Amaskan's Blood, Raven Oak [read me a book .TXT] 📗

his seat, but he rested on the chest at the foot of his bed which still smelled of the soaps Ida used. Fingers curled around the mug’s handle before he sent it skittering across the floor, the remaining tea leaving a trail across the rug.

“Your Majesty?”

His ears heard the words, but his brain ignored them. My Iliana. Now alive.

And now a killer.

When the shakes began this time, he didn’t stop them. He couldn’t.

Ida. Always Ida. Why must she haunt his thoughts now when there was so much to do?

“Your Majesty?” The servant at his arm peered up at him, the bundle of flowers still in her hands. He motioned for her to withdraw, and the dozen servants left him alone in the audience chamber. For weeks they’d pestered Margaret about the flowers, the seating arrangement, what entertainment would play. The list continued until finally she’d thrown up her hands and stormed off in a bundle of stress and tears.

He thought he could help, but what did he know of such things? They scurried around planning the wedding, and all he could think on was Iliana.

And Ida.

His heart still leapt when he thought of her, and his hands still shook with the urge to strangle something. How could he love and hate someone at the same time? She plagued his thoughts—an irritating distraction when he needed his wits the most.

Word came that she awaited his daughter in Brieghton, and then nothing. Leon’s thoughts flickered back and forth between past and present, while he outright ignored the future. Maybe this wedding would do him good. Provided it wasn’t a trap.

King Leon stared across the mostly empty room until one of the royal guards cleared his throat. Captain Fenton approached and bent down on one knee before the throne. “Your Majesty.”

“What news?”

“Messenger pigeons in from the border. Captain Warhammer returns with a guest.” Leon released air he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and Michael continued, “Sire, Lieutenant Thomas says the woman is Amaskan. He asks if he should send anyone to kill her, or if Captain Warhammer will do the task.”

Leon gripped the gilded armrests of his throne. “Do nothing. No one will harm her.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. May I speak boldly, Your Majesty?” Leon nodded. Captain Fenton’s booted toe traced a circle in the blue rug. “If she’s Amaskan, as Captain of the Royal Guard, I should know. Or if nothing else, the Grand Marshal should be notified—”

“Captain, I understand your concern, but the woman traveling with Ida isn’t Amaskan. She’s a Master Guardsman out of Sadai, and I’ve sent for her to protect Margaret as her sepier.”

“Is that wise? It’s good for Her Highness to have a sepier, but to be frank, Her Highness isn’t the easiest person to protect. If anything, this sepier may need a sepier herself just as a shield from Her Highness’s shrieking tongue.”

Leon laughed at the picture the young captain painted. “Point taken, Captain,” he said once he’d caught his breath.

“Truly though, is this wise, Your Majesty? How much do you know about this Master Guardsman?”

The majority of the audience chamber stood empty, the exception being the royal guards who stood watch over King Leon. As such, most of the candles remained unlit, leaving the throne area a blazing brilliance of gold and blue in a dark and shadowed hall. Even in the dim lighting where Captain Fenton rigidly stood, Leon could see his furrowed brow.

“Put aside your worry,” King Leon said with a broad smile.

“But, Sire—”

“I know all I need to, Fenton, all I need.”

Or he hoped he did. Iliana, come back to me a daughter. He ran his fingers through his thinning hair and used the motion to hide his concern from the captain. But a daughter isn’t what you need.

You need a killer.

CHAPTER NINE

Margaret stood unmoving, her eyes light slits as fabric moved across her frame before settling into place on girlish curves. A prick at the small of her back made her flinch, and she wobbled on the stool.

A servant latched onto Margaret’s arm to steady her, and Margaret jerked her arm away. She scowled before turning her attention to her lady-in-waiting. “If you keep eating like a bird, my lady, this dress will fall off you before the wedding night, if you pardon my saying so,” Lady Nisha said as she slid more pins into place.

Margaret’s skin flushed, and she patted her cheeks to cool them. Two months. Two months before she would marry Prince Gamun, and yet she still blushed at the thought. She forced her eyes to the mirror. A delicate frame wrapped in a cocoon of pale blue silk, pale yellow threads embroidered the edges along her bosom and feet.

Beautiful dress. Not a beautiful princess. She frowned again, her lips pouting beneath a nose just a hair too large for her slight-jawed face.

“What is it, my lady?”

“Am I beautiful?” Margaret’s eyes saw angles instead of smooth flowing fabric.

“Of course, cousin. You’re very beautiful,” Nisha replied.

Margaret spun away from the mirror to face her lady-in-waiting. Instead of fleeting eyes or fidgeting fingers, she found Nisha waiting with a wide smile that lit up her dark skin like a star. Margaret’s frown deepened, and she tugged at the fabric bunched at her bosom. Trembling fingers danced over the flowered embroidery, but only saw the marred flesh at the edge of it.

Hoof beats rang in Margaret’s ears.

Cold shadows as the horse moved, and a heavy weight leaning against her back which pressed the sharp edge of the pommel against her chest.

The princess shuddered and blinked back the memory. “I’m not worth the months it took to make this dress. Prince Gamun will take one look at me and declare me an impostor. Look at me—all bones swimming in yards of fabric.”

Nisha stuck pins into the soft fabric and pulled it tighter to Margaret’s frame. Margaret winced as another pin poked her, and she couldn’t help but tug at the dress’s waist, her hands smoothing the fabric over hip bones