I look up at the open door, as two of my guards escort the messenger inside. He’s dressed in gold armor and a heavy cloak with jagged tufts of snowfall stuck to it, like white-barbed brambles.
As soon as I look upon his wind-chapped face, recognition flares. “Ah, Gifford. Still delivering Tyndall’s messages, I see. No promotion?”
The olive-toned man bows to me in greeting, ignoring my jab. “One doesn’t need a promotion when doing the gods’ bidding.”
One of my snow-white brows arches up. “The gods? Goodness, first Tyndall rises above his station to become king, and now he’s a god? How much gold did that cost him?” I ask with a wry pull of my lips. I feel Wilcox shoot me a disapproving look, but that only adds to my amusement.
Gifford shakes his head, brown eyes giving nothing away. “Not so much blasphemy as that, Your Majesty. Just that the gods ordain and bless the monarchs. By doing a king’s bidding, I’m doing the gods’ bidding as well.”
My head tilts. “And what of queens and goddesses? Am I not ordained, Gifford?”
He hesitates, shooting my advisors a look before answering. “Of course, Your Majesty, I meant no offense.”
“You’ve given none. I don’t hold the sap accountable for its dribble. It’s the tree that makes it, after all.” I can tell by his furrowed brow that he has no idea what I’m saying. I wave a hand at him. “I assume you have a message from my dear estranged husband?”
Gifford shifts on his feet. “I do, Your Majesty. He sent me on a timberwing so I may arrive swiftly. He is concerned about you.”
A corner of my mouth curves. “I’m sure.”
“When all of his hawks went unanswered…” the man trails off.
“I’m on tenterhooks,” I say blandly, holding out a hand.
He starts to come forward, but my guard holds up an arm to stop him. “I’ll hand Her Majesty the message.”
Gifford dips his head. “Of course.” Digging into a pouch that’s strung across his hip, he takes out a gold cylinder and passes it over.
My guard opens it, dipping the letter out, eyeing it suspiciously before he passes it to me. “Thank you,” I murmur as he takes a step back.
The metallic wax seal of a bell—my bell—greets me.
The parchment is thick, though shorter than I expected. As I unroll it to read, my back stiffens with every scratched word, my lips pressing together so hard they probably turn white.
I’ve crumpled the letter in my fist before I even realize I’m doing it.
“Your Majesty?”
I don’t know which of my chirping crickets speaks, and I don’t care. I stand, shoving my chair back too hard. The legs scrape against the painted floor, more white flaking up to leave behind a skid of gold.
My fist tightens harder around the letter.
“My queen?”
Still ignoring them all, I stalk out of the room, my guards hurrying to keep up with me as I leave behind a bewildered audience. The entire way upstairs, I keep my hand clenched, letting the thick, sharp edges of the paper dig into my palm.
It’s not until I get into my rooms and slam the door behind me that I finally uncurl my fist and throw the damning letter into the burning fire. I hurl a yell of frustration along with it, a noise made through clenched teeth and a rigid neck.
Hands braced on the mantel, I glare into the flames, watch the words burn, wishing I could burn the hand that penned it.
“What’s wrong?”
I don’t turn away, don’t blink. The heat of the flames blankets my eyes, but still I watch it all turn to ash.
Jeo steps up beside me and places a tentative hand on my back. “What happened, my love?”
“Love,” I spit, jerking away from him as I turn. “You do not love me, Jeo. You are my royal saddle. A whore I pay to ride. Do not pander to me with pretty lies.”
His arm drops and a look of hurt crosses his expression. I wish it would linger. I wish I could spread that hurt, make everyone suffer as much as I suffer this life.
“Fine,” he says, copper hair flickering in the light of the fire, his freckled face red with both anger and embarrassment. “What’s wrong, Queen Malina?” he asks pointedly.
“You want to know what’s wrong?” I snap. “Every prick who ever prodded a maiden and stole her virtue. Every bastard who was ever born to taint bloodlines. Every man who rose up by standing on the bellies of women.”
Jeo’s thick red brows pull together. “I’m not following.”