“We have learned that you saved our life, Captain,” the King said.
Willow bowed, feeling like she was trapped in a farce. “I was only doing my duty, Your Majesty.”
“Nevertheless,” the King said with a wave of his hand. “Such loyalty should be rewarded. We intend to grant you a knighthood.”
The Queen snapped from her languor and stared at the King as though he were mad. Indeed, murmurs echoed throughout the great hall.
“We don’t do knighthoods?” he whispered to the Queen, overlooking Willow’s exceptional hearing.
She shook her head, using small motions in an attempt to be discreet.
They had, in fact, given knighthoods as recently as seventy or eighty years ago. Willow herself had two such knighthoods. Her career had spanned several kings, and they kept very poor records.
“What about some other hereditary title, then?”
“No,” the Queen whispered in astonishment. “We don’t bestow those these days.”
“What the point in being king then?” he grumbled. “Can we at least throw a bunch of money at her, or don’t we do that, either?”
Chapter 28
She descended into the dungeons, wherein the Chancellor’s office resided. She had long ago learned to ignore the various moans of anguish and lament from down the hall, but she did wonder at times why he had chosen this location for his office. At first, she had thought that the suffering of the prisoners pleased him. Now, however, she thought it was even worse than that: their suffering didn’t even register with him.
By now, the Chancellor must have learned that this “D’Arbignal” had reneged. Given the Chancellor’s volatile temper, she was certain he’d be apoplectic. The reason she was visiting him here was because she wanted him to rage at her in his office, not hers. That way, any furniture he’d destroy would be his own.
She stood before the door to his office and prepared herself. Uniform: check. Rapier loose in its sheath: check. Frog positioned for quick draw: check. Back-up knife in her boot: check.
She was as prepared as she would ever be. She knocked on his door, ready for the storm.
“Come in,” he said. His voice was unexpectedly calm and measured.
The room was nearly bare, with stone walls, floor, and ceiling. At one end was his desk, at which he sat. The only adornments in the room were the crossed axes mounted on a plaque on one wall. The Chancellor had an affinity for hand-axes.
“What is it, Captain?” the Chancellor said, looking up from a pile of paper and papyrus. His expression was bland and emotionless; Willow found it unsettling.
She cleared her throat.
“Now that His Majesty has recovered and is resuming his duties,” she said, prepared for him to blow up at any moment, “I wanted to see if you had any further orders for me.”
The Chancellor stared at her, his expression blank. He drummed his massive fingers on his desk. He seemed to be looking for something in her eyes, something that betrayed her knowledge of his secret conversation, perhaps. She gave him nothing.
“Yes, Captain,” he said at last, his voice a bored monotone. “I’m assigning you as his personal bodyguard.”
Bodyguard? That was both surprising and insulting. Surprising because surely the last thing the Chancellor would want to do would be to protect this man, someone he clearly hated. Insulting because she was the Captain of the Guard, not some private one assigned as a lackey to a nobleman, royal though he may be. She had the entire defense of Bryanae to occupy her, a network of spies to nourish, not to mention the daily duties of leading the Guard and overseeing its training programs.
However, she showed no reaction to the orders.
“Yes, sir,” she said.
The Chancellor leaned forward, and a grim smile played on his lips.
“Her Majesty the Queen is concerned about his ‘lapses in memory.’ She fears he might wander off again. Your job is to keep him safe, and above all, keep him from wandering. In other words, protect him from himself.”
Protect him from himself. That was one way to put it. Another way was to say that he was to be a virtual prisoner, to be kept at the Queen’s beck-and-call, and under the Chancellor’s thumb.
Willow suspected that at some point, the Chancellor would instruct her to arrange an “accident” for the King. She wondered what she would do when that moment came: disobey orders, or commit regicide?
She’d have to give the matter some thought.
Chapter 29
Willow arrived at the King’s bedchamber just as the Queen was leaving. Queen Tiranda’s fiery red hair was down and disheveled, her makeup smeared. She wore only a fur robe, tied loosely at the waist. There was a faraway look in her eyes and a mysterious smile on her full lips.
The smile faded and her eyes hardened when she saw Willow.
“Your Majesty,” Willow said, saluting.
Queen Tiranda’s eyes once more evaluated Willow’s body, a practice that Willow was beginning to find more than a little annoying. The examination was especially irritating given the Queen’s ample curves and the way her careless belting of her robe displayed them. Willow took some small comfort in imaging the Queen trying to fit that plump body of hers into a suit of armor.
At last, the Queen smiled and a gratified look of condescension made its way to her face.
“Captain,” she said in the same tone of voice one might normally use to utter the word leeches.
“I’m here to escort His Majesty as per your command.”
“Odd,” the Queen said, “I don’t recall requesting the Captain of the Guard. Any competent soldier would have sufficed.” She said “competent” as though to imply that Willow was anything but.
Willow felt her anger rising, but she suppressed it through an effort of will. She kept her face expressionless as she said: “His Majesty is the most important person in the kingdom. No doubt the Chancellor wanted his best soldier to guard his person.”
