Page 34 of The Half King
Finally, it was time to set destiny in motion.
9
After the lesson ended, Daerick returned to his chambers to continue his research on the origins of the noble curses and how to undo them while Cerise sat alone at her desk, eating a luncheon of cold meats and cheeses and thumbing through the late emissary’s journal.
She worked her way backward through a year’s worth of entries, not only to learn what an emissary’s daily life should look like but in hopes of discovering what might have driven Mother Strout to cut short her own. So far, the journal contained nothing more than a collection of painfully mundane details from palace meetings. Strout must have been bored out of her wits, because she’d sketched odd designs in the margins of each page. The images weren’t recognizable, just the casual scribbles of one with a restless mind. Unless boredom had stripped Mother Strout of her will to live, the answer to her death wouldn’t be found in her entries, and there was no mention of curses. Not a single clue to be found.
So much for destiny.
Cerise closed the journal and rubbed her weary eyes. Each day at the palace seemed to pass like a year at the temple. She gazed through her open doorway to the window, where the afternoon sun struck the edges of the glass panes and sprayed colorful prisms on the floor. As she peered beyond the lawn to the trees stirring in the breeze, she felt something wistful building inside her, a longing of sorts. She recognized the feeling from her years at the temple.
She needed to find the palace kennels.
She took the journal with her as she walked out of her office suite, and she noticed Lark, the young maid who had braided her hair, carrying a tray of scones toward the open-air corridor that led to the sanctuary, possibly for Father Padron’s afternoon tea.
“Excuse me,” Cerise called to Lark. “Can you direct me to the kennels?”
Lark colored visibly, grinning. She attempted a curtsy that was more of a wobbling of knees. “Yes, my lady. I’ll take you there myself.”
“There’s no need—”
But Lark was already placing her tray on the floor, insisting that a priest would have to come and fetch the scones anyhow, as maids weren’t allowed inside the sanctuary. She waved Cerise toward the kitchens, and as they walked, Lark continued to blush and avert her gaze.
The two of them exited the back of the castle and continued through the rear gardens, near which stood the stables, the barracks, and beyond that, presumably, the kennels. But what drew Cerise’s attention was the sight of the king administering his duties. Two companies of guards were running drills, presided over by Kian, who looked very royal indeed as he nodded in approval and clapped General Petros on the shoulder.
“Now that’s something I haven’t seen in a while,” murmured Lark.
Cerise turned to her. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, my lady, I’m sorry. I only meant that the king stopped his drill exercises with the soldiers, and I know the men have missed his presence. It’s nice to see him do it again.”
Cerise couldn’t help but smile as she shielded her eyes from the sun. “It certainly is,” she said quietly.
Kian was keeping his promise to her.
She and Lark stood in silence for a moment as the soldiers finished drilling. Some of them formed pairs and began to spar. Another group converged around General Petros while the rest headed back to the barracks.
“I can find my way all right from here, thank you,” Cerise said. She added, “Shiera’s light to you,” and flourished a hand as if dispensing blessings.
“And may her wrathful eye look away,” came the reply.
Lark smiled and hurried back to the castle, and Cerise veered toward the practice field. As she neared it, the knot of soldiers around the general seemed to grow more boisterous, and those who remained on the field quickly came over to join the crowd. Curious, she picked up her pace as much as propriety would allow. Soon she drew close enough to hear cheers and groans, punctuated by the smacking of fists against flesh. It seemed a fight was underway—and a sensational one, judging by the thick audience. It didn’t take long for her to identify General Petros as one of the opponents, light armor now shed, his tattooed head easily visible above the spectators. All she could see of the other man was an occasional blur of skin as his knuckles connected with the general’s face.
No one noticed her as she joined the crowd and made her way closer to the front. When she could go no farther, she stood on tiptoe to peer over the shoulders in front of her. At first the general stood with his back to her, his fists raised, his massive frame concealing his opponent. But then the pair circled around, and she recognized a familiar male torso, dewy and bronze with a trail of ebony hair that ringed his navel and disappeared below the waistband of his pants.
She tugged a nearby sleeve. “Why is the king fighting?”
The steward beside her kept his gaze fixed on the match, cringing when the general landed a fist in Kian’s stomach. “Sparring practice. These two are the best in the city. I used to watch ’em all the time, but the king quit his lessons moons ago. Now that he came back to drill the men, they talked him into it. The general’s taking it easy on him, if you ask—” The man cut off when he glanced at her for the first time. “Oh, apologies, my lady. I didn’t know who I was talking to.”
His comment prompted the guard in front of them to turn around. Cerise didn’t recognize him, but the gratitude in his eyes hinted that he was one of the men she had saved from the fire that morning. “Make room,” he ordered, shoving onlookers aside to create an opening at the front of the circle. “Make room for the blessed oracle!”
The gap in the crowd gave her a perfect view of Kian, who paused and locked eyes with her. He lowered both fists, his dark gaze holding her spellbound, and in that moment, General Petros landed a shattering blow to his ribs.
The crowd gave a collective, “Ooooh!”
Kian doubled over and dropped to his knees. He sucked a breath through his teeth, eyes clenched, hair glued to his face by sweat. Cerise cringed in sympathy. She couldn’t help feeling partly to blame for distracting him.
“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” the general said in a tone that implied the opposite. “I didn’t realize we had taken a break. Speaking ofbreaks, I believe I felt some of your ribs crack. Shall I send word to the temple? I know a healer there.”
