laughter, at which point the general’s face turned the shade of ripe summer berries. He glared at Cerise with mild annoyance, but then his gaze moved to the journal tucked in the crook of her elbow, and in the time it took for her to blink, he erupted into a rage so explosive that the entire crowd took a step backward. Cerise clutched the nearest arm, watching as bloodlust consumed the general’s eyes. He snarled—actually snarled —while scanning the crowd as if daring someone to fight him. All of the men wisely scattered back to their posts, including the owner of the arm Cerise had been holding.

“General,” Kian warned.

In that single utterance, Cerise caught her first glimpse of a true king.

The general closed his eyes in an obvious struggle for control. He snorted like a bull, clenching and unclenching his fists until he turned on his heel and stalked away toward the garden.

Kian blew out a breath as he watched the general’s retreating form. “Don’t worry. The fountain is his happy place. He’ll stay there until he calms down.”

Cerise took the journal in her hand and turned it to and fro. “This seemed to trigger him. Did he care for Mother Strout?”

Kian laughed, quickly wincing and cradling his ribs. “Only in the way that a tree cares for an axe.”

“Do you mean they were enemies?” Cerise asked. “Daerick told me she had none.”

“Not enemies but definitely rivals. Old Mother Strout didn’t think the general was worthy of his woman at the temple, and she made no secret about it.” He smiled as if recalling a memory. “If looks could kill, Strout would have sent Petros to his grave a hundred times over.”

Cerise peered at the journal, thinking it odd that Mother Strout hadn’t mentioned the general in any of her entries.

“You surprise me, my lady of the temple,” Kian said, grinning at her.

“How so?”

“You told a joke about the general’s mistress. Not that I’m complaining,” he added with a lifted hand. “But it was almost distasteful. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“You make it sound like I’m perfect.”

“Hardly,” he disagreed. “But your imperfections are annoyances—flea bites, really. Let’s cover some sins with real teeth. Have you ever killed a man?”

“No, but the day is young, and you did offer to let me stab you.”

A grin tilted the corner of his mouth. “Have you ever gotten drunk on ale?”

“Sacramental cider, and only once. The sickness cured me of ever wanting to try it a second time.”

“Any adultery? Conceived a love child?”

“I’ll leave that to the courtesans,” Cerise said, smiling sweetly. “And the kings they serve.”

Kian clapped a hand over his heart, feigning injury. “Deny it all you want, my lady of the temple, but I’ll wager you’ve never even been kissed.”

Her smile fell—a detail that didn’t escape his notice.

“Did I pluck a nerve?” he teased.

Yes, he had. But he was wrong. She’d been kissed—quite thoroughly, too—one time, in a dark, hidden corner of the temple grounds. It had begun innocently enough. He had been a dark-haired delivery boy with a dimpled smile. She had been a lonely sixteen-year-old with a head full of curiosity. On delivery days, they had met behind hedges or inside sheds to trade stories about their lives. Then one day the talking had turned into something more, and they’d explored each other’s mouths until their lips had grown chapped. Cerise had looked forward to the boy’s next visit, but he’d stopped making deliveries to the temple, and it had taken three new litters of rabbit kits to make her smile again.

What she hadn’t realized at the time—what she wished she had known—was that she wouldn’t receive the Sight. The Order had warned her about sins of the flesh and how acts of love could ruin a woman’s gift. At the time, she hadn’t believed them. Now she wondered how things might have been different if she had never kissed the boy.

But then she thought of Daerick’s story about the Silent Soul. Maybe kissing had changed nothing about her life. The general’s mistress had taken a lover without the loss of her gift. Far from it. She possessed both the Sight and the ability to heal. Could that be a coincidence?

She didn’t know what to think anymore, what to believe. Everything felt upside-down now. She couldn’t even trust Father Padron to tell her the truth.

“I’m sorry,” Kian said, bringing her back to the present with a featherlight touch to her wrist. “I was only teasing. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

She shook her head to clear it. “You didn’t.”

“Want to tell me what’s bothering you?”

Her first inclination was to say no. In all honesty, she wanted nothing more than to put it all behind her and lose her worries in the kennels. But then she reminded herself that Kian was trying to keep his promise to her. She still didn’t want to give him false hope, but he deserved to know what she and Daerick had learned. So she told him what they had been up to, even details about her visit to the soothsayer and the hidden antechamber in the catacombs. She didn’t mean to share quite so much, but Kian listened with such intensity, hanging on her every word, and when he watched her with those storm-cloud eyes, she couldn’t hold anything back.

“I came outside to visit the kennels,” she said when she had finished. “Animals make me feel at ease, and I need that today.”

