And me, beside my mother, a little boy with chubby cheeks and a bright smile, my puppy playing at my feet.
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. I swallowed and my throat hurt with gritty fire.
“Is it you?” Lia asked softly, watching me.
I could only nod in reply, bereft of words.
She turned her face to study the painting, giving me a kind of privacy. “Once I knew who you are, I started thinking that we had art from Oriel. Of course, as you see, we have a great deal of art from all over the empire, but I thought I’d remembered this portrait of the royal family and that you might be the young prince in it.”
She paused for a long moment while I stared at my mother’s alert eyes and gentle smile, my father’s stern jaw and easy authority. My sister … I couldn’t bear to look into her sweet and innocent face.
“Should I have prepared you?” Lia asked softly. “I thought it might be worse to get your hopes up and have it not be them.”
“No,” I said, and it came out thick and guttural. I coughed, covering it with my free hand. I took a moment to rub my eyes. Then looked again. “How is it here?”
“How are any of them here?” she replied lightly. “People brought them. As Anure’s armies rolled over the lands, some heeded the visions, the warnings. They carried what they found most precious with them, passing art, books, music, histories from hand to hand until they came here, where they’d be safe.”
“They’re not yours,” I managed, sounding more accusing than I meant to. Seeing my family here—and other art I recalled from those long-ago golden days—had me more rattled than I’d have thought possible, as if their existence opened up a hole into a world I’d thought burned to ash.
“No,” Lia replied in a careful tone. “And they’re not Anure’s, either, which I feel is the most important point. I do care about the rest of the world, Con. It’s more than only things of Calanthe that I protect.”
True. “Would you have told me, that this painting is here?”
“If all had gone according to plan and Leuthar had dragged you off to face execution? No.” She let go of my arm and turned to face me, expression regally composed. “First, it hadn’t yet occurred to Me, and I doubt it would have given all I had to think about. Second, would you have wanted Me to?” She studied me, then the boy in the painting, her eyes going to my sister. “I think it would’ve only hurt you more.”
“At least you’re honest,” I said. Brutally so.
“Not always.” She stepped away to scan the long hall, her profile lovely and remote. “I’m an adept liar, as all good politicians are, and I abuse the truth without qualm if I need to. Honesty is not always the most important thing.”
“What is?” I asked. In the dimness, I could better ignore the beauty of her unclad body, curl my fingers against the itch to touch her, to discover if her velvety skin felt as soft as it looked. How I could want her, feel this possessiveness and protective urge even as she made me angry enough to see red, I didn’t know.
“What is the most important thing?” She looked at me. “I already told you: Calanthe, and all that includes. First, last, and always.”
I held her gaze a long moment. “Does that include me and my people now?”
Her mouth quirked in a half smile. “Ever the king. Yes. Yes, it does. It should be time for our grand entrance. Shall we?”
I offered her my arm again. She took it easily as before, as if nothing had changed between us. Perhaps nothing had. And yet she’d given me a gift by showing me that the art of Oriel—some of it, anyway—had survived, and she’d given me back my family’s faces. My father, full of vigor and arrogance, not the shuddering corpse he’d become. My sister, with all the promise of the queen she might’ve been.
“Thank you,” I said.
She gave me a glance, surprise in it. “For what?”
How to explain? I cleared my throat. So much talking today. I should get Ambrose to brew his tonic for me. “I couldn’t remember their faces. Now I can.”
She nodded, gliding lightly at my side as we left the long, cool hall and stepped back into a larger open area of the palace, the setting sun streaming in, setting the jewel-encrusted pillars alight with color. “What happened to them?” she asked softly.
“A long story,” I said with enough finality that she should know to leave it there.
She nodded again, the movement part of her graceful walk, the balancing of the glittering crown on her head, the flow of her hair and gown, the light tink of her heels on the marble floor. “I can help your voice,” she said, unexpectedly. “Help heal your lungs. If you like.”
