Shield and sorrow, p.5
Shield & Sorrow, page 5
“Yes, but most of the time, one wrong move won’t plunge our country into war,” Silas replied dryly. “Could I have more bread?”
“Perhaps you should have eaten something last night, and then you wouldn’t be so hungry now.” Her irritation didn’t extend to denying his request, and she cut him a second slice of bread—still warm—and handed him the butter dish. She watched him eat, arms crossed, the indulgent smile in full bloom now. With every bite, her smile slipped, until she frowned in thought. “There are a lot of wrongs you need to right, my king.”
Her blunt words startled Silas. “What do you mean?”
She turned away from him and went to the pantry. When she returned, she held a large saltshaker. She dusted the palm of her hand with salt, then held her open palm out to him. “For Alistair’s, and all of your other helpful council’s, advice.”
He let her drop the salt into his hand, hearing the words she didn’t speak: take what they say with a grain of salt. “Thank you, Cook.” He slipped the salt into his pocket as a reminder. Narrowing his eyes in thought, he said, “I could assign you to the council.” It hadn’t occurred to him before, but she would be a perfect Head of Staff. She was already familiar with the kitchen staff and he trusted her judgement more than anyone else’s.
Her smile was small and sad. “I don’t belong in a king’s Council Chambers, butting heads with all those important lords.”
Not every member of Silas’ council came from nobility, but more than half did. It was common for the monarchs of Bellacosta to grant positions of power to favored nobles who wouldn’t inherit other titles.
Silas took her hand and squeezed it gently. “Please consider it.” But he could see her discomfort, so he chose not to press her further. He finished eating, thanked her for allowing him to intrude onto her kitchen, and left to face the rest of the day, his restless night completely forgotten.
Breakfast was another extravagant affair. This time, Archer and the others were much less impressed with the meal. As luxurious as the night before—eggs, bacon, sausage, hotcakes, pastries, fruit with creams and syrups, and large carafes of fruit juices—the table represented a massive waste of wealth.
Archer watched Silas, who once again barely touched the feast. Near the beginning of the meal, Archer cut a quick glance at Griselda, who subtly shook her head. No magic or poison at this meal, yet Silas still didn’t eat. Is it a power play, starving himself to show that he doesn’t even enjoy the ridiculous amounts and varieties of food prepared for him? Though Archer had only known the other man for a day, that didn’t seem quite right. So, why isn’t he eating?
“We usually have a council meeting after breakfast,” Silas said, leaning back in his chair. “I thought that would be the perfect time to discuss our … strained relationship.”
Archer nodded, ready to get to the meat of the problem.
“Your Majesty, I’m afraid we don’t have time for that today,” Niall said, his head lowered, but his fist clenched around a fork. “We have a full schedule and—”
“It can wait,” Silas replied, straightening in his chair. When his adviser’s head jerked up and they locked eyes, he continued, “Our guests are more important than a monthly budget discussion or merchant squabbles. We didn’t just invite them here for a meal.”
“We didn’t invite them here at all,” Cal muttered, but when Archer looked at him, the adviser forced a smile.
“As much as we’re looking forward to the festival,” Penn said, smiling as he drew everyone’s attention, “we would prefer to begin negotiations as soon as possible.”
“Negotiations,” Varro sneered. “We don’t negotiate with—”
“Empty stomachs.” Silas’ fork scraped loudly across the plate as he stabbed his food, but his smile was calm and practiced. “So, we’ll meet after everyone is finished eating.”
The Arnsveldians sat on one side of the room while the Bellacostans sat on the other, an invisible battle line drawn down the center.
Silas felt like the lost soul adrift in enemy territory. In a council room instead of a dining room, the whole Arnsveld party looked intimidating. Archer stared at Silas in a direct challenge, and Silas tried not to squirm in response.
Worse, Silas had no allies here. He knew from the beginning that his councilors were not interested in cooperating. Mirinda and Jacoby wouldn’t openly fight him, but they never properly worked with him either, and the other three were openly hostile from the beginning. Even a simple discussion of the weather might start a vicious argument.
