Hello Blind Eye Books Faithful, I’m pleased to announce we’re wrapping up production on our fall title, Reforged by debut author Seth Haddon. Lots and lots of people have been waiting for this one so I’m pleased to offer you a sneak peek at our heroes Paladin Balen and the newly crowned King Zavrius. If you like it you can preorder directly from our site or from your favorite local or online bookstore.
Here’s what the author has to say about Reforged, “I wanted to create a story with love at its heart. Reforged is the novel I wish I had growing up, where both masculine and flamboyant men are the heroes, and the romantic bond they share is crucial to their victory. Inspired by danmei and D&D, I wanted to show there is real heart in fantasy stories. “
Author Seth Haddon can be found on TikTok @authorsethhaddon and on Twitter @sethhaddon
Now, without further ado:
Chapter One
The moon was full and already at its zenith.
He was late.
Paladin Balen cursed under his breath. The conspicuous lack of music made his stomach twist. King Zavrius should have been playing that damned lute-harp by now. Running in full armor through a forest at night, Balen would be lucky if he didn’t catch his foot on a root, fall, and break his neck. That would be his luck, dying, stupidly, just before he claimed the most prestigious role in Cres Stros. He needed to focus on the uneven path before him. But how could he?
King Zavrius, and everyone else, was waiting.
Balen’s foot slipped in the mulch. He staggered forward in the dark, only righting himself by some miracle. He resolved to push the king from his mind. Always easier in theory. He failed.
Focus. You show up smeared in mud, and Zavrius will be offended.
And Zavrius knew how to hold a grudge.
The winding path straightened. It became a sudden arrow-sharp road cutting through an archway of evergreen trees. The path was lit by torches, their bare flames licking at the balmy air. Balen took a breath and slowed.
The primordial majesty of the Gedrok’s Glade opened before him. A massive, ancient and long-dead creature lay slumped in a semicircle at the perimeter of the clearing, forming the northern barrier. These massive beings had been named gedrok after the ancient king who had first harnessed their magical properties. This gedrok possessed a strange, composite quality. The top half resembled a giant, bulky panther, but its lower half tapered away into a lean serpent tail. Its head looked like an earless cat’s skull with a fine layer of skin laid over the bone. The rounded head sat tall; at four men high, the creature’s glazed, sunken eye could watch the whole glade. Skin covered in off-white and aquamarine scales enfolded long, blood-red tendons and sheathed near-transparent bones. It smelled faintly of brine and oakmoss. Parts of it had been carved away over the years, to create both magical instruments and armor, including Balen’s own. Now the creature’s rib cage looked brittle and weak. Fat, wild vines wove through places where harvesting the skin had exposed the ribs. The light glinted along Balen’s gedrokbone armor as he passed. Flickers of prismatic color split through the darkness.
Balen raised his head proudly to the ancient creature. This was the source of his power. He couldn’t help but feel a kinship with it.
On a wooden dais beneath the gedrok’s open rib cage, King Zavrius waited.
King Zavrius, fifth heir to the Dued Vuuthrik Dynasty, was a languid vision in the moonlight. He sat sprawled back in a carved wooden throne, tall, lean body stretched out with one leg softly bouncing. At twenty-two, Zavrius somehow managed to have the demeanor of a child and an old man at once. The moonlight turned the shadows on his tawny skin the color of wine. His deep-brown hair had been pulled up away from his face, so Balen had a moment to clock the king’s expression. Slight knot in his brow, quirk to his lip. He was making a show of inspecting his fingernails. Balen had known Zavrius for years, and still couldn’t be sure what sort of mood he was in.
Not a single soul in the dynasty had ever expected Zavrius to be king, and the tension of their uncertainty about him filled the night air.
Zavrius sat alone on the dais, facing rows and rows of seated nobility and other dignitaries. All of them were dressed in exquisite regalia, but many avoided including the deep mauves and purples Zavrius favored.
As Balen stepped forward into the clearing, a hundred faces turned to glare at him. The nobility wasn’t used to waiting. The Paladin grimaced, raising his chin high as he walked. He raked over painted faces and bored expressions, looking for nobles he recognized, eyes hovering on those he didn’t.
