His eyes follow the cup of cream as it travels via the server’s hand to the worn wood of the mess hall table, where it is placed like a precious gem in front of his plate. Taeg swallows, his throat scratchy.

  “My king,” the Treasurer says for the hundredth time. “I’m concerned for your safety while General Stoles is indisposed. While I’m not particularly keen on Argos, would it not be prudent to invite the Grand Master to cover for the general in the meantime?”

  Taeg ignores him, taking a swig of cream and scowling at the empty space where his winter melons should have been. The larder had informed him early this morning that he’d finished the last one off yesterday, and there wouldn’t be any until next summer.

  “Your Grace?”

  Taeg shakes his head, his emerald eyes landing on the Treasurer's gray pools. “No, Marius, I will not be inviting Argos to the castle. It would only serve to bloat his head more.”

  The hall is quiet save for the cutlery clatter of the two advisors in front of him. The chancellor, frail in a violet doublet, nibbles at his spiced porridge, wiping his whiskered lips delicately on an embroidered napkin after each bite.

  “Your Grace, we’ve not yet heard from Nathis pertaining to when the Guard might return.”

  Taeg chews a bite of bread, the sweet cream butter melting between his teeth. He swallows, tilting his dark head in the direction of the aging chancellor. “I’m sure we’ll receive word soon.”

  There is a pause as the two advisors take a bite of their breakfasts and sip their wine. The fire in the main hearth is doused this morning, leaving a chill in the room. Taeg watches the light bloom through the western windows as the sun begins to rise in the east.

  “Your Grace, I understand that you would like to elevate General Stoles to Grand Master?”

  Taeg hums an assent, and the chancellor continues.

  “Have you sent word to the general so that he may consider your offer?” The old man smiles gently, gazing at Taeg’s unfinished plate.

  When Gideon had knocked on his chamber door this morning, hands folded atop his great belly, eyes squinting beneath the placative smile on his lips, Taeg knew the next words out of the chamberlain’s mouth would not be worth hearing. With grim news of his mother each morning, he’d almost come to expect sour tidings, but he’d still cursed his father for teaching him everything but the tolerance for one’s own advisors.

  Taeg leans forward, elbows on the table. “Now, where would I find the general exactly, if I wanted to send him a letter, Chancellor?”

  “I’m sure the Church could send a-”

  “Chancellor, you’ve made your point. Belabored it, actually.”

  The older man looks down at his plate, taking a large inhale. “I’m sorry to have offended Your Grace.”

  Taeg drops his head to the right, studying the man’s face. “I will invite Nathis and Tygoh’s second in command, if it makes you feel better.” His heart drops at the informal use of his guards’ first names, his cheeks heating, but the chancellor doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Yes, my king.”

  Silence settles over the three, and Taeg picks at his fish. He’d almost take his mother’s ravings over breakfast with his advisors. He releases a soft sigh through his nostrils, remembering his obligation as monarch to maintain decorum, and his mother’s chiding voice echoes in his thoughts.

  Across the room, the double door squeals as a lanky porter heaves it open, a letter in his hand. The boy gives an awkward bow several feet out of Taeg’s reach before handing the letter out. Taeg smiles, reaching beyond the table’s edge to retrieve the piece of parchment. The porter bows again, turning on a heel and hurrying from the room.

  “The chamberlain needs to retrain his porters.”

  Taeg ignores the treasurer’s grumbling, slipping a thumb beneath the Church’s seal, a coiled rattlesnake pressed into the yellowed beeswax. It breaks free, and he unfolds the paper, recognizing the High Priest’s flowing scrawl. He can feel the piercing eyes of his advisors on him as he reads.

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  “Your Grace,

  I regret to inform your highness that the Queen Mother fares poorly this morning, I suspect as a direct result of her repeated refusal to eat. She has grown very weak and persistently requests the presence of your departed father. I believe her time is short.

  My deepest condolences,

  High Priest Deland.”

  Taeg pulls the mess hall’s cool air slowly in through his nostrils, feeling it cool his lungs before releasing a great gust from his lips, setting the paper gently on the tabletop.

  “Your Grace?” he hears again.

  He refolds the parchment, tucking it under his plate. An emptiness expands within his chest, and he can feel the tether holding him to the ground begin to creak as the weight of the kingdom tugs. His blood is wavering in his eardrums, muffling the surely worried inquiries from his breakfast companions. His eyes do not see them.

