The King's Spinster Bride, (Royal Wedding #1)(3)

Mathior tries to move forward, but I push him behind my full skirts and press closer to my carved chair so he cannot do something as foolish as trying to save me.

“Do not stand in my way—“

“If my father is dead, I am now the queen. You are my royal guard.” I give Balun and his men an imperious look. “Do you go against my wishes? Mathior is an honored guest. He will remain so. I will not let you touch him so long as I live.”

“Then you will only live for an hour,” snarls Balun. He turns to the royal guard.

They look at him, then at me, and drop to a knee, bowing their heads in my direction. Loyal, brave men. I stand a little bit straighter at their allegiance. I know I am right. It is not our way to kill prisoners, especially a small boy who has done nothing wrong save be born to the enemy king.

Balun turns his back to me and storms out of the room.

I blink rapidly. Everything is happening so fast. I take a deep, steeling breath as the sounds of battle below grow louder. Mathior’s small hand squeezes mine, lending me his strength, and I remember who I am. Yshrem is supposed to be a good place, a cultured kingdom of learning and beauty. We are not murderers. Even if we are conquered.

Even if I am queen for ten minutes, I will be the right kind of queen.

I turn around and look at the seats scattered about my chamber. “Cosira, bring your chair next to mine,” I say, indicating the next largest carved seat. “Mathior will sit at my side as the guest he is.” My ladies bustle into activity and I sit back down on my chair—now my throne—and ignore the pulse hammering in my throat. I swallow hard and lift my head to address the guard waiting for my orders. “If the castle is lost and my father dead, then I would have no more blood shed on this day. Go and give the orders to lay down their weapons. Not all of my father’s men need to die for Yshremi pride.” I smooth my skirts and gaze upon them as a queen. “We will wait here to greet Alistair the Conqueror.”

I pray that when Alistair puts his sword to my throat to kill me—as he surely will—I will be as composed as I am in this moment.

Mathior puts his hand over mine, his skin dark against my milk-pale, his hand childish against my larger one. “I won’t forget, Halla.”

I give his hand a squeeze and then wait to meet my end.





2





Sixteen Years Later





MATHIOR



I stare at my father’s funeral pyre, the flames of it growing higher by the moment. Songs rise into the night, my people singing up to the stars of my father’s deeds. Of the many bloody battles he fought and won. Of how he made the cyclops a kingdom to be feared. Of his conquest of Yshrem with its weakling king and neighboring Alassia, whose citizens threw down their arms the moment they heard the barbarian king had turned his eye their way. On and on, I hear songs of Alistair’s many feats—some not entirely true, but all glorious and praising of his name.

This is a time for fine words in his memory. This is a time to drink and praise him. In the morning, there will be kingdoms to govern and my people to lead, but tonight is for him. At least, that is how it should be. Already his advisors look to me with questions in their eyes.

And I am the one that must give them answers.

I rub at the scar over my eye, the symbol of my strength as a warrior. The day I sacrificed my eye to the god Aron of the Cleaver to prove that I did not need two eyes to be a brutal fighter. That a fierce Cyclopae warrior only needs partial sight to ruthlessly slaughter his enemies. It is a tradition as old as time amongst my people, and I submitted willingly. That was the day I became a man, but sometimes the scar itches, even though the eye there has been long gone these ten years.

I lower my eyepatch once more and cross my arms, deliberately staring into my father’s funeral pyre. I keep my gaze focused, daring the Yshremi ambassador who skulks at the edges of the celebration to come and demand answers.

I will give him answers at the tip of my spear if he does.

But the man has some brains. He gives me worried looks but does not disturb me as I pay tribute to my father. I celebrate with the others, raising my voice in song and lifting drinking horn after drinking horn in his name. I do not drink from all of them, but the revelers who celebrate my father’s life—warriors and widows alike—do not notice. All they know is that they must shout their joy of my father’s deeds to the heavens so the gods will hear them. Tomorrow will be a time for mourning, but not tonight.

The hours wear on, voices grow hoarse, and the fires grow dim. When the last of the flames have gone out and my father’s funeral celebration is complete, I am weary but pleased. My father has been sent to the gods with great honor.

Tired, I toss my furred cloak over my shoulders and leave behind the funereal fires, toward the largest tent in the encampment. Now it is my tent.

“A word, King Mathior,” I hear a voice whine from behind me.

I grit my teeth. I had hoped to wait until tomorrow to answer this. I know what he will ask. I know my answer. I have always known my answer. But I do not have the time or the patience to explain it to him or anyone else. Of course, a king should not have to explain…but warriors and diplomats are very different kinds of people. Diplomats insist on words for everything, even when I would rather shove a spear down their throats.

My father would laugh at my sourness. He would tease me and tell me that even the word-sparring is still a battle that a king must fight, and it must be approached as seriously as any battlefield combat. My throat aches and I feel a sad sense of longing that he is not here, that I must take the throne upon his death. I would give a thousand good horses if he could rule forever. I have always wanted to be king, of course, but never at his expense.