Beloc was slumped against his binds, chest heaving. Blood and ink ran down his skin.
“Stand up straight,” commanded Athos, satisfaction washing over him as he watched Beloc try to resist, his muscles shuddering against the instruction before giving in and dragging his wounded body up into a semblance of posture. Hatred burned through the boy’s eyes, bright as ever, but his body now belonged to Athos.
“What is it?” asked the king.
The question wasn’t directed at the boy, but at Holland, who had appeared in the doorway. The Antari’s eyes slid over the scene—the blood, the ink, the tortured commoner—his expression lodged between distant surprise and disinterest. As if the sight meant nothing to him.
Which was a lie.
Holland liked to play at being hollow, but Athos knew it was a ruse. He might have feigned numbness, but he was hardly immune to sensation. To pain.
“?s-vo tach?” asked Holland, nodding at Beloc. Are you busy?
“No,” answered Athos, wiping his hands on a dark cloth. “I think we’re done for now. What is it?”
“He is here.”
“I see,” said Athos, setting aside the towel. His white cloak hung on a chair, and he took it up and slung it around his shoulders in one fluid motion, fastening the clasp at his throat. “Where is he now?”
“I delivered him to your sister.”
“Well then,” said Athos, “let’s hope we’re not too late.”
Athos turned toward the door, but as he did, he caught Holland’s gaze wandering back to the boy strapped against the metal frame.
“What should I do with him?” he asked.
“Nothing,” said Athos. “He’ll still be here when I get back.”
Holland nodded, but before he could turn to go, Athos brought a hand to his cheek. Holland did not pull away, did not even stiffen under the king’s touch. “Jealous?” he asked. Holland’s two-toned eyes held Athos’s, the green and the black both steady, unblinking. “He suffered,” added Athos softly. “But not like you.” He brought his mouth closer. “No one suffers as beautifully as you.”
There it was, in the corner of Holland’s mouth, the crease of his eye. Anger. Pain. Defiance. Athos smiled, victorious.
“We better go,” he said, hand falling away. “Before Astrid swallows our young guest whole.”
IV
Astrid beckoned.
Kell wished he could set the letter on the narrow table that sat between the thrones and go, keep his distance, but the queen sat there holding out her hand for it, for him.
He drew King Maxim’s letter from his pocket and offered it to her, but when she reached to take it, her hand slid past the paper and closed around his wrist. He pulled back on instinct, but her grip only tightened. The rings on her fingers glowed, and the air crackled as she mouthed a word and lightning danced up Kell’s arm, followed almost instantly by pain. The letter tumbled from his hand as the magic in his blood surged forward, willing him to act, to react, but he fought the urge. It was a game. Astrid’s game. She wanted him to fight back, so he willed himself not to, even when her power—the closest thing to an element she could summon, something sharp, electric, and unnatural—forced a leg to buckle beneath him.
“I like it when you kneel,” she said softly, letting go of his wrist. Kell pressed his hands flat against the cool stone floor and took a shaky breath. Astrid swiped the letter from the ground and set it on the table before sinking back into her throne.
“I should keep you,” she added, tapping a finger thoughtfully against the pendant that hung from her throat.
Kell rose slowly to his feet. An aching pain rolled up his arm in the energy’s wake. “Why’s that?” he asked.
Her hand fell from the charm. “Because I do not like things that don’t belong to me,” she said. “I do not trust them.”
“Do you trust anything?” he countered, rubbing his wrist. “Or anyone, for that matter?”
The queen considered him, her pale lips curling at the edges. “The bodies in my floor all trusted someone. Now I walk on them to tea.”
Kell’s gaze drifted down to the granite beneath his feet. There were rumors, of course, about the bits of duller white that studded the stone.
Just then the door swung open behind him, and Kell turned to see King Athos striding in, Holland trailing several steps behind. Athos was a reflection of his sister, only faintly distorted by his broader shoulders and shorter hair. But everything else about him, from complexion to wiry muscle to the wanton cruelty they shared, was an exact replica.
“I heard we had company,” he said cheerfully.
“Your Highness,” said Kell with a nod. “I was just leaving.”
“Already?” said the king. “Stay and have a drink.”
Kell hesitated. Turning down the Prince Regent’s invitation was one thing; turning down Athos Dane’s was quite another.