“I won’t refuse,” I allowed. “But it won’t make me tell long stories.”
She cast me a smile, her eyes somber. “I suppose we don’t owe each other our stories. I won’t ask again.”
As we walked on, I somehow felt as if I’d let her down. No doubt it would be far from the last time.
29
I have an excellent sense of timing. Probably I should credit my father’s relentless tutelage on the importance of that, so I could control diplomatic interactions. Rarely do I even need to glance at the spring-and-pendulum-driven clocks on the walls that keep such excellent time. I couldn’t shake the feeling, however, that I’d misstepped in showing Con the art of Oriel when I did. The sight had upset him badly—enough to bring that boiling rage to the surface. A pity, as he’d calmed so much from the seething brute who first walked into my palace.
Still, we’d had the otherwise unscheduled time, as I rarely did, and it had felt dishonest to keep it from him once it occurred to me that the golden-eyed, dark-haired boy in the painting might be him. Not that I’d spent time studying that one portrait among the many that my father had collected. A task I’d taken up along with so many others. It had been the connection to Oriel that reminded me, bringing that particular wall of art to mind—and my memory had served up the image of that royal family’s portrait.
Once I began thinking about it, I couldn’t stop.
Not much of that happy-go-lucky child in the portrait remained in the taciturn and scarred warrior who escorted me. He looked imposing in the black-and-gold clothing Ibolya had found, with the sword sheathed on one hip and a heavy-looking leather bag hooked to his belt on the other side. The rough cloak and stark crown added the right touches, proclaiming him a warrior to be wary of, one who’d earned his scars by rushing headlong into the worst of fires. His alert and predatory gaze provided fair warning, too, constantly scanning for trouble, assessing each person we passed before he followed my instructions and looked through them with regal disinterest.
“We’re approaching the ballroom now,” I advised him. “We’ll enter. The heralds will trumpet—it can be quite loud. I’ll welcome them all and introduce you. Do you want to say a few words?”
“We’ll see,” he grunted. His voice had gotten rougher with emotion, possibly with so much talking, as that seemed to wear on him like someone overusing a weakened limb.
“Just indicate to Me. You do well being silent and forbidding, so you can’t go wrong either way.” I had meant it in all seriousness, but his lips quirked and he glanced at me in amusement. As it did every time, his gaze slid to my bare breasts, firing with hunger, before he resolutely looked away. Sometimes he looked at me as if he’d never seen a woman in such a state of undress. Perhaps he hadn’t. Growing up as Anure’s prisoner in the mines wouldn’t have allowed for any freedom that way. Still, I’d assumed he’d made up for that by indulging during his campaign, as the plentiful rumors had claimed.
Now I thought he hadn’t and wondered just how our first bedding would go. Better than Anure, I reminded myself, no matter how clumsy Con might be. He certainly had physical vitality to spare. Power and enthusiasm went a long way toward compensating for lack of actual skill, from what I’d heard.
“After that?” he asked, and for a moment I thought he meant after the bedding. I needed to keep my thoughts on the moment
, not speculating about what this very large and rough man would be like in bed. Would he be able to temper his strength? Or would he be brutal in his obvious lust? The heat shivered through me, a needy wanting I hadn’t known lay inside me. I liked his size and strength and the thought of him—
And there I went again.
“Then we lead the first dance,” I replied, happy that I sounded poised and not as if I’d been speculating about his sexual prowess. “Percy showed you the steps?”
“Yes.”
I thought that was all he’d say on the subject; then he glanced at me with that whiff of humor again. “He said I wasn’t putting my hands in the right places. I said he had the wrong curves for it.”
I laughed, embellishing on the exchange in my mind. “Oh, I can just imagine.” We came to the closed doors, the guards poised there to open them at my signal. “Ready?”
“As ever,” he muttered.
