Page 114 of The Stolen Throne
“Queen Tabra Eutheria I of Aryd and King Eidolon Calix I of Tyndra,” he announces with as much pomp as one can have in an echoing stone chamber the length of a cathedral.
The diamond-shaped throne room of Wildernyss is monumentally huge, rising several stories overhead to buttressed ceilings. Black-and-white checkered marble floors gleam in the light pouring through diamond-shaped glassless windows that are covered in purple silk that manages to keep out the cold yet is so sheer it lets in the light, casting a pale lavender hue over everything. The large room is almost empty—maybe six men that I can see standing about.
That’s good. Fewer witnesses is better.
The king sits at the end of the long aisle that is lined in diamond-shaped archways. He looks tiny from way back here. Behind him rises an intricately carved stone frieze depicting the wonders of Wildernyss. Among the mountains, I can make out various creatures, including a basan and a deathworm, both of which I’ve encountered up close and way too personal. All positioned above a kirin whose massive, twisting rack of antlers holds the weight of the dominion. At the tip-top, a raven takes wing, reminding me of Bene, who is waiting outside somewhere.
But where is the bird in the carving’s mate? A single raven by itself is another omen of death. There must always be two.
You’re not here for omens.
Ignoring the carving and the way my heart squeezes with each step forward, I start a regal, stately walk down the long aisle. Reven keeps pace beside me. A sudden moment of déjà vu—this sense of having been here before, perhaps in a past life—washes over me. But the familiarity includes Reven walking at my side, like once upon a time, we could have been here as queen and king for a friendly visit. Or like that could have been our future if things in this life had gone a different way.
“Okay?” Reven whispers.
“Yeah.” But I need to stop letting myself get distracted.
Halfway down, those great doors behind us close with a clanking, ominous rattle. Trapped.
Reven’s arm tenses under mine, and I know he doesn’t like that the same way I don’t.
Taking my courage by the throat, I focus on the king.
The king who doesn’t even bother to rise from his throne.
I know what to expect as I near him. When I met him in Aryd, I’d wondered if Istrella had married later in life to a much younger man. Not that Istrella is old by any means. My confusion came from the fact that Omma had taught me that they are both, by now, in their fifties, but Trysolde had looked—still looks—as if he’s in his twenties.
Russet-colored hair untouched by silver gleams in the sunlight, and his ruddy skin glows with health. His muscles and toned body are obvious, even through his layers of kingly garb. A slim band of gold around his forehead is his only nod to a crown. His hands, gnarled and curled in on themselves, are the only part of him that show any sign of aging.
He lounges in his throne with an utter disregard for me, arms resting on the ornately carved seat.
Actually, that disregard includes Reven, who is supposed to be Eidolon in this play we are putting on. And Istrella seemed to think Trysolde had become Eidolon’s…friend? Puppet? Wouldn’t he stand for the king?
I stop at least thirty paces from the stairs that lead up to the dais where his throne sits, but I don’t bow. Instead, I dip my head and place my fist over my chest. Reven mimics the action—an appropriate greeting for visiting royalty to the ruler of the dominion. “Honor to you, Trysolde son of Tymberlane, King of Wildernyss,” we say in unison.
The king does not rise or welcome us in a similar manner, though. Eyes a clear, striking green take me in, then shift to Reven. “Eidolon, my friend, you didn’t tell me you would be visiting so soon.”
Trysolde’s voice does not match his outsides. This handsome, virile man speaks in a high-pitched scratch of sound that is uncomfortable to my ears. When we met in Aryd, I wondered how Istrella listened to that all the time without wincing.
“And with your missing bride in tow. Excellent. You were so…concerned…with her absence.”
Just my damned luck… Eidolon had put out the rumor that I’d been taken by a Shadowraith, and Trysolde was with him in Aryd at the time.
“Unharmed, as you see,” Reven murmurs. “I overreacted.”
“So silly,” I tack on. “I was not taken, like my heartmate thought. I’m terribly sad to have worried him.”
“Where were you?” Trysolde asks.
Goddess, that voice is like walking on broken glass. I take my time answering, keeping my features composed in what I hope is a pleasantly bored expression. “I was in search of a special gift for him. Actually, it’s why we have come to visit you here.”
After a long beat—during which I’m sure Trysolde is waiting for more—the king lifts his eyebrows, mouth flattening with irritation. “And why is that?”
“I heard you might have the item I’ve been looking for.”
“What do you seek? And why do you think I might be of assistance?”
Deep breath. Here we go. “When she was last in Aryd, Queen Istrella mentioned a trinket.”
