Heart pounding, he prepared for an attack.
Except it was not: As one, they went down upon bended knee, bowed their heads, and struck at the ground, their daggers chipping up flakes from the stone floor.
Tohrture lifted those incredible blue eyes first. “We pledge ourselves unto you and only you.”
And then they all looked up at him, their respect plain on their faces, those incredible bodies prepared to be called into service for him, by him—and only in that fashion.
Wrath put his hand over his heart and could not speak. He had not realized until this moment how alone he had been, just his shellan and him against the world—which had felt like enough. Until now.
And this was such the opposite of the glymera. The courtiers’ gestures were always done in public, and had no more depth than any performance—once executed, it was past.
But these males …
By tradition and custom, the King bowed to no one.
And yet he bowed the now. Deeply and reverently.
Remembering words he’d heard his father speak, he pronounced, “Your vow is accepted with gratitude by your King.”
Then he tacked on something that was all his own: “And it is returned. I pledge unto you, each and every, that I shall provide to you the very fealty that you have offered and I have accepted.”
He met each of the Brothers in the eye.
His father had used these specially bred males for their brawn, but his alliance had been with the glymera primarily.
Instinct told the son the future was safer if the opposite was true: With these males behind him, he and his beloved and any young they might have would have the better chance of survival.
“There is someone who desires to meet with you,” Tohrture said from his position on the floor. “We would be honored to stand guard here at your door whilst you attend to this necessary in your receiving chamber.”
“I shall not leave Anha.”
“If you will, my lord, please proceed unto your other chamber. This is one with whom you need to speak.”
Wrath narrowed his stare. The Brother was unwavering. All of them were unwavering.
“Two of you come with me,” he heard himself say. “The rest remain here to stand guard o’er her.”
With a chuffing war cry, the Brotherhood rose en masse, their hard, frozen faces the very worst commentary on the state of things. But as they arranged themselves before his mated door, Wrath knew in his heart that they would lay down their lives for him or for his shellan.
Yes, he thought. His private guard.
As he departed, Tohrture fell in front of him, and Ahgony came in behind, and whilst the three of them proceeded forth, Wrath felt the protection cloak him to the point of chain mail.
“Who is awaiting us,” Wrath said softly.
“We snuck him in,” came the quiet reply. “None can know his identity or he will not last the fortnight.”
Tohrture was the one who opened the door, and on account of his heft, there was no seeing who was—
In the far corner, a cloaked and hooded figure stood, but was not still: whoe’er it was, was shivering, the draping fabric about them animated by the fear they contained within their body.
The door was shut by Ahgony, and the Brothers did not leave his side.
Breathing in, Wrath recognized the scent. “Abalone?”
Ghost-pale hands trembled their way up to the hood and removed it.
The young male’s eyes were wide, his face devoid of color. “My lord,” he said, dropping to the floor, bowing his head.
It was the young, family-less courtier, the end of the lineup of dandies, the one who was there by the grace of the blood in his veins and nothing else.
“What say you?” Wrath asked, inhaling through his nose.
He caught the scent of fear, yes—but there was something more. And when he defined it for himself, he was … impressed.
Nobility was not ordinarily an emotion to be scented. That was more the purview of fear, sadness, joy, arousal … but this sapling of a male, barely a year out of a transition that had done little to increase his body weight or his height, had a purpose beneath his fear, a driving motivation that could only be … noble.
“My lord,” he choked out, “forgive me my cowardice.”
“In regard to what?”
“I knew … I knew what they would do and I did not…” A sob escaped. “Forgive me, my lord…”
As the male broke down, there were two approaches. One aggressive. The other conciliatory.
He knew he would get farther with the latter.
Walking over to the male, he extended his palm. “Rise.”
Abalone seemed confused at the command. But then he accepted the hand up and the direction that took him over to one of the carved oak chairs by the fireplace.
“Mead?” Wrath asked.
“N-n-n-no thank you.”
Wrath sat opposite the male, his chair groaning under the weight in a way Abalone’s had not. “Imbibe a deep breath.”
When the command was obeyed, Wrath leaned in. “Speak unto me the truth and I shall spare you whate’er you fear. None can touch you—as long as you bear no falsity.”
The male put his face in his hands. Then he breathed in deep again. “I lost my father before my transition. My mother, too, died on the birthing bed. In these departures, I am as you are.”
“It is terrible for one to be left without parents.”
Abalone dropped his hands, revealing eyes that were steady. “I was not supposed to discover what I found. But three dawns ago, I was down in the cellars of the castle. I could not sleep, and my melancholy caused me to walk in the underground. I was without a candle, and my feet were held within soft leather shoes—therefore, when I heard voices, they knew not of my approach.”
“What did you see,” Wrath asked gently.
“There is a hidden room. Beneath the kitchens. I had never seen it before, because its door has a facade to match the walls down below—and I would not have noticed it … except the false panel had failed to close properly. Caught upon a stone, there had been a crack through which mine eyes could focus. Inside, there were three figures, and they were circled about a cauldron o’er a flame. Their voices were hushed as one of them added greens of some kind into whate’er they were warming. The stench was horrible—and I was about to turn around and proceed about my concerns … when I heard your name.”
Abalone’s eyes fixed on a middle distance, as if he were seeing and hearing anew that which he was recounting. “Except it wasn’t you. It was your father. They were discussing how he had sickened and died—and attempting to determine the proper amount for someone of smaller stature.” The male shook his head. “I recoiled. Then hurried off. My mind was twisted by what I had witnessed, and I convinced myself … I must have imagined thus. Surely they could not have been talking about your father, your mate. It was just—they had pledged their troth unto you and your blood. So how could they have such things pass from their lips unto the ears of others?” Clear, guileless eyes met Wrath’s. “How could they do such?”
Tempering an inner fury, Wrath reached out and placed his hand upon the youth’s shoulder. Even though their ages were not that far apart, he felt as though he were speaking unto one of a vastly different generation than his own.