I nodded and they flung the doors open. As one, Con and I stepped through, stopping on the landing before descending the great curving stairs to the grand ballroom below. I took a moment while the trumpets played to scan the room, letting them absorb my transformed appearance and—for those who hadn’t seen him yet—have a good look at the terrible and mighty Slave King. His reputation would have to go to work for us now.
Truly Calla and Zariah had outdone themselves. The ballroom sits on a raised bit of land, surrounded by lily ponds and formal gardens. All the glass-paned doors had been retracted on their rollers to stand open to the golden evening. Candles floated on small glass saucers on the mirror-still ponds, so the light reflected up. Other candles filled every niche of the ballroom, making everything glow with rich warmth. Spires of orchids in every color wreathed around the pillars, spilled from containers of all kinds, mostly glass, and cascaded from arches. Accenting all the golden shimmer, black silk covered the tables bearing food and drink, and trailing ribbons in shining ebony tied back the garlands of orchids.
Every gaze fixed upon us, many people busily taking notes for the letters they’d send to their correspondents. Perfect. Lady Delilah, daringly dressed in a gown made of leather cords, chains, and buckles that showed even more of her lush figure than I displayed, stared at me intently. When she caught me looking, she acknowledged it with a slight nod and approving smile. Then she transferred her gaze to Con. And licked her lips.
The sudden surge of possessiveness surprised me. I didn’t much like the thought of Con exploring Delilah’s favorite fetishes. I’d have to get over that, as I wasn’t so foolish as to expect to control a man like him. Or rather, I’d have to focus my efforts on more important things than who my husband had sex with.
The trumpeters finished and the crowd quieted in anticipation. Servants circulated, passing around glasses of champagne to latecomers—or those who’d skirted the edges of civility by quaffing the excellent vintage before the official toast.
“Good evening, people of Calanthe!”
The crowd roared genteel approval of my greeting, calling warm wishes back, hailing me as queen and calling for long life and good health. I waited for them to settle again.
“We are delighted to share this very special celebration with all of you,” I continued. “At long last, I have taken a husband. My extended and lonely vigil has been rewarded. Ejarat and Sawehl have sent Me the best of men. A warrior feared throughout the empire! A leader of armies and defender of freedom. A prince in his own right, son of the greatly mourned lost king and queen of vanquished Oriel, I give you My husband, Conrí!”
The crowd went wild. So much juicy gossip at once, they could hardly contain themselves. The muscle of Con’s arm bulged under my hand, his anger palpable. I looked up at him with a suitably besotted smile and he leaned down to speak in my ear.
“Why not just stab me in the back with an actual blade?” His voice grated low and mean.
I turned my face to beam at him, as if he’d offered me a lovely compliment. “They needed to know.” With my heels, I needed only rise up on my toes a bit more to give him a kiss.
The crowd loved it, even if Con glared at me. At least he didn’t wipe off his mouth. Lord Dearsley climbed the steps, his expression set in a joyful courtier’s smile that covered his true feelings, whatever they might be. Halfway up, he turned and raised the glass he carried.
“A toast!” he proclaimed. “To the bride and groom! To the queen of Calanthe and Her consort, Conrí.”
The room exploded with the excited exclamations repeating the toast. Calla appeared at my elbow and Zariah at Con’s side, each carrying exquisite glasses painted with orchids entwined with broken chains, and filled with sparkling champagne. I took mine from Calla, raising a brow at her. She gave me a smile and a slight shrug, acknowledging the risk and that she’d done her best. An impressive feat for the short amount of time. She and Zariah had changed clothes, too, also wearing black and gold.
My ladies had clearly all conspired—and done a beautiful job. When I turned back to Con with my glass, I felt unexpectedly misty at the way they’d all taken care of me on this difficult day. He’d accepted the glass from Zariah and was studying it—then looked at me with that grim humor of his. I smiled brilliantly and gave a little shrug to convey I’d had nothing to do with it. At least that drew his gaze to my breasts.
