“You may be the king, but this is none of your business,” Drake snaps. “Go back to your party.”
“Party’s over, and you need to go.” Ghyslain grabs Drake’s arm and yanks so hard and so suddenly that they trip over each other, off balance, and fall in a heap on the floor. Drake’s elbow strikes Ghyslain in the gut when he lands, knocking the wind out of him. The lantern slips from his grip and shatters on the stone floor, splattering hot oil everywhere. The girl shrieks and shields her face with her arms.
“Let me go,” Drake shouts.
“Have a little self-control,” Ghyslain retorts, wheezing between every word. “You have a wife and a baby at home.”
They clamber to their feet and face off in the small aisle between bookcases. Ghyslain positions himself between Drake and the girl, still struggling to catch his breath. “Get out of here,” he hisses. He had never cared much for Elisora’s brother, but he had put up with him for her sake. He’s relieved that, after this, there will be no need to continue the charade of their friendship.
“Fine,” Drake spits. His gaze lifts to the girl, who is cowering behind Ghyslain. “Seems I’ve found the only man in Beltharos who will stand up for a knife-ear. We’ll finish this another time, when His Majesty isn’t around to interfere.”
He storms off. When the door slams shut behind him, Ghyslain turns to the girl. “Are you hurt?”
She shakes her head and takes a shuddering breath. “Some of the oil burned my arms, but I’ll be fine.”
“May I take a look?” When she nods, he takes her hand and leads her to one of the settees in the center of the library. “Sit here, I’ll only be a second.”
He tosses a few logs into the fireplace and prods them with one of the heavy iron pokers until they ignite, filling the room with their soft crackling. When the light is enough by which to see, Ghyslain turns back to the girl. He pauses, recognizing her for the second time that night.
“Your name is Liselle, isn’t it? You’re Elisora’s slave.”
She nods.
“Let me see your arms.”
He doesn’t know much about burns—or healing in general—but her injuries don’t look too severe. He counts two small red splotches on her left forearm and one larger one—about the size of a coin—on her right. Her skin has already begun to welt.
After a few beats of silence, Liselle murmurs, “That’s not the first time Drake tried that.”
“That’s not the first time Drake . . . tried to rape you?” Ghyslain repeats, fighting to speak past the sudden lump in his throat. “Has he ever managed to—?”
“No! I try to be careful—to stay away—but he’s gotten close a few times. Recently, he’s become bolder. I don’t want to think about what he might have done if you hadn’t interrupted.”
Ghyslain’s hands clench into fists as a rush of rage overtakes him. “I’ll have the guards bring him in tomorrow. This cannot stand—”
“No, don’t, please,” she begs. “Let me deal with it.”
“You want me to leave it alone? What if he corners you again? What if—”
“I can handle it. I’ll be more careful—”
When she starts to rise, Ghyslain grabs her hands. “You think after what you told me that I’m just going to forget about it? He cannot be allowed to continue to act so boorishly.”
“Your Majesty,” Liselle says gently, slipping her hands out of Ghyslain’s grip, “I don’t think you quite understand the situation. I’m a slave in his father’s household. He’s the son of a rich merchant. Do you think anyone cares what happens to me behind closed doors?”
“I care. You shouldn’t have to fear him.”
She almost smiles. “I’m lucky to not live in his home. Whenever Elisora visits him, I make excuses to stay by her side or with the other slaves.”
Ghyslain leans forward and runs his hands down his face, ignoring the tiredness in his limbs. “So you want me to do nothing. Drake is tormenting you, hurting you, and you want me to do nothing about it?”
“Yes.”
“How can you let him get away with it?”
“Because my parents are his slaves.”
He freezes. “They’re what?”
“His slaves. He has . . . a history with my family, and I’d like to leave it at that, Your Majesty.” She glances over at the bookcase against which Drake had pinned her. One of the shelves is crooked—presumably the one into which he had pushed her—and half the books are still lying on the floor, bent covers splayed. “I’ve found it’s best to stay silent. I don’t want him to take his anger at me out on my parents.”