Silas cleared his throat nervously. Am I supposed to begin or is he? Archer called for the meeting, but I’m the host. Gods dammit, I can’t remember the etiquette here. “Where should we begin?”
“Trade,” Archer grunted.
Silas nodded. “Yes, of course, that does make sense.” He tried to gather his thoughts, but they scattered through his mind like leaves in the wind. What did he know about the Arnsveldians? Almost nothing. “I assume you’re most interested in food?”
Cal groaned next to Silas and rubbed his forehead. Silas clenched his fist at his side. If I’m fucking this up so bad, why don’t you say something, Guild Master?
“Yes, food.”
“It isn’t about what he’s interested in,” Niall said. “The real question is: how would they pay for it? Barren lands, with only useless stones that they can’t even reach anymore.”
Silas frowned. “What does that mean?”
“He’s referring to a cave-in of one of the mines,” Penn explained, his expression darkening. “A hundred miners lost their lives, and the routes became more difficult to navigate.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss. When did this happen?”
“Nineteen years ago.”
He’s old enough, did he lose someone in the accident? Silas’ heart clenched as he looked at their faces. Sorrow lined their eyes, even the gruff general, but he couldn’t tell how deep it ran.
“You have other mines,” Cal said, his head cocked in thought. “If I recall, there are several veins of gold and precious gems under your mountains.”
“Hardly precious anymore,” Niall sneered. “Shiny rocks with no real value. You can’t eat a ruby or build a house from gold.”
Cal narrowed his eyes, but when he noticed Silas watching him, his expression smoothed, and he turned away.
Niall and Cal didn’t usually argue. I wonder if it’s because Alistair is gone.
“So, you have nothing to offer,” Niall reiterated. “Is this the part where you tell us that we cooperate or go to war?”
Silas wished he had a large book to smack the adviser over the head with. Instead, he took a deep breath and tried to force his body to relax. “I’m sure there are other things we—” The door slammed open and Silas turned his head sharply to see who had interrupted.
Fuck.
Silas’ words were forgotten in the presence of the new arrival. Though he looked like an old man—long, white hair and wrinkles around his eyes and mouth—he moved with the smooth, gliding grace of someone decades younger.
“Ah, Alistair, welcome back.” Silas’ greeting lacked enthusiasm. “May I present to you King Archer and his companions General Griselda, Penn, and Emmaline?” Alistair’s sharp blue eyes scanned the group before he bowed to Archer. A proper greeting, with no sense of unease or anger in his movements, yet the man radiated displeasure. “Alistair is my most trusted adviser,” Silas finished. A little furrow formed in his brow, as if his own words confused him.
Griselda tapped Archer’s knee under the table. He’d ask her the specifics later, but her eyes were locked on the adviser, her lips pulled back in a menacing expression that could never pass for a smile.
Archer stared down the older man until the adviser turned away and said to Silas, “I have very urgent matters to discuss with you.” Phrased like a request with the power of an order.
“After the meeting,” Silas dismissed him. When he looked forward again, he flinched, then shook his head.
Griselda’s hand now gripped Archer’s thigh so hard that he would bruise in perfect black and blue replicas of her fingerprints. Magic.
“I apologize, Your Majesty,” the adviser said, his voice soft yet authoritative, “but it cannot wait.”
Silas sighed and pushed his chair away from the table. “If it’s that important.”
Apprehension shivered down Archer’s spine. Alistair was missing from this meeting for a reason. If we stop here, the mage might prevent another discussion from happening. I’ll have to get Silas alone. Before he lost his chance, he said, “We’d like a tour of the palace.”
Silas blinked and looked surprised at the sudden request, then smiled. “Of course. I’ll take care of this and then meet you in the foyer in half an hour.”
Alistair’s eyes cut into Archer, like facing an armed opponent. Archer imagined his shield—thick, sturdy, shaped like the one his father used in battle, able to withstand an assault from any weapon—and heard the clang of their wills colliding.