He spotted three delegates from the Rezwyn Empire in the front and felt his hand twitch instinctively toward his sword. Balen had to suppress a sneer. Two pale men sat either side of a bearlike woman. The men were dressed in cream-colored ceremonial robes. The loose garments fell like sacks over their bodies, but Balen could tell they were brawny beneath them. Fringed head covers obscured their richly beaded hair and faces. Balen suspected these two were priests. Pulled by the severity of the central figure, Balen noted her oddly pale skin and thick, black hair before his eyes caught on the sash that signified her as the Rezwyn ambassador. Balen spotted the strange symbol of the empire’s war god emblazoned on her cuirass—the twisted, open maw of a human-boar crossbreed roaring at the sky. It was provocative, but not as provocative as their faces; all of them sported different derivations of the wartime paint the Rezwyns wore on the field. For a group of diplomats, it was jarring. But that was the empire for you. And with how tense things were now, it was to be expected.
At the foot of the dais, between the nobles and the king, stood a line of Balen’s fellow Paladins. The newest recruits stood stiffly at the center, strikingly unarmored, as they had yet to be confirmed into the order. Balen’s peers were positioned alongside them. His senior, Duart, gave him a wink as he went by, but Balen knew not many others enjoyed losing this honor to him. The hard-set jaw of Alick, another senior, made Balen feel his youth like a stone in his belly. Alick’s armor was exquisite. Heavy plate crafted from anything else looked bulky, but the gedrok’s body made hulking pauldrons and greaves appear sleek and fitted.
Once Balen passed through the line of his fellow Paladins, he could ignore his king no longer.
Zavrius sat with his lute-harp over his lap, watching Balen’s every move. It was a stunning, magical instrument. Made from gedrokbone with tendon string, its bowled back was bone white and pearlescent. Streaks of red shot through the ribs like veins.
“Lovely of you to join us.” Zavrius pitched his voice just loud enough to reach a few of Balen’s Paladin brethren. Balen bristled at that.
Of course. Zavrius would make him a fool just for a laugh. But since he’d managed to arrive late for the event he’d dreamed of for years, Balen thought maybe he deserved it.
When he took his place at Zavrius’s right hand, the anger turned to nerves.
“I’ll make this up to you,” Balen said.
Voice lower now, a private whisper from Zavrius: “Does that mean you’ve had a change of heart?”
Balen’s breath stopped short. He glanced over at Zavrius, who was now fixing him with a cold stare. His fidgeting had stopped. The torchlight flickered around them, making Zavrius’s eyes glint gold. In them, Balen saw himself with his heart in his throat at seventeen, leaning in for a kiss—a year Zavrius’s senior, and three times the bumbling mess he still found himself to be. He blanched. Balen opened his mouth but found no words.
Zavrius raised a dismissive hand, his frown dissolving into a satisfied smirk as his leg resumed its playful bounce.
“Don’t make promises you know you won’t keep,” Zavrius whispered.
Zavrius always managed to throw him off. Balen bristled, momentarily angry at how easily Zavrius got to him. Getting himself involved with the king he was sworn to protect—any half-brained dolt could tell how resuming their old love affair would end.
“Shall I begin?” Zavrius asked, though he didn’t wait for anyone to answer.
There was an entire retinue of court musicians that could’ve opened this ceremony, but the king had insisted it be him alone. Zavrius had said something about the dull, sluggish way they performed—a long rant. Balen suspected the truth was much simpler. Zavrius loved to play. When Sirellius had been king, he rarely got the chance.
Now, he could perform.
The first lilting notes of a lute-harp glided through the glade. Balen, who knew little about music, knew at least this much: Zavrius played beautifully. There was none of the timidness he’d heard from other musicians, where the first notes lurch out of instruments and crawl their way forward. Zavrius’s music rose. Balen took in a slow breath and closed his eyes.
At first, Balen thought he’d never heard this song before; that all this was Zavrius gloating, showing off a new composition. But then Zavrius peeled back on the flourish and the melody slipped through. Balen’s mouth twitched with a smile. He heard the rhythmic beat of the dynastic anthem, a consistent, marchlike sound that had his new authority pounded into every note. Then, when Zavrius added some musical flourishes, he heard the influence of Zavrius’s late mother, Arasne, in the notes. It wasn’t that the music was sweet or gentle. Zavrius had stitched one of Arasne’s arcane arrangements to the anthem. And since this lute-harp belonged to the late queen, the Paladin felt certain there was some arcane power behind Zavrius’s playing now. How else could he explain the wash of calmness and awe that had come over him? A similar, comforted expression appeared on the faces of the nobility. Everyone watched with a shared awe as Zavrius’s music urged flame from the torches to break free and float around him. Wisps of fire were shaped into arcane fireflies that fluttered up and illuminated the gedrok’s translucent bones.
