Page 63 of The Sun King's Noon

“I am—I am well. Thank you.” He sounded wooden to his own ears. “And yourself? Are you?—”

Kaelen’s answer came quickly and just as stiff, “I have had worse from the training yard.”

“That is not true.”

“No. I suppose it is not.”

They stood there, a yard of flagstone between them, and Richard could not find the shape of what came next. For this was his knight, who in one night had made him feel such a strange, draining mix of emotions. As the awkward silence stretched, Richard fell back on reprimand.

“It was unwise to provoke Galdran. To speak as you did, with his vines at your throat. You might have been killed. He was looking for a reason.”

Kaelen’s jaw set hard. “I could not stand there and remain docile. Not while that—that vermin spoke to you and held you as he did. I could not.” His fists curled at his sides. “Forgive me, my king. I should have been of more use to you. I did nothing but bleed, and I—” His voice trembled, and he took a moment to compose himself before trying again. “I apologise for my weakness.”

“Kaelen.” Richard sighed. “Stop.”

“My king?—”

“He is old,” Richard said. “Older than we can imagine, with powerful magic and a First Creature’s heart about his neck. We were outmatched. It was not your failing. The fault lies with me for not anticipating the trap sooner.”

Kaelen opened his mouth, brows knitting together, but Richard cut in.

“Go see your mother,” Richard said, softer. “The healers say she will wake by morning, but I am sure she would rest easier with you beside her.”

“I shall.” Kaelen bit the inside of his cheek. “But I implore you to sleep, my king. You look tired.”

Richard could not suppress his chuckle. “You are impertinent, Sir Knight.”

“Yes.” Kaelen’s eyes creased into a smile. “I have been told.” He bowed. “Well, then. Good night, my king.”

“Good night, Sir Kaelen.”

Kaelen turned and strode up the steps, his pauldron catching the moonlight. Richard watched until the knight disappeared through the main doors, then started towards the kitchens.

CHAPTER 25

Richard woke to a shriek and jolted upright so fast that his head cracked against a shelf. Jars rattled, and seeds showered down over his hair.

“Oh—oh, sweet gods preserve me?—”

Cook Shirley stood in the doorway with a hand clasped to her bosom and a wooden spoon held aloft. Kitchen light spilled past her shoulders. Richard squinted, disoriented, and realised with some mortification that he was sitting on a sack of rosemary in the herb cupboard.

“Milord!” Shirley hurriedly yanked the door shut behind her. “Milord, begging your pardon, but the castle’s been turned inside out hunting for you! It’s past noon, and my William’s been running the halls like a man possessed, and here you are, in my herbs!”

“Noon?” Richard croaked, wiping drool off his chin.

“Noon, milord! The Estaran delegation left even before the sun came up, and the Naradeshi and Frostheimers are already waiting in their carriages!” Shirley clicked her tongue and plucked rosemary from his hair. “This is a walk-in cupboard! Not a bed! Why ever would you sleep here? There are spiders in here, milord. Spiders!”

Richard groaned and scrubbed his palms down his face. His doublet was rucked sideways, the fine fabric creased beyond saving. He struggled up and brushed at the cobweb on his shoulder. Shirley smacked his hands away from his collar and set about straightening it herself.

“Arms up, milord. There. Yes.” She tugged his sleeve straight and tutted at a smear of something pale along his wrist. “Flour. However, did you get flour on you?”

“Shirley, the Naradeshi delegation?—”

“King Vikram is in the eastern garden, milord. Said he’d wait for you till you were found.” She smoothed a crease along his hem and inspected him with a grimace. “It’ll have to do. Go, go, go.”

Richard went. The kitchens were a blur of startled faces—a scullion froze mid-stir, a cook dropped a ladle into a broth, and a girl peeling carrots gawked until Cook Samson tugged her ear. Richard dashed through the service corridors and shouldered through a door that opened onto the eastern garden.

The noon sun blazed, forcing him to shield his eyes. King Vikram stood among the primrose beds, a pair of shears in one hand and a bundle of green stems cradled in the other. He wore a simple white tunic that reached his knees, and his hair was combed back. At Richard’s approach, he straightened.