And when he lifted his gaze to mine, his eyes burned hot with more hunger than anger. Furious lust and a promise of retribution. The look sent that answering bolt of heat through me. It would be an interesting night following a tumultuous day. We could both work off the tension.
He clinked his glass to mine. Sipped when I did.
Then gave me a smile full of wicked mischief and turned to the assembly, holding up his glass. They all fell silent in rapt expectation of what the terrible Slave King might say. I held my breath, too, bracing for his retaliation.
“To my wife, Euthalia, queen of Calanthe,” he declared, his harsh voice raised in a shout. “Our marriage marks a new alliance. One that will destroy the upstart emperor and dissolve his false empire forever!”
Internally, I groaned, keeping my smile fixed. I could kill him, I really could. Con held his glass expectantly toward me, fierce challenge in his eyes, smiling at my cold glare. If I refused to toast, I’d imply disagreement with my husband and undermine everything we’d spent the last hours painstakingly creating. If I accepted the toast, I declared myself a traitor to the empire.
The room itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting for my response.
“You will be the death of Me,” I said through teeth clenched in a brilliant smile.
“Or your liberation from the yoke of a tyrant,” he said back.
“Or both.”
“Probably both,” he agreed. “Will you die a traitor or a coward, Lia?”
Ah well, he had a point.
I clinked my glass to his, then drained the excellent champagne, like drinking sunshine made liquid.
“To Calanthe,” I declared loudly. “And freedom for all!”
Only a few people didn’t join in the shouting, and I made note of who they were. Some didn’t surprise me at all.
Tertulyn was nowhere in sight.
We handed our glasses back to my ladies and descended the stairs, moving through an aisle created by the parting crowd, then into the center of a circle. I turned to face Con, who surprised me by sweeping an elegant and perfectly executed bow, then offering me his hand. Percy had done his job well.
I laid my hand in Con’s, watching his broad shoulders for cues. In dancing, one must let the male partner lead, if one is a woman. You’d think it would be restful, but it truly isn’t. Given my preferences, I’d rather decide the steps and movements for myself. But we were getting through this, so I waited as the strings wove their melody, rising up.
At the exact moment, Con drew me into his arms, tucking my right hand against his heart, settling his at the small of my back, fingers splayed over the top curve of my bottom. I reached up and laid my hand wit
h the orchid ring against his cheek, cupping the hard line of his jaw, beard silky and surprisingly soft. At the next beat, he moved, taking me into the simple, sweeping steps with confident grace.
My eyes flew up to his—and I found him looking down at me with mischievous pleasure at my surprise. I relaxed more, and he smiled. I could become accustomed to enjoying his strength. He held me so securely that I didn’t have to concentrate on keeping my balance. Instead I sank into the music, enjoying the swirl and rhythm, the heady sensation of being close to Con’s powerful heat. His skin felt hot and enticing under my fingers, the scent of leather and spiced soap filling my mind. He must’ve tucked his long hair up inside the crown he wore, and I wondered how it would feel to have it spill around us as he rose over me in bed.
Though the gold paint kept my nipples pointed, they tightened still under his intense regard, swelling almost painfully against the hardened coating. Con seemed to notice, no longer pretending not to stare at my breasts, but studying them with lingering attention as he whirled me through the repeating cycle of the dance.
When his hot eyes rose leisurely to mine, I found myself blushing. I would’ve said that wasn’t possible, but being so close to him, feeling both safe in his arms and vulnerable to him, knowing what would transpire between us … I felt like someone entirely new.
For the first time in as long as I could remember, I felt more like a woman than a queen.
As more instruments joined in the dance, other couples joined us on the dance floor, following the meticulous order of rank—and forcing Con to watch where we were going. It gave me some relief, to have his scrutiny lifted, but he pressed me closer so that my nipples brushed his chest and arm, making me catch my breath at the shock of arousal.
The Orchid Throne Page 29