The sound swelled, swaying between the gedrok’s ribs, a mournful elegy, yet triumphant in places. Zavrius was the fifth heir, newly appointed, playing in the miasma following the deaths of the whole royal line. All of that and somehow the music never sounded morose. Always, somehow, slightly reserved.
It took seconds for Balen to register that Zavrius had finished playing. The fireflies flickered out one by one. The music lingered in the glade like it was clutching to life, and the spell behind it faded slowly. Balen struggled to tell when it had vanished completely, which said much about Zavrius’s power. He wondered if that should frighten him. But then Balen looked over at the king, saw him tilt his head with a satisfied sigh, and found him . . . beautiful.
Compulsively beautiful. Compelling in a way that being drawn to him was necessary and stopped feeling like it was somehow Balen’s choice. This—Zavrius—wasn’t something he missed, he told himself. Not the playful snark, nor the private smiles. He had trained too hard for too long to miss someone like him.
“So?” Zavrius whispered.
The Paladin looked down, suddenly interested in his sabatons. Hundreds of eyes were on them. “You know you always play well.”
“Sure,” Zavrius said, placing the lute-harp delicately on the stage. “But I like to hear you say it.”
Zavrius stood and stepped forward, body swaying like a dancer’s, and as he opened his arms the glade filled with applause. Balen was vaguely aware that since his ascension, Zavrius’s formal appearances as king had been sparse. After the coronation, he’d only made the briefest appearance at the tournament that had won Balen the honor of becoming Prime Paladin. And then . . . nothing. Balen wondered if the nobility took offense to that, or if they liked the mystery. The Paladin looked out into the dark, trying to parse the expressions of their softly lit convocation. Then one man stepped from the line of Paladins and approached the dais—head of the Gifted Paladins, Balen’s direct master, Lestr.
Zavrius nodded and the portly man stepped up, walking in a self-assured way that evoked the late Queen Arasne’s grace. He looked every inch her brother. Since he was cut off from the royal line by default, Lestr had devoted his energies to making the Paladin order essential.
He stopped before Zavrius, a flat smile on his thin lips.
“Well.” Lestr pitched his voice as loud as he could manage. He gestured with one hand toward Zavrius, who, upon realizing this would be the extent of the praise his uncle would offer him, opened his arms to another smattering of applause from the nobility. Zavrius spun on his heels to face Balen, rolling his eyes as he returned to his throne.
“Not even a smile,” Zavrius said, sounding pressed. “Your master is impossible to entertain.”
Balen suppressed a snort.
“I welcome you all,” Lestr began, taking center stage. He cleared his throat, mumbling something incoherent under his breath. At heart, Lestr was a soldier. His speeches never involved much beyond clipped praise and urging the junior Paladins to be glad that they could hold their own in training. At Lestr’s signal, four more Paladins began a procession toward the dais, carrying an intricate wooden chest between them.
Lestr continued. “When my sister, our late Queen Arasne, accepted her Prime, it was on the back of her husband’s murder at the hands of the Rezwyn Empire.”
Bold words. Bold tone to be setting.
Balen glanced sideways at Zavrius. The king shook his head imperceptibly, though Balen caught a twitch at the mention of his mother’s name. In the periphery of his vision, the Paladin noted the Rezwyn delegates shifting in affronted discomfort.
But that was Lestr through and through—not a warmonger, not like his brother-in-law, King Sirellius, or most of the royal children, yet angry. Driven. And if the rumors Balen had been hearing were true, Lestr was smart to invoke the name of their dynasty’s enemy—even if it upset all attempts at diplomacy. With so much uncertainty around Zavrius, Lestr was angling to rally the aristocracy. What better way than uniting them against a common enemy?
Zavrius clearly felt otherwise. Through a tight smile he sang, “What is your master doing?”
“Give him a chance.”
“There are voices in both the dynasty and the empire who call for war between our nations,” Lestr said, and Zavrius swore.
