Page 14 of Burn Her They Said
My heart pounds from the location she mentions, meaning too many possible ways His Majesty could choose to close out the evening—none of which include approving of Varic and me commingling.
“Hold still,” Drusilla grits, as she plucks my eyebrows with a pair of gold tweezers.
* * *
Pressure relents as I release a breath, thankful for the lack of other beings in the hallway so I might have a moment of reprieve with my ever-present Guards behind me. I drift toward the arched windows to look out on the Citadel when boots smack along the marble behind me, and I freeze—because the pattern of those footsteps...
I spin to face Varic, and my heart leaps at his striking appearance. I take my time to study the way he looks wearing his newly earned General’s uniform. He smiles so broadly—the expression is infectious—exhibiting such genuine joy upon seeing my visage. His real smile, the one he reserves for when we do not have an audience. The one I first witnessed when my protectors were obscured behind a canvas partition in that giant tent on the outskirts of his encampment. The brightness behind his irises bewitches me, and I stare back at him, utterly transfixed.
My chest constricts with the urge—the growing need—to gather up my skirts and run to him with the awareness he would not waste a second, nor ask any questions before joining me.
* * *
“Stay,” Drusilla commands, bracing a hairpin between her incisors while forcing my head into position. Reality sinks in like a poisoned salve on my skin, amplifying that insidious belief in the back of my head that I need to escape Varic’s influence.
The one trying to convince me I need to keep my distance if we are to survive this.
But I can’t. It’s impossible. I’m powerless when it comes to him.
Because, if given the option, I would always run toward Varic.
Chapter Six
Breaking
The somber beat of my boots belongs to that of a dreary song as we make our way inside the cavernous dining hall. I allow my expression to remain as grim as I feel, since His Majesty gives me no reason to feign otherwise, refusing to so much as acknowledge my entrance while showing far more interest in the thin line of wine left in his goblet.
Yet a sick sort of satisfaction deepens in my stomach as my presence extracts a different reaction from the Imperial Court leaders and their assigned Imperial witches. They all fall silent and still their movements as my Guards and I draw nearer to my place on the Emperor’s right.
Candlelight glints from the golden sigil above His Majesty’s crown, where the metal has been expertly crafted inside the dark wood of the throne. He presides from the center of the U-shaped table laden with more pastries, fruits, and savory protein than all those in attendance could possibly eat in one sitting, while his own Guards take after him, looking anywhere other than at me and my own protectors.
Fray pulls my chair back from the table as I smooth my skirts to ease down onto the black velvet cushion, still ignored by the Emperor in favor of yet another impassioned exchange with Imperial Grand Philosopher Wyrth—the maker of false promises and creator of the greatest tragedy to befall my family. I narrow my eyes at the way he seems to have put more effort into his appearance this morning, as his graying black strands are brushed back from his pale, wrinkled face for the first time in recent memory.
He’s the only other servant His Majesty has bestowed the ‘Grand’ title, with the privilege of choosing whether or not to attend certain meetings, or to arrive in an unkempt state without reproach, while the Imperial Guards and witch assigned to him are expected to be just as pristine as the rest of us.
But of course, a sorcerer in the highest echelon of power can subvert what the rest of us must abide—so assured in his own theories he has convinced the most astute of magical beings into believing his claims. Regardless of how many times his experiments result in the worst possible outcome, he maintains the Emperor’s faith with his indescribable charm.
The Emperor’s voice rises, alerting me to siphon enough irritation to keep him from flipping the table again. I pull in a deep breath and steal calm from the memory of Hendry’s kind words to me and imbue His Majesty with a sense of ease and solemnity.
He turns to me with his gaze raking up and down my form, abandoning his fork in a clamor of metal and porcelain as he reaches down to pat the side of my thigh in acknowledgement.
My throat burns when I swallow a scream brought on by the gesture. I stare down at my lap and strain to maintain the magical connection to gauge His Majesty’s mood when he snaps his fingers and an Imperial servant rushes over.
“Send the fastest, most reliable falcon to deliver this to my cousin—the newly crowned King of Draconea.” He thrusts the envelope before the servant while my brow furrows at his use of the description ‘newly crowned’, as it must have been two years since his second cousin was crowned following his father’s death.
It’s unclear if this is an inconsequential slip of the tongue or another sign his memory is otherwise affected.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the Imperial servant says, bowing before removing the missive from the Emperor’s shaky hands.
Our ruler coughs, and he doubles over, one hand held before his mouth in a tight fist while the other clumsily seeks his near-empty goblet. He smacks his flying Guard, Jesin’s, wrist when the Guard tries to aid him in moving the goblet closer to the Emperor’s shaking hand.
“Did I command you to do so?” His Majesty asks.
“No, Your Eminence,” Jesin says, stepping back.
“You are to only take action when I command it,” Emperor Aldritch sneers and snatches up the crystal stem.
“As I have advised, it would be wise to drink more water and forgo the wine, Your Majesty,” Wyrth chides, to which the Emperor simply huffs before catching his breath long enough to empty the vessel, gesturing in demand of a refill.
