In the Veins of the Drowning(4)
“I can’t understand how you can look at him with such open dislike.” I pulled again at my bodice, gave a small moan of discomfort. “Aren’t you afraid he’ll notice?”
“I’m incapable of looking at him any other way. My face won’t allow it.” She attempted a crooked smile that did nothing to make her look less dismal. “I’ll find you shortly,” she said. “Going to get some more of Nemea’s terrible wine.”
I clung to the edge of the dais, illuminated in the wavering light of half a dozen candelabras. The brightly colored guests looked so carefree, flushed from drink and dance and laughter. Not one of them seemed to notice how King Nemea’s highest-ranking soldiers skulked through their midst like death itself, clad in their night-black armor. I searched every one of them wondering where their captain—my fiancé—might be. In the candlelight, the large ring he’d given me seemed to trap the flame in its angles.
The spinel stone was the deep gray of the sea in a storm. Spinels were not found on the Leucosian archipelago. They were only mined on the northern continent of Obelia, and no captain from any kingdom could afford such a stone. I could only assume that Nemea had given it to him.
I twisted the ring with my thumb. It was a rare and expensive shackle. And I was stuck, yes, but more importantly, I was safe. On King Nemea’s mountain, my mind did not often stray to its darker recesses, where thoughts of shredded flesh and dark water and rivulets of blood did their best to lure me. Here, I could live dulled and peaceful. I would do all I could to keep it that way.
King Nemea stepped onto the dais. The head table set upon it was laden with customary gifts from all the neighboring kingdoms. The swath of red silk draped across it was embroidered with twisting black eels. A gift from Della and Gos, I guessed, as they were famous for their silkworms. Blood-colored flowers sat in sprawling arrangements, likely gifted from Varya. Nemea fisted a new silver goblet, studded with rubies. “Don’t linger in the dark, Imogen,” he said, without casting me a glance. “Come up here.”
Careful of my skirt, I took the stairs and came to his side. He took my hands and raised my arms. With impassive gray eyes he took in the intricacies of my gown. The pins in my hair, the heavy rubies pulling at the soft flesh of my ears. “The gown looks like a perfect fit,” he said in a snide voice.
“It is, Your Majesty.” I gave a weak smile.
He reached up with an inelegant hand and tugged at a dark curl that rested on my shoulder. “What’s this?”
“The curl, Your Majesty?”
“You were to have it all pinned up.” His already cool gaze turned frigid. “As I had instructed.”
He’d given me no such instruction. I bent into a low curtsy. “Of course. I can go—”
He gave a quick shake, the gesture impressively withering and dismissive at once. “It’ll do.” He looked out over the glittering throne room, filled with guests. “It’s something, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“And you…” He set a gentle hand to my cheek, and I went deathly still. He had never struck me before, but I’d seen the flex of his hand, as if it yearned to. I knew how his soft voice could boom, how easily he could order me locked away for a week. “Are you happy?”
I paused at the strange question. “I am. How could I not be?”
“Precisely. The gown, the feast—it’s all more than you deserve.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
His gaze locked onto someone across the room, and it was as if a bolt struck him. He took me by the wrist and hauled me off the dais. “I don’t imagine you think often of a king’s duty, do you?”
“Not often, Your Majesty.” My feet could hardly move fast enough to keep up with him as he wove us through the crowd. “But I have thought of it.”
“And what do you think?” The music rose. A swell of strings and a drum like a heartbeat filled my ears. Bodies pressed toward the center of the room, where the next dance was to begin. “Of duty. Do you think it is achieved by carving out pieces of yourself or by growing, collecting, so that you are equipped to do what is needed when it is time?”
“Your Majesty, I don’t know what you mean. Both, perhaps?”
We came to a sudden halt before a wall of gold-armored soldiers. Six of them. All were broad and unmoving, with flowering vines carved into their breastplates, their vambraces. “Theodore Ariti,” Nemea barked.
“Hello, Nemea,” came a disgruntled voice from behind the soldiers. I recognized it, smoky and deep. The guards parted and there stood the man from the lookout. He was even more striking now, clothed in a beautiful deep green coat and wearing a perfect scowl. Tucked into his dark waving hair sat a golden crown of woven laurel. That scowl slipped toward me, and his eyes widened.
I averted my gaze quickly, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks, and sank into a low curtsy before the king of Varya.
My legs shook as I rose.
I knew King Theodore to be twenty-seven—a year older than I was—and ever since he had taken the throne seven years ago, Nemea had not ceased in his obsessive complaining. The “boy-king,” as he still called him, was too haughty, too good, too loved, too honorable to be a ruler that Nemea could ever respect.
“I’ve brought the bride to meet you.” Nemea’s voice came sharp and cold. “This is Lady Imogen Nel, my ward. She and I were just speaking of kingly duty. She’d love to hear your thoughts on the matter while you take her for a turn around the dance floor.”