Gild (The Plated Prisoner, #1)(84)

I watch the sculptors continue to carve for a moment longer before I turn and head back inside, letting the balcony doors snick shut behind me. I’ve been given the south suites of Ranhold Castle to stay in, the interior all decorated in whites and purples, with gray rock and black iron fortifying its structure. It’s lavish and entirely respectable enough for a visiting monarch.

Except, I don’t intend to simply visit.

I sit down at the desk set into the corner of the room, fresh blue winter blossoms set cheerfully on top, its stem resting in frosted water.

I’m deep in a stack of papers when the knock sounds on my door, and my advisor, Odo, shuffles in.

“Your Majesty, a letter has arrived for you.”

I hold out my hand, my attention split on the roster in front of me as he places the rolled parchment in my palm. Breaking the wax seal, I unroll the message, my eyes distractedly skimming over the words. But then I stop. Go back. Start over.

I read it once, and my body goes rigid. I read it a second time, and my jaw clenches tight. By the third time, I’m seeing red.

“Sire?”

My eyes snap to Odo where he waits in front of the desk, no doubt wondering if I need to send a reply.

There will be no reply.

My hand crumples the paper. “They have her.”

My voice is dark and low, words formed between barely separated teeth. The realization pounding in tandem with my enraged pulse.

Odo hesitates. “Who has who, Your Majesty?”

In a blink, I’m on my feet. My arms sweep everything off the desk in a terrific crash. Books slam against the floor, papers go flying, the frosted vase of the flowers shatters against the wall.

My advisor flinches back, wide eyes on me as I pace back and forth across the room. My fists are clenched so tightly at my sides that it’s a wonder I don’t snap the bones in my fingers.

“King Midas?” Odo questions hesitantly.

But I barely hear him, nor my guards who come into the room because of the noise, their swords drawn against a threat that isn’t here.

A cloud of fury gathers in my head, a heavy storm of thoughts pummeling behind my temples and dripping down my limbs.

No one dares move or question me further as I continue to pace, probably in fear that I’ll solidify their heads and leave their golden skulls on a frozen spike outside the gates.

I don’t feel it when I stop and slam my fist into the wall. I don’t care when my knuckles split and blood stains the white carpet in furious blots of red.

I don’t feel it, and I don’t care, because the thing that matters the most to me in this world has been taken from me.

My favored. My gilded. My precious. She’s been stolen from me and is being held in an enemy’s clutches.

I turn to my guards, my anger rising like boiling water, sending a thick haze of fury over my vision. The precision of my planned annihilation against King Fulke will be nothing compared to those who dared take Auren from me.

She’s mine.

And I’ll destroy everyone in my path to get her back.



End of Book One





Golden Gold Vine





Part One





There was a miser who prized her, this golden gold vine.

This sapling so gilded, her leaflings did shine.

The moment he saw her, he let out a whisper of, “mine.”





He’d found her in rubble, along a plain road.

Unburied, he took her, in pocket he stowed.





Back to his house,

where he stared at her gleam.

Hands curled to covet, want stitched to seam.





What a chance this was, the chance for much more.

So he planted her there, right outside his front door.





Kept under secrets and hidden she lay.

This old miser did find her, did steal her away.





Brought to the yard,

he planted her there.

Fenced her all in

to shelter her glare.





Soon she grew tiny buds, glinting with gold.

He plucked them by one, went to town to be sold.





He paid off his debts, bought whatever he sought.

But it wasn’t enough,

whatever he got.





For greed had been planted beside her thin roots.

Want had leafed out,

along with her shoots.





Yet although he watered, soon she did wilt.

Her golden did dull

and worry he spilt.





For his most prized possession looked right to be culled.

She wasted away,

while he fretted and mulled.





It wasn't til so angry, he pulled out his hair.

Brown clumps all fallen on the vine bare,

that her color suddenly glistened, her vine did then surge.

She grew ever much

from his body he'd purged.





Ecstatic, he knew, what he must do.

So this miser clip-clipped, and gold flowers then bloomed.

His hair he snip-snipped, gladly shedding his plume.