The king was thoughtful for a moment, pushing back his dampened hair and staring into the grass. “So your path is a blank to Seers?”

“Well…yes. Or it diverges from what they’ve already Seen. That used to happen with the Reverend Mother.” Cerise hadn’t expected him to fixate on that part of the story, and she hoped he wouldn’t linger on it. She didn’t like keeping things from him, but she wasn’t ready to tell him about the revelation. Anyway, what was there to tell? Her involvement in the vision had clouded all of the details that could have helped them.

“Interesting,” was all he said. He retrieved a white linen shirt from the grass and put it on, the thin fabric clinging to the contours of his chest. He extended an elbow to her. “My lady, may I escort you to the kennels?”

She felt a blush rise to her cheeks as she slid her arm through his. They began an easy stroll toward the gated fence that separated the paddock from the kennel. With each motion of their footsteps, the king’s muscled arm pressed against her and stirred a fluttering behind her navel. His nearness and his warmth unsettled her. The scent of him dizzied her senses. To distract herself, she cleared her throat and broached a new subject.

“Your Majesty, may I ask you an uncomfortable question?”

“That’s the best kind,” he told her.

“How many daylight hours do you lose?” She fixed her gaze straight ahead, afraid that direct eye contact would make him uneasy. “When Father Padron told me you keep to yourself during the day, I assumed you were trying to hide how far your curse has advanced.”

“You have good instincts,” Kian said. “Each day is different. Today I lost parts of only two hours. I meant to accompany Lady Champlain to your suite to convey my thanks, but…now you understand why I didn’t.”

“She didn’t tell me a thing about it. She kept your secret.”

“Lady Champlain is loyal to me.”

Now Cerise looked to him. She wanted to read his expression. “Is that why you’re protecting her?”

The king blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Lady Champlain mentioned to me that she became your courtesan to save herself. She wouldn’t tell me why, but don’t you think she’s in more danger now because of her closeness to you and the attempts on your life?”

The king didn’t seem to like hearing that. His lips flattened into a line.

“Oh, was that too uncomfortable a question?” she asked while playfully bumping his shoulder with hers. “I thought that was your favorite kind.”

Kian slid her an amused glance. “You’re right. I’ve been negligent in seeing to Lady Champlain’s safety, and I intend to correct that oversight now.”

“How so?”

“With the assistance of my high priest.”

They reached the gated fence, and while Kian unfastened the latch, Cerise peered behind them to look for a servant who could convey a message to Father Padron.

He noticed her search. “There’s no need to send a message to him,” Kian said as he opened the gate and swept a hand for her to enter the enclosure. “I can call for him myself. Watch this.” Turning his face toward the castle, Kian murmured, “Come to me, high priest,” and then he offered his elbow to Cerise again, and they resumed striding onward.

“You can summon him like that?” she asked.

The king’s devilish smile was answer enough. “He despises it.”

“Because priests exist to serve the goddess, not the whims of kings.”

“Obviously you’re wrong, or else your goddess wouldn’t allow it.”

“She’s your goddess, too,” Cerise told him. But though she didn’t say so, she couldn’t deny the truth in Kian’s argument. For whatever reason, the goddess had given him power over her priests to use in whatever way he chose. The bond of service made no sense. She wished she understood it.

Kian pushed open the kennel door and spurred a chorus of barking. “Let’s talk about something more pleasant, like our new litter of pups.”

“Pups?” she squeaked. Oh, stars, that was the magic word to make her forget everything else in existence. All that mattered now was holding one in her arms. After tucking the journal into her pocket, she tugged on the king’s elbow to rush him forward—most unladylike, but who cared?

There were pups in the kennel!

“All right, all right,” Kian said, hurrying his pace. “Just this way.”

He led her past dozens of wooden pens, each housing a Mortara brush hound so flawlessly bred that they shamed their encyclopedia illustrations. The hounds ran to greet her as she passed, wagging their stump-like tails, beaming at her with wide, expressive eyes, their tongues lolling to the side as they panted in excitement.

Goddess , they were beautiful! And well adapted to the heat, too, with short, fuzzy coats that were resistant to sunlight. But best of all was the intelligence brimming in those dark eyes. They studied her every move, taking her in, missing nothing. She’d heard that Mortara brush hounds were so smart they could detect illnesses in their owners and even hunt down medicinal herbs. Seeing them now, she didn’t doubt it. These hounds would make a razor look dull.