Balen steadied himself with a deep breath, suddenly aware of how on edge the nobility was. How divided. He glanced toward his fellow Paladins and wondered, if it came down to it, who would stand where. By the nature of their order, there should have been no doubt about their support of the new king. But such things were easy to promise when the battle wasn’t happening.
In the weeks since his coronation, Zavrius had been dubbed everything from listless to uncaring. Balen had had those thoughts himself, had been having them for years. The Paladins were made for glory. He had to remind himself that war wasn’t what he wanted. Not when they were weak. He looked once more to the Rezwyn ambassador, a clear paragon of the empire’s religious zealotry. The Rezwyns were geared for expansion; the Dued Vuuthriks had prioritized defense. There was no doubt the Rezwyn Empire would crush them.
“It has been a . . . difficult few months. Expectations have, uh . . .” Lestr sighed, clearly struggling to speak around the truth. “Expectations have shifted. The tragedy that befell our great royal line has shocked us. But we still have our king, our dynasty’s future.”
In the low light, Balen saw many of the assembled nobles turn to whisper to one another.
Lestr pressed on with an awkward cough. He spoke of the Gifted Paladins and their role in protecting the king, briefly thanked the Rezwyn diplomats for their attendance. He then called upon the seven new Paladins to accept their pledges. When he was done, he gestured for the four Paladins who stood by the chest to come forward.
Zavrius’ usual catlike smile reemerged on his face as he rose to his feet. “That’s our cue as well, I believe.”
Balen felt like he was either coming out of, or going into, a great delirium. He flexed his bare hands, palms clammy as he stood face-to-face with Zavrius. When they’d been together as boys, Zavrius had been taller than him. Now the situation was reversed; the new king had to look slightly upward to meet the Paladin’s eyes.
Zavrius turned to face him. Balen could have sworn he winked as he said, “On your knees, then.”
Balen flashed him a look, frowning at his tone, but he lowered himself to his knees and offered up his bare hands. Zavrius reached for them without hesitation, as if this wasn’t the most intimate they’d been in years. Balen exhaled and looked away.
The new king’s hands were soft but his fingertips were calloused, as much a mark of his training as Balen’s were. They waited as the handlers bumbled around them, placing the chest beside them. Zavrius thumbed at a callous on Balen’s forefinger, this strange back and forth that made his mind lurch, but whatever look was on the Paladin’s face stopped the motion.
“Balen of the Gifted Paladins,” Lestr began. With his name invoked, Balen tried to straighten his spine. “Do you swear to uphold your duty, to protect the king and defend the dynasty even at the cost of your life?”
“I do,” Balen said, without really hearing the words. Something swelled in him, made his heart creak and stretch. Then suddenly it was racing, pumping dreamlike ecstasy through him. This was the culmination of his life. This had been brewing since his childhood, since he’d sat on his father’s shoulders blinking back the sun. He must have looked elated or . . . exalted. Zavrius squeezed his hand. “I do,” he said again, forcefully, this time hearing the words for their true meaning.
“King Zavrius of the Dued Vuuthrik Dynasty, Protector of Cres Stros, do you accept Balen of the Gifted Paladins to be your Prime?”
Zavrius’s eyes glinted. “Without question.”
“Then it is so.” Lestr reached down and opened the chest. The latches sprang up with a loud pop.
Zavrius released Balen’s hands slowly, then from the chest, he withdrew a set of gauntlets.
The Paladin’s hands twitched involuntarily, betraying his obvious eagerness. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted the same hungry look reflected in his fellow Paladins. They’d all been trained in the same way. Using ichor harvested from the gedroks, Paladins could generate arcane power that they could channel through their weapons. It gave them an edge: more power in a swing, more bite when a blow landed. But if they attempted to use the ichor unprotected, all that magic would burn right through them, hence the development of the Paladins’ trademark armor, each piece of which had to be crafted individually from the bones of the gedroks.
Among all armor, these gauntlets were special in that they served as both pieces of armor and weapons.
Unique to the Prime, they were a symbol of rank as well. In truth, none of them knew the true extent of what they could do. But Balen knew he wanted them, had always wanted them. They were beautiful, articulated, and shimmered like pearl.
