I look around, eyes bouncing from purple uniform to purple uniform, until I find the castle’s mender at the far end, bustling around at the counter space built against the wall.
The gangly man doesn’t notice I’m here until I’m standing right beside him. He nearly drops the bottle he’s funneling when he does.
“Your Majesty, forgive me,” he says with a quick bow. “I didn’t know you would be coming down here.”
“I had another matter to see to,” I say, casting a glance at the row of blood-red bottles stacked and ready to go, complete with built-in droppers.
A worker comes up, apron wrinkling as she drops into a quick curtsy. She grabs one of the filled bottles, uncorking it as she goes. I watch as she pours the contents into the soil of the nearest potted plant until it’s empty.
There are hundreds of these plants growing in here. They’re fussy, apparently, since they wither in the sun but need moist heat to thrive.
Their branches point straight up like rows of picket fences. Growing from every limb are blossoms leeched of color, the petals white and ashen. The buds are useless and take a long time to bloom, but the mature ones, the ones nearly ready to fall off their stems, those are what the gardeners carefully collect.
If tended to correctly, those drooping petals bead with blood-red dewdrops. A powerful essence that, when ingested, causes you to relax and heightens pleasure. Dew makes quite a lot of coin in this kingdom.
“What can I help you with, Your Majesty?”
I turn back to the mender as he wipes his stained fingers on a rag before tossing it on the worktable. He has a fine sheen of sweat on his lined brow, ruddy cheeks from the warm humidity clogging the room.
“I wanted to ensure that all of the saddles have been given their contraceptive tonics.”
“Of course, my king. I have been distributing them myself.”
Nodding, I swipe at the back of my neck to get rid of the moisture beading there. “And the pregnant saddle?” I ask. “Has she been sequestered?”
“Yes, and I examined her this morning. I have her well in hand.”
“I want reports for every checkup.”
The man tilts his head in compliance and wipes his upper lip with a handkerchief. “It will be done, Sire.”
“Good.”
On my way out, I cast another appreciative gaze across the steam-filled room. Everyone is doing what they should be, everything inside precise and organized. This entire operation is put together like a perfectly tailored outfit.
Fulke might have been a fool, but when it comes to growing and supplying dew, he had enough sense to put the right people in charge.
Leaving the lower levels of the castle, my slicked skin goes uncomfortably cold within seconds, worsened by the moist sweat that’s accumulated. The grime of the dungeon and the dampness of the grow room clings to my clothes enough to make my skin itch. A change of clothes is in order. Perhaps a bath too.
As soon as I make it to the upper levels and back into the public part of the castle, my guards peel away from the walls to follow me. Yet I’ve barely taken three steps when my head guard comes forward, holding out a missive. “A hawk just arrived for you, Sire.”
I take it and keep walking, already planning which outfit to change into, but I pause on the stairs when I notice the white wax seal in the shape of a bell.
I tear it open, eyes quickly skimming left to right.
That cold, useless bitch.
I read through it again, and then a third time, while my teeth grind together to chew on my fury. When I get through it a fourth time, I already have a plan in mind.
Malina doesn’t want to be useful anymore? Wants to deny her husband and king?
So be it.
I turn sharply, abandoning the route to my rooms completely.
The guards shadow my steps as I make my way out of the castle. Past the courtyard, past the ice sculptures, past the stables, my boots crunch on the powdery walkways until I come to an outdoor training ring.
Some soldiers are gathered around and running drills. From my peripheral, I see them stop to bow, but I ignore them and continue to stride forward to the building attached.
“Wait here and close the door,” I order the guards.
Inside, the building is bare bones. Nothing but a small armory for training purposes. Wooden swords lie in piles, and there are stacks of padded chest armor for sword practice, as well as a litter of arrows and unstrung bows. It’s messy and reeks of sweat, the floor made of nothing but dirt and straw to go with the rough stone walls.
Several soldiers look up in surprise at the sound of the door closing, but when they see me, they drop into stiff bows.