Page 49 of His King Enslaved

Hara’s white face and short stature marked her as a foreigner, but she would vanish seamlessly into the population when her gristly work was done. Pavarian Wraiths were as legendary for their stealth and cunning as they were for their deadliness. “Xandar of Kysan would never do what you did,” she said. “No royal would do what you did.”

“You’ve got one right,” he said, fighting to stay calm. “No one can tell us apart, so you’ll have to get rid of both of us. Do you think you’ll find him in time to finish the job? Even I don’t know where he is.”

“Someone has to die, and I’ve made my choice,” she said, drawing a second blade.

“You should hear my offer first,” he said, in Pavarian.

“The time for talking is past.” She spoke evenly, carefully. Thankfully, he could follow.

“Wraiths don’t simply follow orders. You act autonomously in the Archon’s interest. She trusts your judgment. In fact, I’ll wager she trusts you more than anyone in her inner circle, which is why she sent you to watch over Ardor. Please hear me out.”

Sindar’s heart thundered in his ears, and he braced himself for violence. Instead, the Wraith cocked her head, listening. Thank the Goddess.

Despite his best efforts to remain cool and in control, the words came out in an uneasy rush. “I want to establish a demilitarized zone between our borders, across the contested territory. Pavar has agricultural technology that will make harvesting more efficient and stop erosion on the east bank. We know how to maintain the chernozem and the heirloom seed that grows best there. Between the two of us, we can establish and maintain a reliable food supply for both our countries.”

“Why share what is rightfully ours?” the Wraith asked. “The Archon intends to take your lands and seed for herself.”

“The chernozem must be carefully cultivated, and the process is not trivial. This isn’t something Pavar can pick up in a season, or even five. Our agriculturalists have devoted their lives to cultivating that soil and developing hybrid crops that will thrive in it. The Archon can take our land and seed by force, but she cannot take our knowledge. Kill me and continue a war that may never end. Deal with me, and our fates become intertwined, making peace our mutual best interest. You’ll be safeguarding future generations. The rotunda wants peace, and so does the court.”

“The Archon cannot reverse course. She will lose face at the rotunda.”

“It’s not a reversal. The warmongering was a pretense to maneuver the famously xenophobic Xandar into a bargaining position. The demilitarized zone was her true goal all along, and when the truth comes out, her cleverness will bolster her political capital. I will humbly accept her generous offer, as I have no alternative and face internal pressures of my own.” It was a sweet deal, by his reckoning. He’d grown accustomed to quietly dispensing honey behind the scenes and found he preferred it that way. Let the Archon take credit for a diplomatic masterstroke so she could rebuild her domestic capital. Ambani had convinced him that the fates of their countries were irrevocably intertwined. One day they’d need Pavar’s military might to buffer neighboring powers. A weak Pavar would only weaken Kysan in the long run.

The Wraith considered again.

“If you wanted war, you would have killed me by now. You could have killed me months ago. Compromise is the only way either of us wins. Will you take this offer to the Archon? Will you convince her?”

He’d shown his hand, and he had nothing left. If she attacked, he had no defense.

Wordlessly, the Wraith unlocked the door and stepped out, fading into shadow.

Sindar sagged against the sink, his heart threatening to tear through his chest. He almost didn’t believe he’d pulled it off. He was an idiot and a bumbler, after all. For several minutes he braced for a dagger in the back. He imagined dying without telling Ardor that he loved him. He imagined never seeing his baby.

No dagger came, and he finally accepted that he was safe. The Wraith would take his offer to the Archon. He sat in the nearest chair, resting his head in his hands.

Rare solitude. For real this time.

He looked up as a nurse bustled into the infirmary, looking for supplies. The man’s jaw dropped. “Your Majesty, where are your guards?”

“Wherever it is, it better be extremely important,” Sindar said dryly.

Soon, he was surrounded once more, and apparently none were the wiser. He attempted to visit Ardor and was refused entry by Dr. Jain. Finally, she convinced him the Flower was well and resting comfortably, and he returned to his apartment.

Between the terror of nearly losing Ardor and the panic brought by the glint of a Wraith’s blade, he was wiped out past his limit. He didn’t fully realize it until he finally came to rest. Once he slowed to a stop, it all came crashing down. He put his face in his hands with a shudder, nearly overcome.

“Come in,” he managed at the familiar sound of Patel’s brisk three-rap knock.

His mentor arrived with a gift: a bottle of whiskey. “You did well, my boy,” he said, patting Sindar’s arm. He poured them both a drink. “This was bottled a month before you were born.” Sindar drank it down and shook his glass. Patel poured him another.

Sindar drank the again, and said, “Nothing could have prepared me for that, Patty.”

Patel’s expression softened. “I know. I understand why the Flowers keep their secrets so closely guarded, but… it is shocking to watch. Even knowing what would happen, I wasn’t fully prepared.”

Sindar looked up. “You were there?”

“Of course. The pregnancy was hard for her, and she needed support. I was on good terms with Champion Leya, and she allowed it.”

“That little acolyte was a champion?” Sindar asked, surprised yet again.