And when Zavrius slipped one onto each of Balen’s hands, he noted they were warm like pearl as well. Balen made a fist, feeling each polished knuckle click and curl. Something arcane flickered at the edge of his vision, like sparks. He startled out of impulse and sat back against his calves.
Zavrius let out a deep, quiet laugh. “Won’t you show them off?”
Balen glanced up. Zavrius stooped over him, stray strands of slicked-back hair curling over his forehead.
“More your purview than mine.” Balen smiled and turned his hands over to inspect them. “I don’t think they’re meant for performance.”
“Shame.” Then, a beat later. “Not even for me?”
Balen paused and met Zavrius’s eyes. “Are you asking?”
“I wouldn’t ask,” Zavrius said slowly, “I would order.”
A retort sat on the edge of Balen’s tongue, stubborn and weighted, and refused to be spoken. A tight, indignant smile was offered up in its place. Zavrius straightened, looking disappointed.
“Go on.” Zavrius gestured to the side, an odd hardness in his eyes. “This is your moment, after all.”
Balen wasn’t quite sure what he meant until he turned to face those assembled in the glade. Some nobles stood to applaud him, which no doubt upset a few of the others. If it wasn’t for the Paladin title, he’d be no one—a pauper.
He flexed his hand again, this time feeling the arcane force unfurling inside him. Odd. Somehow strong. He pushed himself to his feet with a slight smile and walked forward. Zavrius had resumed his sprawl, lute-harp cradled in his lap. He stroked it, eyes locked on Balen with a sudden, intense interest. His left hand was balled into a fist on his thigh, knuckles white.
Nervous for him? Or something else?
Balen dragged his eyes away from Zavrius and refocused.
The gauntlets weren’t meant for performance, but they were meant to protect the king, and in this case that meant a show of power. That was what Zavrius wanted him to do, Balen realized, staring down at the expectant congregation. They were fearful. Hungry for assurances. As much as he wanted to believe these people would support Zavrius, Balen knew how many had loved his deceased brother, Theo. These were the nobility who held lands and titles across the dynasty—who had personal armies, and who could turn whole regions against the king.
And for the Rezwyns, this was something else: not a threat, but a promise of arcane strength.
Maybe all that was a stretch. He told himself he was doing this for Zavrius, but he’d craved this display for years. He was Prime Paladin. He caught a few jealous gazes from his brethren and suppressed a smile. Balen raised his arms. Dim light caught the edges of the gauntlets, sending the light spinning. Then he took a breath. His lungs opened and small pockets of arcane energy began to widen, stretch, come to life. Where previously the magic he’d had access to was always capped by the filter of his armor, Balen now felt the full reach of his arcane ability. Power rushed through his forearms, unfettered. Nerves twinged and sparked. Lightning crackled in the palms of his hands and shot out in snaking waves. A stark white light lit up the glade.
Balen caught the sight of a dozen wide-eyed people staring up at him in awe, and pride swelled in him. He took a knee and slammed a gauntlet to his chest. It sizzled with the contact, sparks glancing off his cuirass as he spoke.
“As Prime Paladin,” he said, voice reverberating through the glade, “I will defend this dynasty with my body. I will defend our king to my death. With the power in my blood, the ichor of the gedrok, no empire will fell us. The dynasty will live!”
The oath seemed to buzz through him. His heart thrummed; he meant every word.
Though the diplomats stayed silent, the rest of the convocation responded in turn with applause; a sudden coming together, a rallying under tradition: the king and his Prime.
And when Balen turned, Zavrius was wearing a splitting grin, sparkle in his eyes.
#
An hour later, Balen found himself backed against the gedrok’s thigh, eavesdropping.
He leaned against the gleaming scaled mass that protected the hard muscle beneath it. Warmth radiated from within. The magic was incubated in a way that made the dead thing seem alive. He had his eyes on Zavrius, who was an odd eight or ten paces away on the stage, surrounded by a variety of nobles who all vied for his very limited attention while Zavrius’s paternal aunt, Petra, glad-handed them. She was seventy-something and stout, with her thick gray hair pulled up into a beehive bun. She had the same big nose Zavrius had gotten from Sirellius, making her look as severe as Balen knew she could be, even though she was trying to appear sweet and docile to this noble horde. Over and over again, she promised that the king would hold court as soon as he returned to the palace and that he would hear their various woes, complaints and disputes at that time. Zavrius smiled, nodded and remained silent.
