Page 32 of The Sun King's Noon

“No.” Orric dropped his hand into the stream, letting it drift with the current. His head drooped over the water, dipping in the ends of his hair. “They are bigger.”

Richard’s jaw slackened. “Truly?”

“Truly.” Orric lifted his head with a wan smile. “Indeed, I am sometimes disheartened by it. For when I came into the world, my Chief-Mother named me a daughter. I wore that namepoorly, and when I shifted at fourteen and sank into my pelt for the first time, it fitted wrong around my bones. Too many years passed before I understood that my true self—both as a human and a wolf—differed from the form my mother had borne me into.”

Richard leaned forward, considering his words. This was a solemn confession. He should respond in kind.

“You are alike, then,” he said, “to our goddess of spring. Lady Vern was born with a man’s body, but remade herself with trees and clay, until every inch matched her truth. She is the patron of folk who transform and become, and always I have thought it beautiful to know oneself so completely as to say, ‘The world has named me wrong.’”

Orric chuckled. “I did nothing so great as remake myself with trees and clay.” He patted soil off his trousers. “There is a hedge witch a day’s walk from our den. She brews a potion I must drink each new moon. It is a simple thing.”

“That is precisely what makes it remarkable, Master Orric.” Richard smiled. “To rise every new moon and walk a day for a draught that lets you remain yourself, season after season, year after year. That is a devotion and courage greater than any tale.”

For the first time, Orric appeared startled. “You speak prettily, Sun King.”

“I only mean to be honest.” Richard’s eyes widened at the sight of the sky—pitch-black with twinkling stars. He hurried to his feet. “But I have disturbed you enough. The hour grows late. I should head back to the castle and drag my little sister with me.”

Orric crossed the stream in a single stride. “That may prove a difficult feat. She seems to have set herself the task of drawing every Sylari present a portrait.”

Richard smiled. “She is a lovely thing.”

“She is.” Orric plucked a rose from the trailing bush along the stream’s bank. Removing a spider from its petals, he steppedclose. Close enough for Richard to catch the scent of him—something warm and earthy that reminded him of charred logs after a fire.

Orric’s fingers brushed Richard’s cheek as he tucked the rose over his ear. “And she is not the only lovely royal I see.”

A bird squawked in the distance. Richard gaped, hoping his face was not as red as it felt.

“I—” he managed. “You are very—um—kind. To say so.”

“You should know we have had eyes on us.” Orric jutted his chin towards the castle. “Since we began our walk, in fact. I have just heard a squeak from the upper hallway windows.”

Richard turned, peering past branches. The castle loomed above the gardens, its floors lined with arched windows overlooking the grounds. Most were dark. But from the upper corridor’s last window, two heads protruded amidst the glow of sconces.

Corwin. And Kaelen.

At Richard’s glare, Corwin vanished. But Kaelen remained, a rigid shape, gripping the ledge as though he intended to leap down. Corwin’s hand appeared, seized a fistful of crimson cloak, and wrenched Kaelen out of sight.

“They are strange today,” Richard told Orric glumly. “Especially Sir Kaelen. He is usually the more sensible of the two.”

“Your knight’s eyes have been boring into me since I set foot in the throne room,” Orric said. “Perhaps you should inform him I have a mate of my own.”

“You have a mate?”

“Dareth. A bear-shifter from the Greyhide’s sister pack. Broader than me, twice as stubborn, with a laugh that scares the pups. Sixteen years we’ve been bound.” Orric caressed the fang at his throat. “His tooth. He wears mine. There is therefore no cause for your knight to worry so.”

“Worry?” Richard blinked. “Why would he worry?”

“A scholar’s mind, I said.” Orric clapped Richard’s shoulder with a smile. “I stand by it. But there are certain texts, it appears, that you have not yet learned to read.”

CHAPTER 14

The Frostheim delegation arrived in the middle of the night. Richard had only slept two hours when Lord Byrom pounded at his door, frantically reporting that visitors were at the Southern Gate. After a moment of bleary scowling at the bed canopy, Richard swung his legs off.

“Rouse my siblings, Byrom,” Richard called out, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “And the High Council. And for the love of the gods, have someone light the throne room.”

What followed was a half-asleep procession of royals and lords and ladies converging on the throne room in various states of disarray. Elara was the widest awake—clad in a nightgown, with her lips swollen and a bruise forming at her collarbone. On catching Richard’s glare, she arranged her hair to hide the mark. Corwin sat on the dais steps with his chin on his fist. Briony slumped against him, dozing on his shoulder.

The High Council, at least, gave a more dignified appearance, though, oddly, Lady Kestrel was wearing Lord Gregory’s crest chain, and he wore her shoes.