Rhy felt small and scared. “How do they do it, then?”
“They learn. They err. They try again. They fail. The worst rulers see their country as a game of Rasch, the men and women only pieces on their board. But you—” His hand came to rest on Rhy’s shoulder. “—you will love them. You will bleed with them. You will hurt with them. A piece of you will die with them. The rest of you will live. I do not know if you will be a great king, Rhy Maresh. Only time will tell. But I believe with all my heart that you will be a good one.”
Tieren’s hand fell away.
“We all don clothes that do not fit, and hope we will grow into them. Or at least, grow used to them.”
Rhy studied the Aven Essen. “Even you?”
Tieren surprised him with a smile. “Believe it or not, I wasn’t born a priest.”
He paused, seemed about to say more, when the throne room doors came crashing open. They both turned as Alucard Emery strode across the hall, his boots muddy and his shoulders damp. Something in Rhy loosened at the sight of him. The fingers of gold in his brown hair, the tracery of silver on his skin.
“My king,” he said cheerfully, and in his mouth, the word felt less like a hammer, and more like a kiss. If Alucard read the meaning of Tieren’s presence at this hour, or saw the strain in Rhy’s face, he made no mention of it, simply swept up the mourning circlet as he approached the dais.
“My heart,” answered Rhy, rising to his feet. His limbs felt leaden. His body longed for sleep. His pulse thrummed in fear of it, but then Alucard was there, one hand on his arm to steady him. Rhy leaned into the weight.
“Tell me,” said Alucard, “is it too late to request an audience?” His blue eyes danced with mischief. “I have favors to ask of the crown.”
Rhy managed the ghost of a smile. The grief lifted, like a curtain.
He turned to tell Tieren he could retire, but there was no need.
The priest was already gone.
III
NOW
Steel rang against steel on the palace grounds.
Alucard leaned his elbows on the courtyard wall and watched as two dozen new recruits squared off below, swords ringing as they moved through the motions of combat. As if combat could be reduced to rules, refined to order. Someone dropped their sword. Someone made a sloppy swing, and their opponent swore.
He groaned inwardly. “Where did you find this batch?”
Isra stood beside him, her arms crossed, her short silver hair glinting in the late-day sun. She had served with Maxim Maresh at Verose, had returned to be the captain of his guard, and now, of Rhy’s. “It wasn’t the bottom of the barrel,” she said, “but it was close.”
She didn’t have to say what Alucard already knew. For years, Arnesians had clamored to join the royal guard. But ever since Rhy Maresh had taken the throne, the numbers had begun to dwindle. The Hand’s rumors didn’t help.
“Well,” mused Alucard. “If anyone can do it, you can.”
He meant it, but Isra only rolled her eyes. “Flattery will get you nowhere. As for this lot—”
As if on cue, a fight broke out below. A shoving match that quickly escalated, threatened to tumble from disorder into revolt until Isra stepped to the wall and spoke, voice booming over the training ground, amplified by the wind magic that traced the air over her skin. “Tarso!”
Order.
One word, strong enough to rattle their armor, and recover their attention. Isra had that effect on people. As she descended the steps to the training ground, Alucard followed in her wake. The recruits fell into lines, or something like them, as Isra and Alucard passed through.
He felt the eyes on him, taking in his fine clothes, the fact that he was dressed in Rhy’s colors, not his own. He knew what they called him.
Res in Rast.
King’s Heart.
Alucard ran his thumb absently over his gold ring. It was a habit, feeling the heart and crown pressed into the face.
Of course, it was not the only name people used. There was Res in Fera—King’s Shadow—and Res in Stol—King’s Blade.
And then, there was Sitaro.
Consort.
If they had been common lovers, he and Rhy, few people would have cared. If Alucard had not been born to a rival royal house. If his arrival had not coincided with the Antari’s absence （as if it was his fault Kell had chosen to leave）。 If Alucard had been content to lie in the king’s bed, without also insisting on a place at his side.
Sitaro was not a bad word, in and of itself—the trouble was the way it could be wielded. Words had two kinds of power—the first in their meaning, the second in how they were said. Sitaro was a title, and could be said with reverence, or at least respect. But it could also be spat, or cut down—drop the final note and turn sitaro into sita, consort into whore.