The Ivory Rite

Chapter 21

He drops to one knee. His eyes are on the floor until they're not, because soon he's looking at me as though we're the only two people in the room. My right hand plunges into the pocket of my gown, clutching the glass trinket he passed on to me through Raina's aid. I feel my cheeks flush uncontrollably as I give him a small nod. One of his eyebrows peaks the tiniest bit.

"Toryn," he says, a Ceannte accent thickening his speech much more than I remember. "Master Toryn Gaffer, for your service, Majesty."

I'm assaulted by the disappointment.

What did you expect him to say? Did you think he'd announce to royal Court that he is someone the kingdom sentenced to death a decade ago?

An ember of hope flares up, twisting, fighting, burning in the center of my chest. I study the curve of his cheekbones, the jut of his jaw, his chocolate brown eyes.

It could still be him, I decide. It could still be Colt.

"What business do you bring to Court?" I ask, forcing strength back into my voice, motioning for him to stand.

"Your Majesty, I come to offer my skill to the Crown." He responds without hesitation, and curiosity washes over me. He must have considerably less than every other person I've spoken to today, and still he's the first one to suggest an offering rather than demand compensation.

"I have undertaken many commissions from the late Regent, may she rest, and I understand you may be in need of someone skilled in the glass trade."

For a minute I'm confused, overlooking the obvious, until his intent hits me like lightening.

The rebuild.

He's asking for a job that would necessitate his indefinite presence in the castle. The very idea of such a thing steals what little breath I'm relying on.

"Tell me more about the work you've completed for the Regent." I keep my tone even, my heart beating as though its goal is to part from my chest.

Could I actually sanction this? I think wildly. Why is the idea of having him close by so appealing? I don't even know him.

Of course I don't know him.

I deflate, the truth hitting me with the same ferocity as the ill-conceived hope that overtook me only moments ago. It would be insanity for Colter to return to the castle if he somehow survived. A man with a concealed identity would never risk returning to the place in which he received his death sentence. Giving life to such an idea is moronic. How, after all these years, have I still not accepted the truth?

Because you miss your friend, a sad voice whispers in my ear, one that can only be my own.

Because you can't bear to live with the guilt, hisses a crueler, unfamiliar one.

I shake my head as if to clear it, seeking to banish my own thoughts. I can't keep playing this game. The back and forth, the hope with crushing reality hot on its heels, always waiting to gain the lead. Always succeeding.

The person standing before me is not Colter.

Colter is dead.

I take a deep breath, pushing it all away. I try to focus on this man's words, the words of a stranger. He's describing his previous work for Margret, and I'm missing it.

"Everything has been completed in my workshop, transported to the castle and installed by royal servicemen, but the work has always been my own. Window panes, ceiling tiles, ornamental pieces, and the like."