Balen kept an eye on them but listened to the group closest to him—his fellow Paladins.
“All I’m saying is no one knows who he is. Not in the way we knew the previous Heir Ascendant or any of his brothers or his sister. We knew Theo and Lysio—we knew Avidia better than Zavrius. And this is—I mean, this is it, isn’t it? This is the time you get up and speak to the men and women who will be defending your life, but he’s up there with that bloody harp mistaking himself for the entertainment.”
Balen shifted his gaze from Zavrius.
Another Paladin spoke. “No need to convince us. He may have been dedicated to war, but at least when Theo was Heir Ascendant he had some direction.”
“Zavrius is the king now. We shouldn’t be—” a woman hissed nervously.
“He’s not our king.” A tight silence followed.
“By the gedrok’s bones, have some sympathy, Alick,” a voice said. Balen thought it might be Duart. “What was I like at twenty-two? What am I like now? He was fifth in line. You can’t blame him for not knowing what he’s doing. No one thought—”
“It’s not good enough,” Alick said. A few others murmured their agreement. Then, as if remembering where he was, who he was, “But I’ll defend him with my life.”
“Of course.”
Balen shivered. A cool breeze cut through the warm night.
The conversation shifted to rumors after that: the Rezwyn army milling in the isthmus, seeking to seize control of the gedroks that were unique to their lands. Then came new rumors.
“There’s folk missing, too,” some newer recruit was saying, hoping to be included in the Paladin camaraderie. “Nobility. Our elites. You can be sure he won’t do a thing about that.”
People going missing, so-and-so’s fifth son or third daughter, aristocrats, trading class, monied elites. Bogus stories, Balen presumed—the Rezwyns darting over enemy lines and stealing people in the night. It’s what he expected to hear from nobility, who seemed to fear having nothing to say and believed everyone was out to get them, but now the Paladins were shifting course too.
“They’re not missing.” It was Frenyur, Balen deduced, by the gruff sound of his voice. He was older than Balen by nearly two decades and well jaded. Definitely bearing a grudge after Balen had put him on his back in the tournament. “People aren’t happy. The Dued Vuuthriks are finished after this. You know he’s . . .” Frenyur clicked his tongue. “King Zavrius won’t have a natural heir. Nothing stable about his rule. We have to be ready . . .”
Balen caught the suggestion, that subtle hitch in Frenyur’s breath as he lost his gall to admit that he’d be willing to oppose Zavrius.
Balen narrowed his eyes, feeling torn between a misguided sympathy for the Paladin’s complaints and his recently sworn oath to defend the king against any threat. Zavrius was a pain, and when you didn’t know him, he was a lazy sod with an attitude problem. He only became tolerable once you learned the language of his humor. But to betray him? To defect? These were Paladins, by the gedroks’ sake. Paladins. Protecting the king under any circumstance was in the oath they had all taken.
There was a long silence.
A voice Balen didn’t recognize said, “No.”
Balen thanked them silently for their loyalty. A few others said the same, a few others said nothing. Either way, Balen wasn’t happy about it.
Righteous anger swelled in him. A proper indignation. He pushed himself off the gedrok’s thigh to spin around.
Someone grabbed him by the arm.
Balen went stiff. He felt all that brewing anger lose its footing and slip, hurtling into his fingers. The gauntlets crackled.
“Enough of that.” It was Lestr, voice low. A full head shorter than Balen, his master stared up at him with a stern gaze. Lestr was stout and had none of his nephew’s grace, save for the steadiness in his hands. Balen’s eyes shifted to Lestr’s grip on his arm. He dragged his eyes to meet Lestr’s gaze, cheeks hot, and felt his anger buckle in the face of Lestr’s authority.
“Come on.” He tugged Balen away. “Let them have their griping and gossip. Trust me. It’ll help you with your sanity.”
Balen folded his arms against his chest. “Mm.”
Lestr blinked. “Listen. You’re only twenty-three. It shows.”
Balen bristled. Lestr put up a hand to stay him.
“Let them gossip and whine,” he said. “And when they’re ready, they’ll be what they promised. Right now, they’re just being people.”
Balen wet his lips to speak, and then said nothing. Lestr was right, but it was too hard to say as much. He made a noise instead, a soft grunt of agreement. Lestr slapped him on the back twice, grip tight on his shoulder.
