Page 57 of The Sun King's Noon

“Will you not cease this obsession?” Richard snapped. “A war encroaches. People will die. Hundreds—thousands, on both sides. Does that not concern you?”

Galdran’s brow creased. His gaze shifted over Richard’s shoulder, and he nodded at Vikram’s still figure.

“Your Majesty,” Galdran called pleasantly. “My apologies for this temporary interruption.”

Vikram’s eyes, Richard noticed, were the calmest in the room.

Galdran tugged Richard through another spiral. The music dipped low, mournful, and their chests nearly touched.

“You are no mere obsession.” Galdran smiled. “For much of my life, I have endured horrors. Once, I wondered how much cruelty could be thrust upon me. For I have suffered, Lumethain. Centuries upon centuries of it.” He clasped Richard’s hand tighter. “But I see now the great gods always meant to give me recompense. I knew it the moment I saw you in the witch’s scrying bowl. You are my gift for reaching the other end.”

The conviction in Galdran’s voice almost made Richard recoil. The elf believed his words. He truly believed it.

“If bloodshed worries you so, will you not surrender?” Galdran sighed. “There need not be wasteful deaths. My people only seek to live under open skies again, to feel the sun, and to walk in forests absent of Rot. Surely you understand.” He inclined his head, lips thinning. “No doubt my court will be displeased with the lack of vengeance, but even they would appreciate?—”

“Strange,” Richard said. “This is the second time.”

Galdran faltered mid-step. “The second time?”

“The second time you have mentioned your court’s opinion. You speak as though they are a leash around your neck.”

Something like fear seeped through Galdran’s eyes. It vanished in a blink.

“All kings must manage their advisors,” Galdran said lightly. “It is no different from you and your High Council.”

“No.” Richard scoffed. “My High Council listens to me, whether they like my decisions or not. For I am their king, and they obey.” He raised a brow. “But you speak in deference to your court. Worried, are you, of their opinions? Are you not king, Galdran?”

The music stuttered to a stop.

“Such talk bores me.” Galdran drew the dance to a halt. “I should like to see our Lumeron.” He reached for Richard’s collar?—

Richard caught his wrist. “No.”

Galdran glowered. The air hummed, and behind the elf’s shoulder, the bodies of Ardenians were all too clear. One click of Galdran’s fingers would result in their deaths.

Lowering himself into a deep bow, Richard pressed his lips to the elf’s knuckles.

“Every guest”—he straightened—“should know when they have overstayed.”

His heart pounded as he met Galdran’s eyes.Please. Please?—

The glower transformed into a smile. Slow, and terribly fond. Galdran raised Richard’s hand in turn and brought it to his lips. The kiss lingered.

“Then, I would not wish to displease my beloved,” Galdran murmured.

Light exploded from the elf’s body—a blinding whitish gold—and Richard threw up an arm against the glare. When he lowered it, Galdran was gone.

And chaos erupted.

CHAPTER 23

Richard studied his reflection in the glass. Dark crescents hung under his eyes where the powder had worn away. Sitting at the head of the council table, his sagging shoulders reflected the tiredness he felt. The corset was long gone, thrown over a dinner chair when he’d given orders to the swarming Crownsguard—aid Dianara, escort the foreign dignitaries safely to their chambers, bring the Chief Mage’s apprentices to destroy the witch’s body.

He hadn’t needed to give any instructions about Kaelen. Selwyn had already sprinted across the hall, batted away a fretting Corwin, and placed her hands over Kaelen’s heart. She’d poured all her magic into him, sealing back the thorns’ gashes and stopping the spurts of blood. Kaelen had sat up entirely healed in time to catch his mother’s collapsed form.

Now, Selwyn still lay unconscious in the healing wing.

Richard stifled a sigh and cupped his chin in his hand. Beyond the darkened windows, the moon hung white over the castle’s towers. Somewhere far below, servants were sweeping glass and mopping blood from marble tiles.