“I understand.” He waits for her to meet his gaze. “Really. I do. I don’t like it, but I understand why you would want to keep quiet. I’m still going to speak with Drake, though.” When she opens her mouth to argue, he continues, “He knows I know what he’s doing. The rest of the nobility don’t have to hear about it, but I will not be a bystander to attempted rape. If he lays a hand on you again, I want you to tell me immediately.”
“Okay.” Liselle takes a deep breath and crumples the fabric of her skirt in her fists. “Okay, I will. Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“You don’t have to thank me for doing what’s right.”
She fidgets with the slave sash across her chest, running her fingers along the edge. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? What are you sorry for? The only one who should be sorry is that asshole Drake—”
“Not for that. I’m sorry for being short with you earlier, after the coronation.” She peers up at him through her lashes, her hazel eyes wide and sincere. “I shouldn’t have been so rude. I was out of line.”
“It’s all right. Elisora mentioned you can be . . . abrasive.”
She lets out a short, humorless laugh. “That’s one word to describe me.”
“Why were you so angry?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.” When she looks at him sharply, he continues, “That stupid sash doesn’t make your thoughts and opinions any less valid than those of humans. Will you please tell me?”
“I . . . shouldn’t.”
“But?”
“But . . . you saved me from that pig, so I suppose I owe you. I was angry because you became king. Because there is a new man on the throne but nothing will change. Because all the nobles in the crowd were talking about was who you’re going to appoint to your council and who is going to receive titles and whose daughter will become the next queen if your betrothal with Elisora doesn’t work out.” She says it in a rush, hardly pausing to breathe. She takes a deep breath and perches on the edge of the settee. “I was angry because they were talking about themselves, not about what you could change or what you might do as king. They don’t care about anyone but themselves. To them, people like me are no better than the shit in the streets.”
Ghyslain stares at her, shocked that she would speak so brazenly to a human, let alone the king. “I know,” he breathes. “I want to help the elves.”
She rolls her eyes. “That’s what everyone says.”
“No, I do, really. My mother advises against it, but I want to change the laws. I don’t know if I’ll be able to free you, but I can certainly give you more rights than you have now.” He isn’t really sure why he is trusting her so much, except that her honesty had surprised and impressed him.
Liselle studies him. The light from the fireplace highlights the smooth planes of her pretty face and makes her amber eyes glow. “Well, I hope you are telling the truth. It would be good to have a king who cares for all his subjects—not just the ones with rounded ears.”
He nods. “I’ll do my best.”
The corners of her lips twitch into a smile, but it slips away so quickly Ghyslain isn’t certain he didn’t imagine it. She stands and starts toward the broken bookshelf.
“Where are you going?”
“To clean up.”
“Don’t be silly. You shouldn’t have to clean up after
Drake’s mess. I’ll deal with it. Let’s find Elisora and get you home. Do you have any idea where your mistress is?”
“I think she’s still with Pierce LeClair, Your Majesty. Last I saw, they were resting in that sitting room they dragged you to last night, sleeping off the whiskey. I can find them on my own.”
“That’s not necessary—”
“Please.” She stops in the middle of the library and turns to him. “I’d like a few minutes of privacy, to . . . think about what just happened. Don’t worry, Drake won’t be looking for me—he’ll need some time to get over his wounded pride. You’re clearly exhausted, and I can make my way through the castle easily enough on my own.” She opens her mouth to say more, bites her lip, then rises onto her toes and presses a whisper-soft kiss to Ghyslain’s cheek. Her brazenness stuns him so much that it hardly registers when she murmurs, “Happy coronation day, Your Majesty. I have a sneaking suspicion that you are going to be the best king we’ve had in generations.” She grins at him, then turns on her heel and strides away, her lavender skirt swishing around her legs as she walks.