“Not his best man?” the Queen said, goading her.
Willow arched an eyebrow. “Ma’am?”
The Queen lazily circled around Willow, continuing to evaluate her.
“As you must know, His Majesty is an extremely desirable man,” she said. She gently lifted Willow’s chin with an index finger. Willow ignored how easily that finger would snap. “I just worry that he might prove too much for any woman to withstand.”
With menace palpable in her voice, the Queen added, “If she were not up to such a challenge, I fear it might prove to be her undoing …”
Willow stepped back from the Queen instead of swatting away her hand, as Willow so dearly desired. They were on the sixth floor of the castle, and Willow thought longingly about what a satisfying mess it would make if she were to fling Her Majesty from the window of the King’s bedchamber.
“Madam,” she said, fighting to remain perfectly composed, “I am first and foremost a soldier.”
“That’s true,” the Queen cooed. “You’re not really much of a woman, are you? I see that my concerns were unfounded.”
She flounced to the antechamber door, but stopped short of leaving.
“Of course, if you did somehow succumb to the temptation,” she said as though an afterthought, “I’m sure you realize that there’d be no place to which you could flee to escape the full weight of my wrath.”
Willow saluted again. Her face was calm, but inwardly she was seething.
“Yes, ma’am,” she said.
“Good,” the Queen chirped, her face all smiles now. “I’ll leave you to your job.” The Queen gathered her robe about her and departed.
Willow inhaled and exhaled deeply, working hard to retain her composure. She had not spent the last century or so as a soldier so she could watch some insecure trollop’s husband. Willow tried to focus on the fact that the trollop and husband in question were the Queen and King of Bryanae, so this was a special case.
Ah well, there was nothing to be done. The Chancellor had given her her
orders, and she would follow them. It was what she did. It was who she was. Discipline.
Willow adjusted her uniform, fixed the position of her rapier, and then approached the doors to the King’s bedchamber. As she reached to knock, the doors opened and the King’s head peeked out, looking around nervously.
“Has she gone?” he whispered, scanning the antechamber.
Upon seeing that the antechamber was empty save for Willow, he breathed a relieved sigh.
“All ye gods,” he said, “thank you. Thank you.”
He pushed open the door to his bedchambers. Inside, Willow saw that his bed was in disarray with both men’s and women’s clothing scattered around the room. The King, also dressed only in a robe, staggered into the room and began searching the vast walk-in closets for something to wear.
“That woman is insatiable, Willow,” he said, sounding exhausted. “I don’t think she let me sleep more than a handful of hours the entire night! If I never see another woman, it’ll be far too soon!”
He withdrew a silver tunic that seemed to please him, blew the dust off it, and tossed it onto the bed. He headed back towards the closet, but stopped and looked at Willow.
“By the way,” he said, “have I mentioned that that uniform is extremely flattering to your figure? Also, the dark blue makes your skin look luminous, with an unearthly beauty. It’s a very good look for you.”
He fished out a white shirt and tossed it onto the bed beside the tunic.
“But what was I saying?” he said. “Ah, yes! No more women for me. I need to rest!”
Chapter 30
“You’ll have to excuse me for just a moment,” the King said.
He turned his back to Willow and dropped his robe, leaving him naked. After a moment of astonishment, she realized he was testing her. She wasn’t sure why, exactly, but the act struck her as contrived.
She seized the opportunity to view his body critically: not as a subject of desire, but as a potential adversary or ally.
The King’s back, legs, and buttocks were characterized by extraordinarily lean muscle. His calves and thighs in particular were shaped from what had to be very frequent use.
There were numerous scars on his back, most of them old and faded. A few were recent. Most of them looked to have been caused by weapons. One long scar that ran along his ribcage had likely resulted from an almost-miss from a long sword. There were a number of shorter slashes, too, that likely were saber wounds.
His most recent injury seemed to be the circular patch on his shoulder. It looked to be only a year or so old, and Willow was certain an arrow had inflicted it. Just what in the Seven Hells had this man been up to during his “absence”?
As the King reached for his shirt, he glanced at her with a knowing smile. Caught off guard, she looked away, and then cursed herself for acting like a teenage girl.
“So, uh …” the King started.
“Willow.”
The King sighed.
“Yes, I know it’s Willow,” he said, his demeanor petulant. Then he grinned. “So, what’s your story?”
“Sir?” She was not being disingenuous; she had no idea what he was asking.
The King slipped into his white shirt and reached for a set of black breeches.
“I mean,” he said, gesturing with a theatrical sweep of his hand, “Elf. Woman. Soldier. That’s an extraordinary combination. There simply must be an exciting story behind that. I knew it once, but alas, because of my … mission, it’s completely slipped my mind.”
Sure, it has, she thought.
“No, not really,” she said. “It was just a lot of hard work and repetition, sir.”
The King looked crestfallen. He stepped into his breeches and tied them closed.
