Page 3 of His King Enslaved

And what instructions they were. No more riding, no more gambling, no more whoring, and no more coca. Sindar must rise early, take meals alone in his apartment, and give the appearance of working late into the evening. His encounters with staff should be brisk and formal, and he should keep all interactions to a minimum. It begged the question: what was even the point of being king, if it meant living in these miserable conditions?

“If the situation on the border is as bad as you claim, would anyone really blame the king for taking up a bit of dust?”

“You won’t be sitting on that throne long if your enemies realize you routinely indulge in a stimulant that cannot be easily checked for poison,” Patel said crisply. “Besides, I need you sober.”

“Very well. When can I see him?” Sindar asked, keeping his tone casual and innocent.

Evidently, he failed. Patel glared at him. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s my luck you’ll actually manage to kill him this time, and if you argued it was in self-defense, I’d have to agree with you. He’s in a secure location, and he will remain there until he recovers.” Patel’s eyes roved over Sindar’s face. Clearly, he was having second thoughts.

“You still don’t think I’m fit to rule,” Sindar said.

“Your brother was groomed for the role. He has years of experience, he forged powerful diplomatic alliances, and he is utterly ruthless. Meanwhile, you still cannot keep your nose out of a dust box. You’ve done nothing to prove you can govern, and you possess no skill or ability that suggests otherwise. Your only claim is your bloodline.”

“But I have you, don’t I? You’d set me straight, Patty.”

“Don’t call me that in public.”

Sindar sighed. “Of course not.”

“Show me you can do this. Pretend you are Xandar, and you met me in the hall and wished to speak to me.”

Sindar channeled the learned superiority of the royal in his natural habitat and said coolly, “Lord Patel, a moment,” in the borderline-dismissive tone his brother had so often used with him.

Patel nodded slowly. “Straighten your shoulders a bit… yes. Look down your nose. Good.” He crossed his arms, gazing up at the kingdom’s wayward spare. “Goddess, the likeness truly is uncanny. You should pass for now.”

“We’re probably not completely identical, you know. Freckles and whatnot. How will we convince his intimates?”

“Xandar has no intimates.”

“No friends? No girls?”

Patel did not answer.

“Well, I have a girl back at the border, and I’m accustomed to certain leisures,” Sindar said. He had three, actually, but he didn’t want to push his luck. “When will you send for her?”

“I won’t. Get a new one.” Patel paused and added, “Actually, no. We’ll vet someone for you. We’ll discuss your preferences tomorrow. For now, focus on passing as Xandar. Bera will be dispatched to the border—”

“The eastern border, where everyone is dying?” Sindar asked sharply. “Is that how loyalty is rewarded around here?”

“What would you have me do? Stab him myself?” Patel asked irritably. “He’s the only person on the outside who knows you’re alive. I have to do something with him. Now be quiet and pay attention. We need to get our story straight. For the past few days, Xandar stayed in his apartment recovering from a minor illness. He grew restless and slipped out to go for an evening ride—”

Sindar snorted. “Xandar can’t ride for shit.”

“And now, neither can you. Stop interrupting. You’ll go straight to his apartment and stay there until I arrive for the morning briefing. If you meet anyone, say you went riding, but keep conversation to a minimum.”

“Simple enough.”

“Nothing about this is simple,” Patel muttered. He opened the office door and gestured for Sindar to follow. They walked the winding servant halls, past the kitchens and onto the dormitories, and parted ways at the wing leading to the royal apartments, leaving Sindar to finish the journey alone.

Sindar walked once-familiar halls as if he were in a foreign land. Had there always been so much bloody gold everywhere? During his years as a nobody exiled to nowhere he’d grown unaccustomed to the ruling family’s decorative excesses. The royal residence was bedecked with so many embellishments and ornaments that he had to bite his tongue. This place was ridiculous.

It hadn’t always seemed that way, though. Once, these ornate halls felt natural to him. Earned by virtue of birth. Something he was owed.

He hesitated in front of the king’s apartment. When it was his father’s, it had been strictly off-limits. Even now, entering without permission felt wrong. Like trespassing.