Alistair looked away first. “We should meet in my office, Your Majesty.” He didn’t even wait to see if his king agreed before walking away.
Griselda released her stranglehold on Archer’s thigh. The king’s Head Adviser was a mage—a strong one. Gris’ nose remained wrinkled even after the man left the room. But Alistair hadn’t been at dinner last night. Either he was a very strong mage, or more than one magic user was manipulating King Silas.
Chapter Seven
“We need to get rid of those advisers,” Griselda growled when they met up in Emmaline’s room. They decided to change rooms for private meetings to make it harder for someone to spy on them. Archer stood watch by the door again, Penn took his seat by the desk, and Emmaline sat on the bed. Griselda paced the short length of the room, trying to burn off her agitated energy.
“That Alistair.” Emmaline shuddered delicately. “I didn’t like him at all.”
“Stank to high heavens,” Griselda added, rubbing viciously at her nose as if the terrible smell still lingered. “And I can tell he’s the one that sent that letter, claiming to be King Silas denying our request.”
“I thought you said all magicians smelled like shit,” Penn said with a wry smile. “How can you tell the difference between them?”
“There’s all different kinds of shit, Penn, as you should know. It’s the difference between a healthy manure, which is still fairly rank, and a newborn baby’s diarrhea.”
Emmaline gagged. “Do we have to discuss this?”
“My point is, the stronger the mage, the worse the stench.” Griselda snorted and snuffled, then sneezed. “I won’t forget that scent until I’m long gone from this horrid place.”
“Can we at least raid the pantries before we go?” Penn asked. “I wouldn’t mind leaving today if we could stock up first.”
“Oh, but the solstice is tomorrow.” Emmaline’s shoulders drooped. “I’d love to see how they celebrate. I’ve heard all sorts of wonderful things—games, performances, and food served special for the occasion.”
“It might be too dangerous to stay for the celebrations,” Penn replied with a gentle smile. “Alistair clearly doesn’t want us here. Wherever he was last night, I don’t think it bodes well for us. If he’s pulling the king’s strings, we won’t be able to negotiate anything anyway.”
“We could always take the boy with us,” Griselda grunted.
“Some spells do lose their strength with time and distance,” Emmaline said. “And Mama could probably help us with any lingering potions.”
Penn snorted and shook his head. “Oh great, then we’ll just go from possible threats to confirmed villains. The last thing we need is a reputation for stealing kings.”
Archer agreed. Taking a deep breath, he gave everyone their orders. To Penn: “Explore the grounds and city.” Then he turned to Emmaline, considering her strengths. “Talk with the house staff.” And finally he addressed Griselda, “You’re with me.” If the adviser joined them during the tour, she could sniff out any spells. Archer wanted to see how often the mage tried to manipulate the king, but more importantly, how often it worked.
Silas followed Alistair down the hall, pressing the base of his hand against his forehead. A headache had slowly built during the meeting, then bloomed into a heavy, throbbing pain centered right between his eyes and branching out through the rest of his skull. Unfortunately, there was no hope that it would dissipate while he met with Alistair, so he’d have to find a way to hide the pain.
As they entered Alistair’s office, he dropped his hand and tried to keep his breathing even, lifting his chin and straightening his shoulders. Alistair settled behind his desk and Silas stood in front of him, signaling that he didn’t expect this to take long. Instead of asking why Alistair wanted to see him, he tried to take charge of the meeting. “How was your visit with Queen Katarina? Any progress?”
When Alistair locked eyes with him, a new burst of pain spiked behind Silas’ right eye. He barely refrained from wincing and held his adviser’s gaze. Interesting how the headaches stopped while Alistair was gone. The thought flitted through his mind, but vanished before he could inspect it, as if plucked away and disposed of. “Yes, in fact, it was so easy that my presence seemed completely unnecessary.”
