The Broken Crown

Chapter 48

Jeffroy

 The Queen had been eager to leave her exile in favour of going to Lionhall. It was her childhood home and, war or not, the prospect of returning lit up her face. Lucretia, however, stayed dull and angered throughout the travel, saying not a word.

 After arriving in Tibera, he had seen less and less of her. Sometimes he saw her speaking to men in dark cloaks, men with reason to conceal themselves. He knew he should have been the last one to judge her for her actions, yet he could not help the feeling of anxiety at the sight.

 There was jealousy in this worry, of course. Not even he could argue against it. That was why he quenched the feeling away, promising himself not to interfere. He had not reason to feel jealous; a woman like Lucretia could never belong to him. No woman could; he was a Servant, sworn to chastity. And nothing had happened since that night.

 In his prayers and conscious thought, that night only happened because of a wish to bring them closer together. That night had been like an oath of loyalty. However, in the nights and his weaker moments, a much truer and much more lecherous version of the story appeared.

 He forced it to the back of his mind, like he forced so many other things to the back of his mind, and went about his daily routine the best he could.

 There was no Solar Temple in Lionhall, as they belonged to the religion of the Mere, the goddess of the ocean, but they did have a round garden. Here, he could walk his daily circles of meditation. He could pretend the brazen snake was there, guiding him, and he could almost forget the chirp of the birds.

 It had been a week since he had last spoken to Lucretia and well within the new year when she sought him out. He was finishing his midday rounds and she knew enough to know not to interrupt him. She could not have known that by standing there, watching him, she interrupted more than she would have by walking over to him.

 “My Queen,” he greeted her after finishing his twelfth and final round. Twelve was a holy number, the number of balance. Four times a day – like the four yearly phases of the sun, known as seasons – Servants would walk their twelve rounds, or sixteen, or twenty, or twenty-four. At least twelve, and after that, they could choose to add on four if they needed it.

 “Don’t call me that, not here.” Her hands grabbed him by his toga, leading back into the shadows amongst the pillars. “We are in the nest of our enemies. It is here shadows and killers are bred. You must be careful!”

 “This is Lionhall, Your Majesty,” Jeffroy objected, calling her Majesty nonetheless.

 “Exactly,” she whispered and dragged her further into the shadows until his shoulder was pressed against the cold stone wall of the hallway they were now in. “The Lamarcks would not take it lightly to hear someone call anyone but Adrianne queen.”

 “Why do you seek me out?” Now, he added to himself, why do you seek me out now, after ignoring me for so long?

 No words escaped her lips; instead, she pressed their hands together and he felt something cool and hard drop into the hollow that his fingers created. They tightened their grip around the little, rounded thing.

 “What is this?” His hand opened and he inspected the vial he had been given. It was very small and filled with some sort of liquid. Its contents were such a dark, dark purple, so dark it would seem black to anyone who did not care to look carefully. “Is it what I think it is?”

 She nodded, still not saying a word. In the shadows, her hair seemed to gleam with the same dark purple as the liquid in the vial.

 “For whom?” he whispered, breathless at the prospect of what he was going to do.