Page 32 of His King Enslaved

Jain’s smile faded. “Beloved, I will protect you and your children to my dying breath. Never doubt that.”

“I don’t doubt that, and I have accepted and enjoy him as my consort, but I need to know who he is. No more secrets.”

“No one loves you more than I do.”

“That’s not an answer!”

“It is the only answer I can give. Hara will be here soon. Please, Beloved. It’s too dangerous. She cannot know, and what you don’t know will protect you. Continue to enjoy him. Everything will work out.”

“Who exactly are you protecting me from?” he asked, annoyed. But as soon as the question left his lips, he knew.

His mother. The Archon bartered a barren Flower to a tyrant king, knowing it was only a matter of time before the dam broke. One way or another, she would find an excuse for the war she craved. If the Archon ever realized Ardor was pregnant because they’d switched Xandar out with a fertile mate, she’d be livid. It wasn’t his fault, but that didn’t matter. His bloom wasn’t his fault, and they blamed him for that, too. Mere proximity to the problem was enough for the Archon to once again assign irrational blame to her least-loved and most disappointing child.

Even now, he felt the sting of their last conversation. He’d been summoned to the rotunda and made to walk the long hall and stare up at his mother’s iron perch and the silvered ravens etched into the wall behind her.

“You have one job, Ardor,” she said, her voice echoing off walls covered with heavy banners. At the Archon’s right hung the banner of the Wraith, and at the left, that of the Raven, because the assassins and spies were the castes she held closest. “Do you know what it is?”

Fail. Die. Become a divine sacrifice. If he’d been born in Amar or Everna or even Kysan, the mere idea of sending a divine being to die would have been blasphemy. But in rational Pavar, where intellect trumped all and the Cult of Ruth was treated as a sociological curiosity at best and a religious delusion at worst, a Flower was just another tool at the Archon’s disposal.

She had another Flower, after all. A better one, crafted in her own image. And Ardor, as he was now called, could only prove his worth by dying.

He’d stared up at his mother, determined to prove her wrong. But that was before he’d met Xandar. That was before his robes were torn open and his body maligned. And even then, he was adamant he’d make his remaining years count. He would protect these people. He would fulfill a Flower’s duty, no matter how ill-equipped he was.

He had to know.

He had to know.

“You aren’t protecting me. You’re keeping me in the dark. If I have a child in this place, I have to know they’ll be safe,” he whispered in his champion’s ear. “I need to know now. Tell me. Who is he?”

Jain held him more tightly. “Beloved Eminence, forgive me, but I must protect you with every breath I take, and this is the only way I know how,” she whispered back, and she refused to answer.

* * *

AS HE SAT in the library, surrounded by comforting walls of books, Ardor pored over the royal family’s records. Fortunately, the palace’s historian kept this area well-organized and up to date, and when he flipped through the topmost volume, he found the newest entry was a detailed account of his wedding.

The entry described the virile king of Kysan vigorously claiming his beautiful new Flower in a lavish public ceremony while the court looked on and admired his stamina and performance, assured that the ruby throne would remain strong for decades to come. Obviously, the historian had not attended the ceremony, since it never happened. He doubted the royal family’s historians had experienced anything in these books first-hand.

Ardor’s curiosity got the better of him, and he read the Kysanian version of the prenuptial dinner. King Xandar was described as gracious and fair, an architect of peace. Ardor himself was a beautiful trophy, a fertile and highly sought prize hard-won after years of tension. The author spent an entire paragraph describing Ardor’s unparalleled beauty and how much the people loved him.

Ardor almost smiled. Kysanian propaganda truly was ridiculous. The historian was like a child boasting that their mother was smarter and stronger than all the other mothers, and their father was more beautiful than any man on earth. Perhaps it was fitting his consort was equally ridiculous with his flattery and big heart.

Big heart. Before now, he never would have characterized the Kysanian national character as “big-hearted,” but thinking back to Lady Ambani and Lord Patel and the consort, and even Xandar, to some extent, they certainly had big feelings. Compared to the solemn halls of Pavar, where restraint and stoicism were the highest virtues, it was refreshing. Granted, the Kysanians lagged behind their Pavarian counterparts technologically and scientifically, and their economic policy was rubbish, but there was an underlying openness his countrymen might learn from.

Ardor continued turning pages, going back in time. Subtly different shades of ink and paper marked the age of various passages. He went all the way back to the king’s birth. These pages had certainly been replaced. They were not as aged as the ones before and after. According to these records, Xandar’s mother only had one child. He looked closer, and amid all the flattery and boasting, he caught a passage noting Xandar’s mother was from Amar.

Of course. Leya had accompanied Eminence Heavenly from Amar when she married.

Forgotten Amari language lessons bubbled up in his mind, the earliest of these numbers and ordinals. Xan, sin, cen... As Pavar’s relations with Kysan grew increasingly perilous, Ardor’s language studies pivoted to Kysanian to establish fluency. That fluency aided him now, and after consulting two Kysanian-Amari dictionaries, he had something.

She’d named him Xandar. First son. Ardor closed the dictionary. They looked so similar. Essentially identical. In Amari, the second son would be…

“Sindar,” he murmured.

Leya stiffened where she stood nearby and quickly peered over at what he was reading. “Eminence?”

“Does the name Sindar mean anything to you?”

Leya glanced all around. “Please, Eminence,” she whispered. “You mustn’t ever speak of His Majesty’s twin. It’s forbidden. The king will be most upset.”