Having overcome the disturbing events triggered by the Regent and Kastor, Damen and Laurent are finally crowned in their realms.
But a new enemy seems to be stalking the two lovers. On Laurent's 22nd birthday, strange events occur.
Is the Regent rea...
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It was about half an hour before Laurent rose from his bed and disengaged himself from the tense and withdrawn state into which he had been thrown.
His breath seemed suddenly constricted by the sumptuous garments as if the threads held him in a shell, a cocoon, or a suit of armor. His world was noisy as an undulating breath moved his body, pelvis, and chest.
Perhaps he was running out of air. Maybe he was dying.
The man raised his hand to his neck and let it slide over his chest as he felt the eyelets and ruffles entwined in his fingers. His forehead was damp despite Vere's cold air, and he filled a glass with water to drink it all at once.
Laurent's mouth felt dry and alone in his room he didn't know what to do. But there was something to do.
Damianos.
When he sent for Isander, Laurent had his hair ruffled and was standing, resting his hands on the mantelpiece, lost in impatience and self-reproach. The room was engulfed in darkness and cold, for the night had fallen and Laurent hadn't sent for the servants to light the fireplace.
Minutes after he had left the room at Laurent's bidding, Isander returned with his kindly eyes and this time bringing a lamp. With humbly bowed head, he announced:
"The Exalted was seen walking toward the newly built garden. He dismissed his men and warned everyone that he didn't want to be disturbed. Shall I go and fetch him, Your Majesty?"
Laurent waved his hand and raised his fingers. He had learned this movement when he had been in Akielos, and felt his body move strangely at seeing Damen exercise his authority with the carelessness of those born to rule.
"No. I'll go get him myself. Tell everyone I'll be late, Isander..."
And Laurent left his chambers, passing the guards with spears propped on the ground, and took the path he had sometimes taken as a thirteen-, fourteen-year-old when sent for. He felt his restlessness mingle with layers of fear.
The Veretian blinked his pale eyelashes and leaned against a wall. Was he having an attack on something invisible and painful?
The magnificent space of the former royal bedroom, occupied by the Regent after the death of King Aleron, had been demolished.
Furniture was moved and donated. Paintings were sold at auctions. Walls had been torn down, revealing their skeletons of bricks and beams behind fabrics and plaster. Floors had crumbled and curtains were ripped from valances and hooks with rough hands.
Sledgehammers had destroyed the hearth, and clothes were cut with sharp scissors until only shreds remained and were thrown into the fire. Silk burned to the last ash.
The windows were hit with stones as if the men were holding a contest to see who could hit the colored glass through which the sunlight penetrated the most. The carpets were coiled into thick snakes that flew across the balcony and landed on the lawn with a soft thud. The door handles with their sapphire fleur-de-lis were attacked with pickaxes and the wood of the doors was broken.
