Page 29 of The Bone King and the Starling

When I had Starling on my lap earlier, I went through the repertoire of punishments available to me given that I am here in this little village, not back in Ithanuir where I have my dungeons. However, I struggled to arrive at the correct punishment that would bring me just the right level of satisfaction. Fortunately, the clever Rosalind took the occasion to speak up about her payment. I could have kissed her on the mouth for the suggestion she provided had I not other uses for it.

Now, her mouth is opened. I stand over it, the forger holding metal tongs clasped tight around the iron cup, in which Rosalind’s fee and Tori’s payment swirl together.

“Tip her head back,” I order Puhyo while Viccra and I hold her down.

“No! No, don’t!” she screams. She is thrashing, scratching wildly at anything she can. She clamps her lips shut and I know I only have a limited time before the liquid inside my cup cools and I have to refire it.

Puhyo has his hands on her jaw, attempting to pry it open, but her thrashing is violent enough to keep him from it. So, I step down on the back of her left calf, bone crunching beneath the ball of my foot. She screams. Puhyo yanks her head back and the forger hands me his tongs. I take them, tip the cup gripped at the end of the tongs straight to Rosalind’s teeth, and pour all of the liquid coin she’s owed inside of her body.

She convulses as the liquid metal touches her tongue and then slides down her gullet into her lungs and stomach. I pour the cup empty and her body spasms inhumanly. Puhyo releases her when my cup is dry. Viccra and I follow suit. She tips to the side, her body struggling through its final transformation. Her face turns bright red and then purple and I crouch down and place the burning hot cup in my pincers to her cheek, marking her where she marked my Starling.

Her eyes bulge out of her head, red and veiny. Puhyo reaches to close them but I hold up my hand, wanting them open. I watch closely as she burns from the inside out, wondering what exactly it is that has killed her. From her cursed golden lips, steam wafts into the cooler air. I imagine her body will be a good deal heavier now, when we lift it. She’s finally stopped moving, her bare fingers gnarled and twisted, no longer covered in precious gems.

Olec’s screams are even more pitiable than those of his female’s. There will be no welcome for her in the land of thestrong that exists after, of that I am sure. For either of them. His screams of despair for his wife’s fate turn quickly to begging for his own life. He pleads with me, offers me riches that he could not possibly pay. I ignore him, knowing that his time is coming soon to an end. But not today.

“Return the king to his current chambers,” I bid my men. “Bind him to the bed and place his wife in a chair beside him, so that she may watch over him as he rests.” My orders are carried out, Rosalind is carried away, too. I return the forger his tools along with a fair payment, both of which he takes with no complaint, no sign of contrition, before turning to Puhyo and Viccra and giving them orders to secure the village armory and gather any warriors and fighting-age men in the great hall so that I may speak to them directly and discourage any mutiny.

“That is all for now,” I tell the hall, those that are gathered, before I return to my chambers, Puhyo at my side, and find Hilde administering to my prize.

Starling is sitting up in the bed, buried deep beneath the bedding, my furs draped across her thighs. The symbol of it makes my breath catch. I am her first defense. I am her last defense. I am her shield against the cold. I am her shield.

And the bruising on her cheek so visible to me now that she’s clean, her hair combed back away from her face, the ointment shining on her skin, makes me wish that I had devised a different punishment for Rosalind. One that lasted much, much longer.

My sweet little bird looks like she’s just rousing from sleep. She has sleep in her expression, but perks when Hilde slides a heavy tray onto her lap. She reaches for food, which pleases me, but on seeing Puhyo and me, she stops. Her face flushes red for reasons I’m not sure I like because her gaze is concentrated on my chest, but passes occasionally to Puhyo, too. I block sight of him with my body and he grunts — a laugh — and I hear him trudge off.

“I will be outside on guard, my lord,” he says.

Hilde grunts something about despicable men under her breath. I ignore her and move to the bed, my gaze tracking Starling through each of my steps, each breath.

“How are you, Starling?” I ask her. My tone is hard. Yes, I am a little angrier than I thought I was. Even with Rosalind’s death, that anger’s edge has barely dulled. But…there will be time for more punishment, and now is not that.

I place my hand atop my furs, finding her calf through the blanket and giving it a gentle squeeze. Gentle. I exhale through flared nostrils, barely able to hear Hilde as she dismisses herself and leaves.

“Starling,” I say in my most placating tone. “Breathe.”

She inhales sharply and lowers her hands to her lap. I made sure that the thralls placed an entire loaf of sweet bread on her tray and that she was reaching for it pleases me. I feel myself relaxing. I thought I’d been on my way to relaxing before, but now I actually feel my muscles sagging slightly, my shoulders easing down my back.

“I thought you’d be asleep by now.”

“I was woken, my king. I thought I heard screams.”

“Hm,” I say and leave it at that.

I reach out and gently, gently stroke my knuckles over her injured cheek. Her face flares with color. It rolls down her neck and is visible in the parted curtain of her tunic. She wears one of mine. I hope that it is all she wears and then curse my own thoughts. It will be some time before I can bed her properly. Days at best, at worst, weeks. My anger nips at me, but it is an anger that knows no violence. Because before I can bed her again, I need her to want to come with me.

“May I sit with you?” I ask.

“Oh, um…of course.” Starling, as I expected she would, panics and worries herself with making space for me in the bed. I gripher calf firmly, and slide onto the bed near her knees. I line her leg with mine.

I nudge the overfull tray on her lap. “Eat.” My fingers move over the tray as well. I gravitate to the meat, my hand hovering over the sweet bread and then quickly flitting past it. I want to eat it because it’s her favorite, but I don’t touch it for that same reason. Instead, I take a piece of pork marinated in something divine.

I grunt, “What seasoning do your cooks use on this?”

“I…” She’s flustered. I can feel her eyes on me, glancing up. She’s so small, her head only coming up to my shoulder height. I don’t look at her, but nod when she says, “It’s a salt rub, primarily.”

“What else is in it? What gives it this darker color?”

She lists a few spices, a simple combination, but surprising. “You add a little honey?”

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