“Here we are.” Kian stopped in front of a waist-high door and ruffled the head of the fuzzy hound who had come to greet him. “This naughty girl is Stella. She ran away during a hunt and came back pregnant by…well, none of us are sure. If I believed in goblins, that would be my guess.” He peeked beyond the door and shuddered. “The pups are so hideous they’re almost cute.”

When Cerise leaned over the gate and caught sight of the pups, her heart nearly burst. Oddly, Kian wasn’t wrong. Sometimes a creature went so far beyond ugly that it came back around and reached adorable. Stella’s pups had done just that.

There were five of them, all engaged in an energetic game of bounce and tumble. They had inherited their mother’s hindquarters and stumpy tail but little else. Their chests were much too broad to belong to a hound, as were their jaws, and instead of floppy ears, theirs stood on end, tall and pointed. Their coats were bald and stacked with dozens of folds, as though their pelts were ten sizes too big. Judging by their clownishly large paws, they would soon grow into their wrinkles.

“May I go inside?” she asked, already hitching up her skirts to climb over the gate.

Kian chuckled. “Be my guest.”

Her shoes had barely reached the pen floor when the pups bounded over to her and began tugging on her dress hem. She sat down, giggling as half the litter climbed on her lap and the other half chewed on her skirts. Stella padded over and lay down on her side, exposing her milk-engorged belly. Cerise nudged one of the pups in an encouragement to nurse, but it only yipped and rejoined the game.

“They self-weaned,” Kian said. “Much to Stella’s dismay.”

“They don’t look old enough for solid food.”

“They’re not. The kennel master’s been feeding them congealed chicken blood.” Kian reached down to pet the largest puppy and received an earnest nip on the finger. “Ouch. Little monster.”

“A taste for human flesh,” she teased. “Maybe they are half goblin.”

One of the pups scampered around in front of her and bounced in place as if asking to play fetch. Doing the best she could with what she had, she tossed him a piece of straw, which he retrieved with zeal. But while carrying back his prize, he drew the attention of his siblings. Two pups ran to him and tried to steal the straw, and then two more. He made a valiant effort to defend his trophy, but it wasn’t long before the litter had him on his back, and then playtime shifted into something primal. The pup cried as his siblings attacked his throat and belly. He squirmed, pawing at the air, but he couldn’t right himself. Stella didn’t lift her head. To her, the attack was a lesson in establishing pack dominance, but Cerise couldn’t stand to watch it.

She crawled to the fray and nudged aside the litter until the injured pup was able to wriggle to his feet. He stood in place, legs shaking, head bent low in fear. Even now, the poor thing was so terrified that he wet the floor. Cerise lifted him up without a care. She could wash her hands later.

Cradling his trembling body to her chest, she swayed gently from side to side and stroked the pup until his heartbeat steadied and he stopped shaking. The litter had resumed tugging on her dress, the piece of straw forgotten. She considered setting down the pup, but he was so warm and snuggly that she pressed her cheek to the top of his head and let him lick her chin.

“You have too much love in you,” Kian said. He was watching her in amusement, both arms resting on the wooden gate. “If you don’t find an outlet for it, you might explode. And we can’t have that. Think of the mess!” He nodded at the pup. “You should keep him.”

“For my own?” Even as she asked, her arms tightened around the puppy. “But he’s worth his weight in coin, half-breed or not.”

“I can afford it,” Kian whispered behind his hand. “I’m the king.”

An emotion swelled inside her—a happiness so complete that all she could do was hug the puppy and try not to split her face in half from smiling.

“Unless you’d prefer a purebred.” He thumbed toward the adjoining pen. “The kennel master will breed a litter as soon as—”

“No,” she interrupted. “I want this one.”

“Then the lucky beast is yours. No one will cherish him more.” He reached down and patted Stella’s resting head. “Not even his own mother. Take him with you; the staff will give you whatever he needs.”

“Isn’t he too young to leave his mother?”

“He self-weaned,” Kian reminded her. “He’s more of a nuisance to Stella than anything. Trust me, you’d be doing them both a favor.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ve never had a pup to call mine. Or anything, really.”

In response, Kian abruptly changed the subject and asked her, “Why did you braid your hair today?”

Cerise touched a section of the intricate plaits. “You’re just now noticing?”

“No, I noticed the instant I saw you.”

But he hadn’t complimented her hair like Daerick had. “You don’t like it?”

“It’s not that I don’t like it. You’re as lovely as any of the women I ever hosted at court.” His gray eyes softened as they moved over her face. “But you’re not a woman of court. You’re my lady of the temple, aren’t you?”

A bubbling sensation arose inside her chest. She had to battle the urge to unpin her plaits right there and unbraid every last one of them. She decided that tomorrow she would wear her hair loose.