“Good.” He squeezed, directing his gaze to Zavrius. “His highness is getting restless. You bundle him up to go and I’ll rally a party of Paladins to protect you.” Lestr stared at him for a moment too long, then nodded once. He turned and clanked away toward the gedrok’s tail at the edge of the clearing.
Balen looked over his shoulder. Zavrius sat strumming his lute-harp so softly the sound didn’t carry over the voices of the nobles surrounding him. He looked absolutely miserable. Balen strode up the dais and knelt beside him.
“Are you sad that I was the one to get the standing ovation?”
“Positively vexed.” Zavrius smiled slightly, eyes hooded. He glanced over to the retreating figure of Lestr, nodding toward him. “What did he do to you? Scold you for being late?”
“That’s your job now, I think.”
“Well.” Zavrius leaned forward to rest his chin in his palm. “I’m sure you had your reasons.”
“Nothing interesting,” Balen said flatly. Zavrius raised a brow, and Balen laughed, shaking his head. “Lost track of time.”
“Lost track of time,” Zavrius repeated. “Load of crap. Your obsession with those gauntlets wouldn’t let you do something like ‘lose track of time.’”
Balen felt himself tense. He should’ve known Zavrius would see through him. Still, the lie was out there now. He tried to sound sincere. “It’s the truth.”
Zavrius’s jovial demeanor vanished. “Had your cock in a stable hand, then? Or somewhere even less savory?”
Balen opened his mouth, genuinely shocked. “Here? In the glade?”
“No?” Zavrius crossed his arms. “If you say. But I can’t think of any other reason you’d want to lie to me.”
Balen was smart enough to know when he was being goaded. He wasn’t quite smart enough to avoid taking the bait.
“My cock’s whereabouts have nothing to do with you anymore.” There was heat in his cheeks now, and with Balen’s pale skin, there was no chance he could hide his embarrassment at the vulgar language.
“On the contrary, now that you’re my Prime its location could be said to be a matter of dynastic importance,” Zavrius said. Balen looked at Zavrius a long while. A snide smirk crept back along his face.
Balen leaned toward him, forgetting for a moment Zavrius was king and that at least a dozen people were watching. “What is your problem? Why do you do that?”
“Why do I—” Zavrius began, just as angry, half out of his throne. Then he collapsed back into it and held up a hand. “I don’t know.”
This movement seemed to trigger a resurgence in Zavrius’s waiting crowd. Before any eager noble stepped onto the dais, Petra intervened. She walked with purpose, shawl held tightly around her shoulders, as she approached the milling crowd.
“Oh, I do apologize, but that’s quite enough, I think,” Petra said cheerily. A grumble of protest went up, and Petra met it with the same happy expression. “Yes, yes. It’s tradition, you know? Once the king and his Prime speak, they must be left alone. It’s a private and eons-old ritual. I’m sure I can scrounge up the tome for you, if you’d like to read further on—no? Well. Your loss.”
“She’s brilliant,” Zavrius said quietly, trying to hold back a smile. The nobles moved away, and Petra went with them without another glance back.
Balen wondered in horror if she’d overheard their banter. The number of times they’d uttered the word “cock” in the last few moments made him want to implode.
Zavrius rubbed his forehead and looked up at Balen from underneath his hand. “I’m sorry. So where were you really?”
Balen considered lying again, but only because he felt duped. He missed Zavrius—missed how he’d been when they were younger and sharing a bed, when their form of intimacy was more than cutting quips. What he had been doing wasn’t exactly criminal, but he wondered how Zavrius would take it. He was still reeling from Zavrius’s line of questioning.
He sighed. “I really did lose track of time.”
“Doing what?”
“Shadowboxing,” Balen admitted.
Zavrius couldn’t stop his smile. “So you still do that when you’re nervous.” The idea seemed to please Zavrius. Balen remembered boxing out his anxiety in the courtyard years ago, trying to work up the courage to speak to Zavrius for the first time. The memory made him feel small. How little he’d changed. “And what about Lestr? Why were you speaking with him just now? What does he want?”
Balen cleared his throat. “He told me he’s organizing defenders for your traveling party.”
Zavrius raised a brow. “My what?”
“For the road.”
