Page 80 of Nightingale

It didn’t bother him, since most people never knew what to say, or they rambled on and on with incoherent nonsense to fill the mind-numbing silence.

He preferred the silence to that.

Brioc was usually the cause of the incessant speaking, even if it was about war, or weapons, or the most recent conquest of a handsome male. Castil usually didn’t mind it if it was the latter topic, mostly because Brioc was adventurous in bed, which led to some outrageous stories. More so than Castil would ever consider himself to be. But it was rare that they spent any time together, as was common for any of them. They all had their individual confidantes, as well as one of the advisors from their father’s council that was assigned to them, should they take over and rule.

The councilmen were allowed to converse with the others, folding the King in on their conversations and opinions, which in turn led to the King’s overall decision about who would pick up the reins long after he abdicated.

Ifhe abdicated.

Castil had a working theory that the King enjoyed it too much, relishing the power like an expensive wine. He didn’t think he’d give it all up willingly. Which was fine by him, because eventually he’d kill him.

Thirty Nine

Vrea steadied herself as she lowered her knuckles to her mother’s bedroom door. There was a dry pound in her chest, trapped in her ribcage as she ran over the memorised lines in her head. The ones that she’d been practising over and over again, in order to convince her mother to keep Rian alive.

To send him home.

It was unlikely, but she had to try.

It was now or never, lest Eamin wedge himself into their mother’s limited time and spin a cleverly-worded lie about how dangerous Rian was, how he needed to be put down before he could cause any harm to them, or the Kingdom.

She wasn’t a moron.

Hewasdangerous.

Just not to her, not to them, as he’d proven time and time again. He’d had countless opportunities to kill her, to leave her for dead. He could have stolen Amir’s sword, his knives in the courtyard and plunged them into their chests. He wouldn’t have left the capital alive, but he would have wiped out a number of the Greenvasses.

Vrea swallowed one last time, forcing every bit of confidence back into her system, every ounce of surety that she could muster. She rarely became nervous, but her mother was a mighty figure of power and command. There was always a thrillof excitement that poured off of her whenever they stood within a certain proximity. A heady intoxication that made Vrea’s head spin.

She couldn’t fall prey to that.

She was her mother, yes.

But she was their Queen first of all.

Vrea stopped stalling, knocking at last and retreating a couple inches as she waited patiently. She would wait all day, if that’s what it took. It wouldn’t come as a surprise to her if that’s what her mother did, as she’d done several times before in her youth to instill patience and a sense of importance into all her children. To understand that if something truly needed to be spoken about, then one would wait all day if required. To be the sovereign of Niroula would often mean waiting over long periods of time, regardless of station.

Teminos struggled with it, as did Eamin.

But Alpheus had shown her the way to disappear into one’s mind as they waited. To think over the events of the day, the plans for the next, or the way to better the topic at hand in order to sharpen the edges, hone it into perfection, finding the exact way to present it to their mother.

That’s where she went now.

She closed her eyes, sucked in a deep breath and let it settle into the dead center of her chest. There, she held it for three seconds, counting them inside her mind as she let the blackness seep into her head. It was a familiar feeling, a shadowy shade enveloping her as she turned over the journey.

Over the things she’d done in the past three years in order to secure her escape. Over Castil and his taunting prompts and unscheduled visits, happy that she would no longer have to deal with him. Over Rian and his wandering hands, the ones that led to her release and everything else. Over the bandits and Blacklegs that they’d faced together, the camp where he’d lostconsciousness and the tender moments they’d shared.

It was those that steadied her, created the wall of determination, or stubbornness depending on who you asked, solidifying her decision to ask for Rian to leave, unharmed and untouched.

An hour passed, one which she spent in her mind.

Then the doors opened, and her mother appeared.

“Vrea,” Casta smiled warmly, but didn’t open her arms for an embrace, didn’t rush forward to place a kiss on her daughter’s cheek or pat her head. There was no show of devotion, no gentle brush of affection. Only the briefest relief that Vrea was safe, home, alive.

“My Queen,” She bowed, tucking her arm into her waist as she bent low, rising back up after the appropriate amount of time passed.

When she angled herself into the straight back position, she immediately saw the careless robe tossed over her mother’s body, the lack of anything else under it as the deep V revealed her olive skin, with the curve of her full breasts visible. Casta was still beautiful in a cruel way handed down to Vrea. Even in her older age she held an air of grace, of refined elegance that could never be tossed away.

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