“Not even a little excitement?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, sir, but no.”
“Hmph,” he said. Now he was examining the silver tunic, inspecting the workmanship. He held it up to the light coming through the nearest window. “Very nice!”
He shook his head and said, “I’m sorry; what was I saying?”
“His Majesty was asking about life in the Guard,” she said. She added pointedly: “Which seems odd, seeing as he himself had once been a member.”
Was it her imagination, or was there a glint of delight in the King’s eyes? It seemed also that the corners of his mouth turned up just a fraction, before dropping again.
“I didn’t ask for my story,” he said, his voice stern. He turned to face her now, and his eyes were cold, very much like the eyes of the King she remembered. “I asked you for yours. Moreover, you would do well to remember your place, Captain. Your job is to serve Bryanae, not to question its royalty.”
Dammit, he had caught her. She snapped to full attention and saluted.
“Yes, Your Majesty!” she said, inwardly furious at herself for being so obvious.
The King chuckled now, kindly. “At ease, Captain, at ease! I was only teasing.”
He patted her on her shoulder and she gritted her teeth. She stood at ease.
“Ha, ha,” she said dryly. “Very funny, sir.”
The King laughed, almost a giggle. “Oh, I like you, Captain Willow, elf soldier woman. I think we’ll get along fine.”
She was tempted to inform him that the real King had known Willow very well indeed. She had shared his bed on two occasions, both at his request.
Or did this man know that already?
The thought troubled Willow. If he were an impostor, as he seemed, then how had he managed to look so much like the real King? More importantly, what possible motivation would he have?
Are you really him? Willow thought. If not, just who in the Hells are you, and what do you want?
Then the King pulled a wooden chair away from a desk and sat in it backward, facing her.
“So,” he said, “where shall we start?”
Chapter 31
Willow didn’t know what kind of game he was playing, and she really didn’t care. She squeezed every single drop of boredom and apathy she could into her voice and replied, “Start, sir?”
The King laughed, and his teeth shone. He indicated another chair with glance and a raised eyebrow; she ignored it. He shrugged.
The King exhaled the sigh of a chess master preparing for a match against a worthy opponent at last. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together.
“All right,” he said, “how about this: since my memory is not at its best right now, start by telling me what you know about me.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Sir?”
He grimaced. “Hmmm. I thought I was pretty clear. Mayhap I need elocution lessons?” His eyebrows darted up and down and the corners of his mouth turned up into a wry smile.
The gauntlet had been thrown.
All right. He wanted to play? Then play she shall.
She reached into her belt pouch and withdrew the King’s magical bag, which she had folded into a rectangle.
“I know you possess some unusual items,” she said.
The King’s eyes shone. “My bag: you found it! I feared it lost!”
She placed the bag into his outstretched hands and took a step back. She was curious to see what he did next.
“Dare I hope?” the King said.
He reached his hand into the bag and said, “Flame.”
An expression akin to joy spread on his face, and when he withdrew his hand, it grasped his orange-hued rapier.
The King tipped his imaginary hat to her. “So you figured out how it worked. Well done.”
She stared blankly, showing him her mask and nothing else. The King smirked and reached his hand into the bag a second time.
“Lightning,” he said, and withdrew his silver-headed cane.
“You named your rapier and your cane,” she remarked, her voice droll.
“You know,” he said, raising his chin in a contemplative pose, “I’ve always wondered what would happen if I were to reach in here and say, ‘bag.’ ”
“Anyway,” the King was saying, “you seem like a connoisseur of blades. What do you think of old Flame here?”
She was about to answer when she heard the sound of the rapier sliding from its sheath. She spun, eyes wide, and her own rapier whisked free.
The King swished his orange-hued rapier in X-shaped cuts through the air. Willow analyzed his stance, the way he gripped the rapier, even the look on his face.
His feet were too close together and at the wrong angle; his grip was too loose, and the fingers were spread too much; his expression was vacuous. All common characteristics of beginner fencers who lacked any natural talent.
However, nobody was that bad in every single respect.
The King was pretending to be a poor fencer, suggesting that if anything, he was probably very skilled.
Interesting.
“It’s very”—she fumbled for the word—“pretty, sir. But perhaps His Majesty should put that away before someone gets hurt.”
The King looked crestfallen. He sheathed the rapier Flame, but caught his thumb between the guard and the edge of the sheath.
“Ow!” he lamented, and sucked on his thumb.
She sighed and sheathed her own blade.
“You asked me what I know about you, Your Majesty,” she said. “I know from the scars on your back that you’ve been in numerous fights. Presumably, because you’re still here, you won those fights.”
The King removed his thumb from his mouth. “Go on,”
“I know from your reaction earlier that you’ve seen the Chancellor before, yet he was appointed after the real K—” She stopped herself just in time. “I mean after your disappearance.”
“Indeed? And what else do you know about me?”
She shrugged. “I know you’re the King of Bryanae.”
King of Bryanae (Bryanae Series Book 3) Page 10