7
After cleaning up the mess in the library, Ghyslain trudges to his bedroom and falls into bed with a groan. He unclasps his cloak and lets it fall into a pile on the floor. He doesn’t bother to change out of his thick doublet or take his hair out of its ponytail as he stretches out atop his silken sheets and falls asleep.
A loud pounding on the door wakes him a few hours later. He rises and tugs self-consciously at the hem of his rumpled shirt, hoping whoever is outside doesn’t realize he’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Outside, the sun is high in the sky—it must be sometime around noon—and the rays streaming through the window illuminate the dust motes hanging in the air. Ghyslain runs a hand through his hair, which had fallen out of its neat ponytail while he had slept, and ties it back before opening the door.
“Yes?”
“Zendais is in the council chamber, Your Majesty.”
He blinks at the guard, still groggy from his nap, and frowns. “Which one?”
“Drake, Your Majesty.”
“Oh. Oh, right, yes.” He vaguely remembers ordering one of the guards he had passed in the hall earlier that morning to find Drake. “Is he under guard?”
“He is.”
“Good. Keep him there and let him wait. Send for my servants, please.” When his stomach rumbles, he adds, “Have them bring lunch.”
“We’re sorry for any offense we caused yesterday, Your Majesty,” Jett says as he scuttles into the bedchamber fifteen minutes later. He places the platter of food he carries on the vanity table and turns to Ghyslain. “It’s just . . . we’ve served your family for so long that preparing you for your coronation brought back lots of memories of your father’s coronation.”
“All of us on the castle staff thought King Alaric was invincible,” Orson adds. “We expected him to be on the throne for years and years. We may be slaves, but we cared for him, and losing him so suddenly and so unexpectedly was . . . an adjustment, to say the least. I cannot imagine how you and your mother are taking it.”
“We’re, um, managing.” Ghyslain makes a face. He turns to his wardrobe, where Jett is already shuffling through various drawers, then stops, remembering his conversation with Liselle and what his mother had said that morning about treating his servants more kindly. “I want you to know that I appreciate the work you do around here. I know you don’t exactly have a choice in the matter, but, uh, it hasn’t gone unnoticed.” In all the years Jett and Orson had attended him, they had never spoken outright about their enslavement. They seem content enough, but it had always grated on Ghyslain that they had no freedoms of their own.
“It is our pleasure to serve, Your Majesty,” Orson quips.
“What do you think about this one?” Jett holds up a simple, fitted emerald green tunic.
“That’s fine,” Ghyslain says distractedly. He can’t get what Liselle had said that morning—about the way the nobles speak about and treat their elven slaves—out of his head. To them, people like me are no better than shit in the streets. “What would you do if you weren’t slaves? If you could do anything you wished?”
“We’re very happy right here in the castle, sir.”
“No, don’t tell me what you think I want to hear. I really want to know. If you could do anything, go anywhere, what would you do?”
Jett pauses in the middle of searching the wardrobe and eyes Ghyslain uneasily, uncertain whether this line of questioning is a trick of some kind. “Well . . .” he says slowly, “I would quite like to travel to Rivosa, Your Majesty. Perhaps I’d take up tailoring, maybe open a shop of my own.”
“My father used to do woodcarving,” Orson adds. “He traveled all over the countryside in merchant caravans while my mother took care of my siblings and me. He taught me some of his tricks. I’d like to do that, but I’m afraid even if it were possible, I wouldn’t be able to leave my family alone for such long periods of time. My daughter would miss me.”
“You have a daughter?” Why didn’t I know this before? Why hadn’t I bothered to ask? For all of his grandstanding about fixing the wrongs done to elves, he hadn’t even bothered to speak to the people who had been serving him all his life.
“Mm-hm. She’s three. She and her mother live in Beggars’ End. Celia, my wife, works in a general store in the Plaza and does laundry on the side.”
“What’s your daughter’s name?”
“Raven.”
“Do you have children?” he asks Jett, who shakes his head.
“Don’t have a wife, either. The castle staff is my family.”