Zavrius scoffed. “The terribly long two-hour journey to the palace? On an internal royal road? What terrifying creatures have sprouted from the ground since we’ve been in the glade?”
“Oh, haven’t you heard?” Balen said with a grin. “There are insurrections, invasions—all manner of death traps for a king. And I’m only one man after all.”
Zavrius’s smile turned sour.
“King,” Zavrius said, like it was something stuck on his tongue. “Yes. Well. Another kingly joy. Spending all my time surrounded by my late brother’s greatest admirers.”
“They’re not—” Balen began, then stopped himself. A moment earlier he was ready to round on his brethren, and now he was here, defending them before the king they were openly questioning. Still, he was reminded of what he’d walked away from with Zavrius, and decided he was glad for it. How little did he think of the Paladins, of the life Balen had chosen? Did Zavrius think he worshipped Theo? Balen closed his eyes.
“Come on,” Zavrius said. Suddenly he was on his feet, loping down the stairs to the side of the dais and shouldering his way through the surrounding nobles.
Balen darted after him. They ran until Zavrius disappeared in the tall grass at the edge of the glade. Balen slowed, scanning the night for the shape of him. Somewhere ahead he heard the lute-harp strum, a little signal in the dark. When he caught up, he saw a gleaming white carriage was hung with four lanterns. The driver sat ready and gave an awkward bow to Zavrius as he approached.
This carriage had belonged to the late Queen Arasne—it oozed her personality, from the gold inlaid doors to the carved flowers poking out between the spokes. Even the luggage rack hadn’t escaped Arasne’s decorative urges. The iron railing twisted to resemble vines and had been painted with gold leaf, though that detailing was chipped in places. Zavrius had brought nothing with him, it seemed: the rack sat empty, which only emphasized the gaudiness of the entire carriage. He wondered what the carriages Zavrius would commission for himself would look like. Not this . . . he hoped.
As he had that thought, Balen heard the approach of hooves on the path. Two armored Paladins rode abreast: Alick and Duart.
They looked starkly different alongside one another. Balen found himself blinking at the comedy of it: Duart, broad shouldered and stout with a kind, round face, next to Alick’s sharp-angled jaw and hard eyes. They were both from the province of Cres Stros, center of the dynastic lands, their skin a rich taupe like Zavrius. Balen always envied that—Westgar was a colder region, closer to the Rezwyn Empire, and his pale skin betrayed every thought or emotion he ever dared to have.
Balen smiled up at Duart. He was Balen’s senior by twelve years and had always been kind to him. Duart grinned wide and winked at Balen, nodding down at the gauntlets in a silent congratulations. Alick didn’t even look his way, eyes distant and uncaring even when the clenched jaw and puckered lips gave away his resentment. Balen didn’t mind that; discomfort looked good on Alick. They’d never gotten along. Alick had always been full of quips about his attraction to Zavrius, and when that was done, he made the same quips about Balen’s supposed crush on Theo, though these were harsher and more cutting, less about making Balen blush and more about ensuring he never cheapened the Heir Ascendant with lustful thoughts.
Never mind that Balen felt nothing toward Theo—he was attractive, but only physically. He’d become near unhinged after Arasne’s death. Alick was just the type of man to tease people for the fun of it.
So now that Alick was sitting like he had a stick up his ass, Balen thought it suited him.
Balen called up at him. “You here on Lestr’s orders?”
“The others’ll be here soon.” Alick clearly wished he was anywhere else. His roan gelding snorted beneath him.
“They’ll find us gone,” Zavrius said.
Duart frowned at Balen before turning to the king. “Your Highness?”
Zavrius approached his carriage. “You two and Balen are quite sufficient. I want to go.”
He opened the door, stepped inside and placed the lute-harp delicately down on the only clear spot on the floor. Balen caught a glimpse of the carriage interior and realized with a start there was no room for him. Or anyone else, for that matter. It was packed full of Zavrius’s instrument cases.
Alick and Duart exchanged a nervous glance. Balen shrugged at them, making his way toward the carriage. He peered inside, not bothering to comment on the lack of space for him. How many bloody instruments had Zavrius brought for just one ceremony?
Zavrius turned his face away as Balen approached. Balen took the snub in stride. It looked like he would be the luggage for this ride.
“You heard the king,” Balen told the carriage driver. Then he climbed onto the roof. “We ride out.”
