Shadow Touched (Editing)

23. FINCH

It's been two days since the War Council learned Grey is Shadow Touched. The Prince remains locked in his chambers, forced to drink charms to control him. The King sends the court mage to lock him in his mind each night. And no one talks about how mad all of this is.

I'm in the Throne Room for another Receiving Day. King Vincent sits alone on his dais. I keep reminding myself to pay attention. To be on high alert. Try as I might to focus, I can't stop my mind wandering to Grey, his absence hanging heavy in my soul.

Officially, Prince Greyling is said to be on a peacekeeping mission in the North. There have been rumblings of discontent in the highlands of late, and Greyling being so beloved, the lie was believable. His sudden departure has disappointed the ladies at court, who, having not heard he wouldn't be around, are seated along the throne room aisle dressed in their best outfits. Each one hoping to catch the prince's eye. Well, most of them. Some made it clear they wouldn't have a problem leaving with the Captain of the Guard. I'd have no problem taking one or two of them up on that offer on a normal day. As things currently stand, bedding courtiers isn't high on my list of priorities.

I itch to be free from the monotony of receiving days. There is so much to do. So much to prepare for. I need to find a way to help Grey. I have to figure out Solditch's next move and organize my men. I have to do all this without tipping off Welland or King Vincent, who have expressly forbid any mobilization. We must maintain the façade of business as usual. We can't tip our hand before we know more about what Solditch is up to. That's what King Vincent keeps saying. His desire to keep up appearances might end with us all dead.

I tried speaking with him again this morning. After checking in with guard rotation for the day, I went to his private quarters, hoping to catch him alone. Welland had beat me to it. When I entered his office, the General sat there, a look of smug victory on his face.

I force my mind back to the Throne Room and the matters at hand. After all, protecting the King is still my number one job.

The two farmers who have stood before the King for a quarter of an hour now bow low to the floor, thanking him. They seem pleased. King Vincent signals for the next citizen. As the farmers scurry down the aisle, Llew, the court herald, steps forward. He looks odd. Uneasy. His small, pointed eyes shift back and forth as though he's waiting for a different cue, one from someone other than the King. It sets me on edge. Granted, I'm always on edge, but this behaviour is strange for Llew, who is generally more bland than flour. For him to suddenly pique my interest is just wrong.

I place my hand on Sirocco's hilt, and my shoulders stiffen in anticipation. I quickly scour the room but see nothing out of place. My men are exactly where I've directed them. Meanwhile, the King sits atop his throne, looking bored.

With his back straight and head high, Llew knocks his staff three times on the marble medallion—an intricate R that sweeps into a V, representing House Valderre—embedded in the floor. The ceramic tiling is covered in repeating swirls of gold and black. The knocks echo within the room, and the courtiers in attendance swivel their heads as one to see who Llew will call forward next.

I wait, ready to strike.

"THE LADY NAIMA OF HOUSE DELUMINE!" Llew bellows, his face red from the effort. His downcast eyes shift to me. What I mistook for subterfuge was concern. As it should be. If the King doesn't ask for his head, I just might.

The courtiers gasp as one. No one knew Naima was to return to Varran City. That was a secret I managed to keep under wraps. The news would be sent out the day before her return, which wouldn't be for another seven days. I should've known better than to expect Naima to follow a simple directive.