Thread of Gold

Ch. 11: the hallow's eve party

"I need to do something," Ryne muttered. "To put that healer in her place." He scratched the neck of the white feline perched on his lap. "Any suggestions?"

Isaac shrugged. "You could have her executed."

"Be serious."

"You wound me," Isaac said. "I'm always serious about guillotining people." He examined a sharp knife, then tucked it into his boot. "Or you could have her drawn-and-quartered. I love a bit of theatrics."

"Isaac."

"Or," he said, "you could try being nice to her."

"I am nice to her."

Isaac looked mildly exasperated. "You know, I think you have a very fluid interpretation of the word nice."

Ryne pulled a face. He was sitting on the edge of Isaac's bed, watching as his Captain of the Guard dug through his wardrobe. Or rather, the wooden panel behind his wardrobe. Swords. Throwing stars. Knives. Blow darts. He had called it Isaac's "Little Box of Toys" until Penny had sensibly pointed out that women in the castle might get the wrong idea if they overheard them discussing it.

Ryne scratched the cat's ears, and Shambles gave a satisfied purr. "There's something off about her. That healer."

"How so?"

"She doesn't like me."

Isaac smirked. "It seems awfully coincidental that the one woman in this castle that doesn't like you is the one that you can't stand." He sheathed another knife. "Are you sure this isn't about your ego?"

"Yes. No." Ryne sighed. "It's difficult to explain."

She hated him. Ryne didn't know why, but he knew she did. He thought of her face the day that she massaged his back, the flash of cold fire in those blue eyes. And then her flat voice. He's dead.

Had Ryne indirectly killed him, somehow? Had her friend been a castle guard that died squelching some of the Nightweaver uprisings? It would certainly explain her burning hatred of him.

Not that it mattered.

He couldn't have her mouthing off to him, Ryne thought. Stars only knew that there were enough people already questioning whether he was fit to rule so young. He couldn't afford to seed more doubt.

"I could have her lashed for her impertinence," Ryne mused. "Somewhere public. That would send a message to others."

Isaac gave him a long look. "We both know that you could never go through with that." He slid the panel back into place. "And lashing a pretty girl like Anna? You'd only make people hate you."

"You think she's pretty?"

Isaac met his gaze in the mirror. "I have eyes, don't I?"

An odd sensation went through Ryne. An almost imperceptible tightening of his stomach. Perhaps it was indigestion. Shambles nipped at his hand — a silent reproach — and Ryne went back to stroking the cat.

"Would you forgive me?" Ryne asked curiously. "If I lashed her?"

Isaac paused. "I would forgive you for anything, Ryne. It's my biggest fault."

Isaac moved to his drawer. Then, to Ryne's amazement, he pulled out more weapons."Stars above," Ryne said. "Are we expecting a full-on invasion at the tavern this evening? An army of trained assassins?"

Isaac grunted.

"Seriously, Isaac. Is that war fan really necessary?"

Isaac sheathed another knife. "Can't be too careful."