  He feels a hand on his arm, thin and warm. The breath returns to his lungs. Marius, his wrinkled face coming into focus, is smiling lightly at him, his bird’s nest eyebrows knitted.

  “My king?”

  “Yes,” Taeg shakes his head. “Yes.”

  “Has there been news from Nathis?” the elderly man asks, his voice quiet.

  Taeg blinks. “No.” He grabs a piece of fingerfish, now cold, and brings it halfway to his lips, stopping midair.

  Their faces fall, and the two share a pensive glance.

  “Your Grace, maybe we should reevaluate General Stoles’ capability of filling the Grand Master’s position. He has not looked well as of late, and his lack of communication is worrisome.”

  Nausea swells in his throat and the room heats up. His stomach is burning from the inside out. He imagines his mother, lying in a fur-covered bed, her pasty skin giving way to the caverns where her muscles should have been. Her eyes are sunken, their usual vibrant green now a putrid pool of algae.

  The chancellor leans forward, nodding to Marius. “I’m inclined to agree with Marius, Your Grace. I think a council vote would be appropriate.”

  The heat builds in his chest until he can no longer hold it back, and Taeg explodes.

  “Nathis is a part of this council, Chancellor Reav. Would you have him cast a vote for someone else on the grounds of conflict of interest, perhaps a candidate of your choosing? Would you remove his ability to cast said vote for the same reason? Would you like it if I just removed him from the council on your quite frankly maddening insistence?”

  He drops the fish, hands waving, bangles chiming. Their eyes are glued to him.

  “In fact, if you think the Crown so incapable of making its own decisions, why capitulate at all? Why not unseat the entire council and construct your own, since you’re obviously one of higher aptitude?” He takes a breath, sitting back in his chair. “If I have to hear ‘Your Grace’ come from either one of your mouths again until sundown tomorrow, I will happily remove you from the royal council and you can protest in the streets with Argos if you would like. Nathis will be Grand Master and I will hear nothing more of it.”

  His chest heaves, hands shaking. Dark hair has spilled into his eyes, framing his silent companions.

  “Leave me,” he spits, rubbing a hand along his forehead and combing his hair back. His cheeks are burning.

  “Of course, Your-” Marius tips his head. “Yes.”

  Chancellor Reav, silently fuming, scoots his chair out with a squeal to stand. They shove their seats back under the table before bowing and exiting through the double doors, leaving Taeg in pressured silence. He lays his head in his hands, staring down at the remnants of his breakfast. The mother he once knew would be furious with him.

  Minutes pass. Taeg feels the cool air entering his nostrils. At some point, an attendant removes his plate, gently maneuvering it around his arms, leaving only the missive in its place. One of the kitchen ladies, a stout woman with a loud mouth, says nothing as she replaces his cup of cream with a glass of red wine. She lays a firm hand on his shoulder before returning to the kitchen.

  Taeg begins to unfold himself, sitting back in his seat, hands folded in front of him, eyes gazing across the mess hall at the empty fireplace. To his right, the double doors whine again, and the chamberlain steps through, his soft eyes meeting Taeg’s.

  Taeg huffs. “Why do you always seem to find me at the worst times?”

  A chuckle. “My king, I think I find you at exactly the right times.”

  “Maybe so.”

  Gideon takes the seat across from him, his heavy form blocking the view of the now familiar corner of the room he’d been staring at for the past ten minutes. It felt like losing a friend.

  “You received word,” the chamberlain says, nodding his head to the parchment still lying on the table.

  Taeg nods. He grabs the wine glass, tipping some into his mouth. It’s dry and tangy. As he returns the glass to the table, Gideon watches him.

  “Would you like to see her?”

  Taeg fiddles with his bangles. He swallows, looks down, lips sealed. He fears the heat in his chest, that it might spill over again.

  “If it’s any consolation, I would not blame you for saying no.”

  Taeg meets the eyes of his family’s greatest protector, then searches the scratches on the table’s surface for answers. Finding none, he finally speaks. It is a whisper.

  “No.”

  Gideon nods. He takes the note from the table and stands with some difficulty, tucking the parchment into his doublet. He bows, a small consoling smile beneath his mustache. Taeg watches as the chamberlain makes his way back through the doors. When he is alone, he takes a deep breath of the cold, empty air around him, drains the wine glass, and stands.