Page 39 of His King Enslaved

Sindar’s halting missives inquiring about the day’s plans or his beloved’s health grew longer and longer. The pen became second nature, an extension of his eager heart, and soon words poured out of him. At night, he retired with his hands stained with ink, the well of his soul utterly depleted. He kept his letters as professional as possible. Whenever rambling love confessions, flowery promises, and horny longing flowed from his pen, he hid them away in a desk drawer, safely out of his beloved’s sight.

Words poured out of him… yet they were not enough. He needed more words. To Patel’s great shock, a dictionary took up permanent residence on the king’s desk.

“What are you two talking about?” Patel asked one evening as he settled back in his chair with a glass of whiskey.

“Oh, you know. Things,” Sindar said. Nothing. Everything. It all blurred together. He no longer felt self-conscious about sending simple messages like, “Good morning,” or, “Have you fed the girls?” among the lengthier missives on current affairs or personal vexations (when he spilled ink on his favorite jacket, Ardor was the first to hear about it). “The baby.” Sindar rested his head against the chair, gazing out the window. “I wonder what she’ll be like.”

“Goddess willing, she’ll inherit Ardor’s temperament.”

“If I had it my way, she’d inherit Ardor’s everything. He says a Flower’s genes are recessive, and the child will inherit primarily from their consort. It’s too bad. She’d be better off if she were more like Ardor than me.” Sindar sipped his whiskey. “Patty, how many of your children are little people, like you?”

“Two,” his mentor said absently, scribbling away. “As far as I know.”

Sindar rolled his head to look at him. “…How many children do you have?”

“Couldn’t say.”

“Patty!” Sindar said with a laugh.

“It’s not my fault that the most intelligent and beautiful women in the kingdom keep throwing themselves at me,” Patel said. “For your information, I have at least four sons and two daughters. Rest assured I know a thing or two about parentage.”

“Five,” Sindar said.

“Five what?” Patel asked, still scribbling away.

“You have five sons.”

Patel’s pen stilled. He slowly lifted his head. “Sindar…” he began.

Sindar’s heart squeezed. Of course, Patty had taken care of him because it was his job, not because he wanted to. “I always considered you like a father. I loved you more than him, anyway.” He tried to make his tone careless. “You could adopt me. I wouldn’t mind.”

Patel studied at him. “You’d choose me to be your father?”

“Well, don’t say it like it’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid. It’s the most gratifying thing anyone has ever said to me.” Patel put down his pen. He seemed to be weighing his words, but then he was Patel. The king’s cleverest adviser was always hatching some plan. He said, “Sindar, for what it’s worth, I consider you my son. I always have.”

Sindar laughed, relief flooding over him. He’d put his heart out there, and he’d never take it back, but reciprocation was sweet. “Well, then, it’s settled. From now on, I am officially your son.”

“Does this mean you’ll finally start listening to my advice, for once?”

“Don’t push your luck, old man,” Sindar retorted, pleased to catch a fleeting hint of a smile.

* * *

THE LETTERS, AND the promise of fatherhood, were unfortunately the only bright spots in the royal agenda. Being a king was objectively terrible, and Sindar’s new determination to master the horrible, droning minutiae of running a kingdom only confirmed his brother was the better choice. No matter how hard he tried, none of it came easily to him. His mind wasn’t slippery enough. Whenever there was a straightforward solution, he sought to take it. He had no patience for intrigue or scheming. His will crumbled in the face of hypothetical suffering.

He truly was too soft.

“I don’t know why I bother,” Sindar said, as he agonized over an economic dispute between two rival families. His brother would have picked the side that profited the crown and bulldozed through without a second thought. “I’ll never be cutthroat enough for this.”

Lady Ambani glanced aside to confirm the guards were still out of earshot. “You’re not your brother, that’s true. His method of governance doesn’t suit you.”

“You imply there’s another way.”

“Well, of course there is.” Lady Ambani brushed her hair aside and leaned closer. “You wear his face, Your Highness, but you don’t have to be him.”

“I can’t simply change course out of nowhere.”