From down the hall, the kennel door squeaked open. Cerise craned her neck to look over the pen, expecting to find Father Padron. But instead of the high priest, a middle-aged man strode into view. He was tall and slender with thick, brown hair and a face so handsome he could charge people to look at it.

“You must be Cole Solon,” she said. “I’ve been waiting to meet you.”

Cole bowed to the king and then to her. “And I you, my lady.”

“The two of you haven’t met at dinner?” Kian asked.

Cerise shook her head, offering no explanation. She didn’t want to admit that she had taken her evening meals in her suite.

“I just passed General Petros in the garden,” Cole said. “He told me the king’s emissary was near, so I came straight away.”

Cerise turned up a dirty palm. “I would greet you properly, but you wouldn’t want to touch this hand.”

Cole responded with a chuckle that sounded rehearsed. Something about his eyes reminded her of the painted goose eggs the Reverend Mother collected in her office: intricately decorated on the outside and hollow within. His Solon allure wasn’t as strong as Nina’s. He was undeniably handsome, but Cerise had no problem looking away from him.

Cole started to speak, but then he tipped his head to the side and studied her. “There’s something familiar about you… The eyes, I think. I can’t place it. Who are your parents?”

“Elaina Igalsi and Edwin Solon,” she told him.

“Were they ever at court?” Cole asked.

“I don’t think they were,” she said. “But I never thought to ask.”

“Maybe what you see is a Solon family resemblance,” Kian offered.

“Maybe,” Cole repeated in a tone that said no . “Regardless, I’m glad to have met our resident hero.”

Just then, the kennel door squeaked open again, and Father Padron joined them. He stood as serenely as ever in front of the king, but he spoke with exaggerated precision, as though each word caused him physical pain. “How may I serve His Majesty?”

“I require your expertise, high priest,” Kian answered in a playful tone, almost taunting. Cerise didn’t like it. Despite her mistrust of Father Padron, the high priest of Shiera deserved respect. She couldn’t look at Kian as he continued. “You will investigate the attacks against me. Direct your priests to question every resident and worker in the palace. Use honesty enchantments if you have to. I want to know who released the panther and who set the fire.”

“As His Majesty commands,” Father Padron answered.

“And tonight, while I am indisposed,” the king added in a sharper tone, “you will cast an enchantment of protection over Lady Champlain. If she is injured in any way, I will tear down one temple for every hair on her head that is harmed.”

Cerise drew a loud gasp. “Kian!”

All three men swiveled their gazes to her, two of them shocked that she had dared to call the king by his name and the third clearly amused at having scandalized her.

“I mean, Your Highness ,” she corrected. “You mustn’t threaten the goddess. It’s blasphemy. She is your creator.”

“Even so, my order stands.” The king glanced out the nearest window as if gauging the position of the sun. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have only two hours until sunset, and there are love children to be made.”

Something cold and sick churned in Cerise’s stomach as Kian strode away. She told herself it was the meats and cheeses she had eaten for lunch that bothered her, not the king’s parting words. Then she pushed aside the thought altogether and nuzzled her puppy, who licked her cheeks in response. She stood up to take him to his new home.

“He’s mine,” she announced with a smile, hoping to dissipate the tension from the king’s abrasive command. “Isn’t he the most precious creature you’ve ever seen?”

Father Padron chuckled while assisting her over the gate. “ Precious isn’t the word I would use to describe the creature, but happiness suits you. Don’t you agree, Lord Solon?”

“Mmm,” Cole replied absently. His eyes weren’t on the puppy. “Between your parents, my lady, who would you say you favor more?”

“My mother,” Cerise told him. There was very little of Father in her face. Nina had inherited all of his traits. “Why? Do you think you might have met her?”

“Perhaps,” Cole said, but it was in the same doubtful tone. “I’ll look into it.”

His talk of family reminded Cerise that there was a heartrending mirror tucked beneath her mattress. She couldn’t wait to tell Mama and Father about her time in the palace and show them her new puppy. The pup needed a name, too—and food, and toys, and a bed. There was so much to do to prepare. She dipped in a curtsy to excuse herself. “I should go and clean up.”

“If you’ll permit me,” Cole said, “I would be honored to escort you to dinner.” He winked. “You can’t hide in your suite forever.”

Cerise hesitated. She didn’t want to eat dinner with Cole Solon, but to refuse him would be an insult. Besides, he was right. One of her duties as emissary was to conduct herself properly as a lady of the temple, and that included dining in polite company. She doubted that Mother Strout had taken dinners in her suite.

“Yes, of course,” she said, forcing a grin. “It would be my pleasure.”