“More or less,” Matilda said. “It was an offer my family couldn’t refuse. And it has worked out for us.”
Not as well as you wanted, I’d bet, Emily thought. The family couldn’t be too prominent or people would ask questions about why their daughter was still unmarried. It was impossible to tell with sorceresses, but she thought Matilda was the same age as Lady Barb. A noblewoman that old would either be married with children or doomed to spend the rest of her life in spinsterhood. I wonder how closely you’re related to Nightingale.
She eyed Matilda for a long moment, then dismissed the thought. It was impossible to believe that Matilda was related to a professional crawler. He would have certainly tried to make use of her if she was related to him. Besides, she couldn’t see Matilda putting up with Nightingale for a second. She was more fearsome than Alassa, with less to lose through a burst of violent temper…and she had the king’s ear. The nasty part of Emily’s mind couldn’t help wondering if Matilda had her hand on another part of his anatomy. Randor would have liked the idea of siring a child on a sorceress.
Maybe not, she thought. He doesn’t need more powerful enemies.
“He’ll use you, then discard you,” Emily told her. “You should…”
Matilda leaned forward and slapped her, hard. Emily’s head snapped to the side as she gasped in pain. The dwarf snickered, nastily. Emily tasted blood in her mouth and forced herself to swallow, rather than spit it out. Not, she supposed, that it mattered. She was in no position to stop them from taking a blood sample.
“The king has been good to me,” Matilda said. The naked anger in her voice made Emily flinch. She might not take the concept of noble honor seriously, but Matilda did…at least when giving her word to her superiors and her peers. “And when I swore my oaths, I meant them.”
Her voice hardened. “And you are a treacherous…”
The door opened. A young man–he couldn’t be older than fourteen, wearing a messenger’s uniform–stepped into the cell and headed straight for Matilda. Emily felt sick as the messenger spoke briefly to Matilda, then walked back out of the cell in a manner that made it clear he was trying not to run. He didn’t even look at the prisoner. Emily wondered, vaguely, just how many messengers had ended up in the dungeons over the years. Alassa had once complained that far too many messengers concentrated more on spreading rumors than doing their jobs.
“Well,” Matilda said. She shot the dwarf an unreadable look. “It seems you are to have a visitor.”
The door opened, again. King Randor stepped into the cell.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“LEAVE US,” RANDOR ORDERED.
Matilda bowed–Emily noted, to her surprise, that she didn’t curtsey–and withdrew from the cell. The dwarf seemed to hesitate, just for a second, as if he expected the order to be cancelled at any moment. Randor’s eyes hardened and the dwarf practically wet himself as he backed out of the cell, dropping bow after bow in the king’s general direction. He shot Emily a final unpleasant leer as he reached up and took the cell’s handle, pulling the door closed. Emily couldn’t help wondering if he’d accidentally locked the king in the cell with a dangerous prisoner.
Not that there’s much danger, Emily thought, wryly. She was manacled, weak and powerless, while Randor was strong, wearing a suit of armor and presumably had a handful of defensive spells at the ready. He could break my neck with a blow.
Randor moved his hand in a complicated pattern, casting a privacy ward. Emily lowered her eyes, taking a moment to gather herself. If Randor was nervous about being spied on here, in the heart of his power, his paranoia would be driving him insane. Randor’s court had always been a snake-pit–Alassa had made that clear–but it would be growing worse as the courtiers tried desperately to maneuver between the king and the rebel barons. She couldn’t help thinking, as Randor finished casting his spells, that the nobility would prefer to be somewhere–anywhere–else. They might be eating Randor’s food and drinking his drink, but even the most powerful of them knew the king could have them hauled away at a moment’s notice and hurled into the Tower.
“Emily,” Randor said. His voice was steady, but there was an uneasy edge to it. “Look at me.”
Emily looked up, her eyes going wide. It had been two years, more or less, since she’d last set eyes on Alassa’s father and the change was striking. His hair was starting to thin, his beard was streaked with grey and his hands were shaking no matter how tightly he clasped them together. She couldn’t help thinking, as she took in the suit of golden armor, that he’d actually lost weight. Randor had always been a big, barrel-chested man, but he’d never been fat. Now…he looked as though his armor had been designed for a larger man. She wondered, as she met his dark eyes, why he hadn’t had it resized.
Too many protections worked into the armor, she thought. Randor wouldn’t have settled for a standard set of charmed armor. He could have afforded an entire team of enchanters to forge him an impregnable suit, or at least as close to impregnable as possible. He can’t have the suit altered without running the risk of weakening the protective spells.
“Tell me something,” Randor said, his eyes boring into hers. “Do you have the slightest idea what you’ve done?”
Emily forced herself to meet his gaze. “I saved my best friend from her father.”
“Not that,” Randor said. He sat down on his haunches, staring at her. “When you started introducing your innovations”–the word was practically a curse–“and destabilizing my kingdom.”
“Your kingdom was destabilizing before I came along,” Emily reminded him. Perhaps it wasn’t wise to bait him, but she was close to giving up. “Your nobles were plotting to overthrow you long before anyone had ever heard of me.”
“It’s their hobby,” Randor growled. His fists clenched. She was suddenly all too aware of just how solid they were, of just how much harm they’d do if he lost control and started to pound her. “You, on the other hand, turned everything upside down. No one knows their place any longer.”
He cracked his knuckles. “You changed the world,” he hissed. “And my kingdom is falling apart. The peasants are revolting, the commoners are building barricades in the street, the nobles are waiting for a chance to attack me…and it’s all your fault.”
“They wouldn’t be revolting if they weren’t unhappy with their lot,” Emily pointed out. She might have given the lower classes the tools they needed to communicate with each other, but she hadn’t been the one who’d tied peasants to farms or ensured that most commoners didn’t have a hope of rising in the world. “You and your noblemen weren’t good rulers.”
Randor growled. “You’ve twisted the social order out of existence,” he snapped. “Is this what it’s like on your world? Every little person having a say?”
“More or less,” Emily said, remembering how the internet had made it easy for everyone to have a say. It had been a mixed blessing–the internet spread rumors and lies as much as it spread truth–but it had allowed far more people to become informed. “People want to have a say in their lives, Your Majesty. And why should you rule them?”
“I’m king,” Randor snapped. “My ancestors built this kingdom when the Empire collapsed, then my linage held it together in the face of noble traitors and peasant revolts. I rule because it is my birthright!”
“And yet you were prepared to strip Alassa of that birthright,” Emily said. “I…”
“Damn you,” Randor said. Spittle flew from his mouth. “Why didn’t you tell me about Paren’s treachery?”
Emily looked up at him. “What would you have done if I had?”