Ghyslain nods, and the slaves return to their work—Orson making the bed, Jett helping Ghyslain dress—in silence. When they finish, they bow and start to leave, but Ghyslain stops them before they reach the door.
“Would you like to stay and dine with me?” he asks. He gestures to the platter Jett had brought, laden with more food than Ghyslain could ever hope to eat. “There’s plenty to share.”
“It . . . would not be proper—” Jett begins, but Orson cuts him off with a sharp jab of his elbow to Jett’s ribs.
“Yes, Your Majesty. It would be our honor.”
They join him at the small dining table beside the window, and while they eat, Ghyslain peppers them with questions about their lives and their work in the castle. Jett remains quiet, his gaze fixed on the napkin in his lap. Orson is much less concerned about propriety; he chatters on and on about his daughter and his wife, about their meager home in Beggars’ End, about selling himself to the castle when he was only a few years older than Ghyslain is now. Realizing how little he had known about these men saddens Ghyslain. Every once in a while, his thoughts return to Liselle. She is from Beggars’ End, but had been raised to the honor of a rich woman’s handmaid. She sees both sides of the city: the lives of the richest and the poorest people. What would it be like, he wonders, to have someone like her on his council? How valuable would it be to have someone who isn’t afraid to speak her mind as his advisor? As much as he appreciates the work his father’s council has done, they have no idea what is happening inside Beggars’ End. They don’t know anything about the slaves who serve them. Elves make up over a third of the population in Sandori; can the nobility really afford to keep ignoring and enslaving them? Will there ever be a day when Ghyslain can abolish the immoral act of slavery without fear of riots from the rest of the city?
Don’t be ridiculous, he chides himself. You’ve been king not twenty-four hours, and you’re already trying to shift the very fabric of this country. Better watch your back, or the people will see your head on a spike, just like poor late King Silas.
“Thank you for this, Your Majesty,” Jett says, startling Ghyslain from his thoughts.
“For everything,” Orson agrees, nodding.
“Oh. You’re welcome. Anytime. I enjoyed speaking with you.” He stands and helps Jett gather the dishes and stack them on the platter. The
slaves thank him again and let themselves out of his room, with reminders of several meetings his mother had prepared for him later that afternoon. They close the door behind them when they go.
Ghyslain groans. Now to deal with Drake.
Drake is lounging in the head chair at the end of the long table in the council chamber, his arms crossed behind his head and his feet resting atop the table. His chair is balanced on its back two legs. “Your Majesty,” he says by way of a greeting when Ghyslain enters. The two guards who are standing watch over Drake frown at him when he does not rise and bow to the king, but Ghyslain ignores the slight.
“Thank you for coming, Drake—”
“Your guards barged into to my home and ordered me to come. I didn’t agree.” Drake drops his feet to the floor with a thud and leans forward. “I’ve been here sitting here for over an hour. What’s this about, Myrellis?”
“Your Majesty,” one of the guards growls.
“Your Majesty, right.” He flaps a hand dismissively. “So, Your Majesty”—he shoots a dirty look at the guard—“what must you tell me that cannot be said by a messenger?”
Ghyslain narrows his eyes, rage at his flippant attitude and his actions that morning rising. “Guards, dismissed.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. We’ll wait outside.”
Drake’s self-satisfied smirk slips a fraction as the guards file from the room and let the heavy redwood doors of the council chamber slam shut behind them. He studies Ghyslain, then he shakes his head, chuckling. “Don’t tell me this is about this morning—”
“That’s exactly what this is about, Drake!” Ghyslain snaps, his temper flaring. “How could you do that to that girl? What the hell is wrong with you?”
“She told you I forced myself on her, didn’t she? She was making eyes at me all evening, staring at me when she thought I wouldn’t notice. Well, she found me in the library earlier, we got to talking, and one thing led to another . . .” He spreads his hands in a What can you do? gesture. He leans forward and points at Ghyslain. “Bet she didn’t tell you she enjoyed it.”
Born Assassin Saga Box Set Page 5