Silas fiddled with a button on his jacket, trying to exude an air of unconcern. “Clearly she appreciates your charm. I’m glad that I sent you.”
Alistair continued to stare. “Mm. And you didn’t have any other reasons?”
Silas shrugged. His breath came a little short as he pushed his way past the headache, but he thought that he hid it well enough from Alistair. The last thing he wanted when he had guests was to be fussed over with exaggerated concerns for his health. They’d probably all cheer if I died without leaving an heir.
“I didn’t want you to be here when the Arnsveld party arrived,” Silas admitted, then frowned. Why did I say that?
Alistair’s hand clenched a quill, snapping the stem. “I see. You didn’t want your Head Adviser to meet with a foreign king?”
“You disapproved of the meeting. I thought they might learn of that and change their minds about working with us.”
Alistair’s blue eyes burned, and his jaw tightened. “They are not here to work with us. They are here to spy on us.” The anger in his eyes made Silas instinctively step away from him, glad to have the desk between them. “They aren’t here as friends, but as adversaries learning their enemies’ strengths and weaknesses so that they can exploit every crack in our defenses when they finally make the decision to invade.”
Silas swallowed nervously but then straightened his shoulders and held his ground. “I disagree. There’s nothing particularly hostile in their behavior. I think they want peace just as much as we do, but they also want better lives for their people. I don’t see any reason why we shouldn’t work together.”
“You would take resources away from your own people? Trade them for nothing to those heathens?”
With every hissed word, new pain sliced through Silas, no longer contained to his head. An invisible knife stabbed his stomach and twisted for maximum damage. He coughed, spraying specks of blood onto Alistair’s desk. Staring at it in shock, his hands trembled. No, no, this can’t be happening.
Alistair’s expression suddenly softened as he stood and rounded the desk. “You’re sick, Your Majesty, you know this.”
His words rang through Silas’ mind, reminding him: This is exactly how your mother died.
“This is too much for you right now,” Alistair cooed, rubbing Silas’ back soothingly.
Though it was a simple gesture, it relieved some of the pain in Silas’ head and stomach. He leaned into his adviser, panting as he tried to catch his breath. He raised his hand to his mouth and wiped a droplet of blood from the corner of his lips and grimaced. Not the first time that’s happened.
“You should go to bed.”
Silas straightened and shook his head. “I promised Archer that I would give him a tour of the palace.”
“That isn’t a wise idea—”
“Enough,” Silas snapped. “I’m fine. They aren’t spies or thieves. They are only our enemies if we treat them as such, and I won’t make that mistake.” Pulling away from Alistair, his hand brushed against the side of his trousers, where he’d placed the salt Cook had given him. He gripped the salt through the fabric. Sometimes, my advisers don’t always know best. “If you’ll excuse me.”
Alistair tried to stop him again, but Silas swept past him. As he walked away, he dipped his hand into his pocket. The salt dusted over the tips of his fingers, and when he pulled his hands out, he rubbed his lips determinedly, as if the salt could help scrub away any miniscule traces of blood before he met with Archer.
Archer and Griselda waited in the entrance hall for King Silas to arrive. When he did, he looked pale and tired, with shadowed bags under his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Archer exchanged a look with Griselda, the sheer disgust on her face confirmation of the magic involved. Did his adviser call that meeting to make up for lost time? Maybe the man was afraid of the presence of others who could possibly influence the king.
“I apologize for my tardiness,” Silas said, rubbing his temple, clearly trying to soothe a lingering headache. “As you may have guessed, I had some business to discuss with my adviser.”
Archer nodded stiffly. As much as he wanted to see the palace, he offered, “We can reschedule if you’re busy or … need rest.”
“No,” Silas snapped, then flinched. “I apologize, you don’t deserve my ire.”
“Not getting along with the old man?” Griselda grunted.
Silas nibbled his bottom lip and glanced at Archer. “It can be difficult, learning each other’s communication and management styles. I’m quite different from … from my mother, and he worked with her long enough that he may find it strange to have to adapt to this new situation.”
