When I saw Minister Abely yesterday, he was inebriated but well-groomed, boisterous but reasonably collected. Now?
I’ve never seen a man look so haggard in my life.
The clothes are the same, but the embroidered Vasnan overshirt and loose trousers are rumpled and sweat-stained. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his hair looks as if a typhoon took hold of it.
This is when I remember his reaction upon seeing the king at the port. The minister’s jovial composure had melted away in an instant, and he disappeared soon after. One look at his paling face tells me he wasn’t expecting the king to be here for this reemergence.
“Your Majesty,” Abely stammers, plunging into a bow. “Your Highnesses.”
The king is silent. Even Lady Tilanthia appears taken aback, and to my surprise, she looks to me, as if for direction. I hesitate. Isn’t this the king’s place to speak first? Do I really want him to when he’s threatened to kill the man?
As usual, I fall back on politeness.
“Minister Abely,” I say. “Please come in. How may we help you?”
I can’t believe I’m inviting this man into my room when I haven’t even risen from bed, but I don’t know what else to do. When Lady Tilanthia’s eyes dart toward the door and back, I give a slight nod to let her know she should escape while she can, and quick as a fox, she flees from the room, which is exactly what I want to do, not only to escape this encounter but the stifling heat.
When did it become so warm?
The man comes trembling forward. He wrings his hands a moment or two. Then, to my shock, he crashes to his knees.
Oh dear.
“Your Highness,” he says, glancing up at me once before dropping his head, “I’ve come to beg your forgiveness.”
Before I can think how to respond, he bows even lower, pressing his forehead to the floor. I start to protest, but he’s already speaking again. “I shirked my responsibilities,” he says, “shamed my country, disgraced my king and my future queen. I am a wyrm, Your Highness, a wretched wyrm.”
I blink at this strange addendum, and at the confession itself. The man certainly owes me an apology, but groveling isn’t necessary.
“I should never have set foot in the tavern,” he continues, as if he’s the lowest soul on the continent. “I told myself it would benefit you if I better understood Vasnan culture, but I didn’t realize…I should have known—”
His words break off in a sob.
I bite my lip at the sound of Abely’s weeping. The sound is wholly genuine, and though I may have been frustrated with him, compassion now overrules that. Vasnan spirits are notoriously strong; Abely isn’t the first to fall under their spell.
The king still hasn’t said anything, but surely he can see the apology is heartfelt. Even so, it seems he wants me to respond, if his silence is any indication.
What would Mother say? No, she had no patience for Abely.
Cassandra? No, my oldest sister would probably toss her hair and have him beg some more.
I take a deep breath. I’ll simply have to do my best.
“Minister Abely,” I say, “I thank you for your apology. As we say in Vasna, the ocean washes all away. Let us let bygones be bygones and—”
A growl, savage and low, cuts through my words. Turning my head in alarm, I find the king staring straight ahead as if in a trance, yet his hands clench the blankets in a white-knuckled grip. Heat pours off him in visible waves, like the mouth of an oven.
“You dare show your face here?” he hisses.
When he turns toward Abely, the flames that sweep over the king’s eyes don’t catch me by surprise this time.
But the cascade of scales breaking out over his arms certainly does.