Gleam (The Plated Prisoner 3)

“I’m not interested in your trinkets and clutter today, Pruinn, so that better not be why you’re here.”

He sits down, tucking that knapsack back onto his lap, arching a darker brow up high. “Are you sure? I’ve a very exotic perfume from a merchant you can only find in the sand dunes of Second Kingdom.”

I don’t even dignify that with a response.

Pruinn’s expression gleams with amusement. “Right then. Well, the city is rioting.”

“I can see that,” I snipe. “Do you have real information, or are you trying to wear my patience? Because I can assure you, I’m not to be trifled with today.”

Instead of looking chastised, he leans forward, elbows braced on his knees. “Do you know someone by the name of Gifford?”

My blink is the only thing that gives away my surprise at hearing that name. “Yes, he’s Tyndall’s messenger. He came from Fifth to deliver me a letter,” I say sharply.

“Well, he’s not just a messenger.”

One of my hands folds over the armrest of the chair. “Explain.”

His gray eyes practically glint with an eagerness to divulge. I never knew traveling merchants could be such insufferable gossips, but I’ll reap the benefits regardless. “Apparently, when you gave your answer, King Midas ordered the man to act accordingly. He sent off the hawk and stayed behind.”

Unease slithers up my back. “For what purpose?”

“He’s been meandering throughout the city. Pub to pub, inn to inn, storefront to storefront,” Pruinn leans forward. “Everywhere he goes, he’s been rousing the unrest. Ruffling up the grumblers. Making it spread. He’s the drip that has caused the ripple of riots.”

My fingers dig into the painted wood armrest, the claggy white color stuffing full beneath my nails. “Are you telling me that Midas ordered this messenger to escalate the unrest?”

Pruinn gives a resolute nod. “Yes.”

A hiss pours from between tight teeth, and I spring to my feet, pacing toward the window to peer outside. I can see nothing but the side of the mountain and an edge of surrounding castle walls, but I glare out of it anyway. I stare as if I can look straight into the city, right to that scoundrel Gifford as he spins his messages, leading the people like frenzied sheep with a sudden taste for blood.

“I want him killed.”

“No doubt,” he replies, completely unruffled by my declaration. “Unfortunately, he’s already gone. Flown away on his timberwing yesterday.”

The brisk wind feeds in through the crack of the open window and bites into my stomach, but it has nothing on my gnawing fury.

Tyndall’s fault.

All of it.

After a moment of icy anger crystallizing in my chest, I turn around. “I gather you’re capable of seeing yourself out, Sir Pruinn,” I say coolly before I start to walk away.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” he replies easily, unfolding from the chair to dip into another bow. “Have you given more thought to the map?”

I stop at the door, shooting him a look over my shoulder. “There is nothing to gain in Seventh Kingdom, Sir Pruinn, least of all my greatest desire,” I snip. “Good day.” My dismissal has me yanking open the door, and if he says anything in reply, I don’t hear it. Not over the raucous lividity that’s playing in my head.

My guards are quick to shadow me when I pass the hall, determined steps taking me upstairs while my headache twinges with a newfound furor.

Just as I reach my doors, the fourth guard rushes up, his breath coming in quick pants.

“Well?” I prompt. “Did you find my advisors?”

“No, Your Majesty, but when I went to ask the patrol outside, I was informed that the rioters have taken to the road, and the constabulary was unable to keep them blocked off. They’re heading for the walls.”

My very veins seethe. “What do they want?”

He shifts nervously on his feet. “Well...it appears they’re coming with makeshift weapons. I think they mean to try and storm the castle.”

“I want them stopped,” I grit out, pale eyes pinning each and every man standing at attention. “Do you hear me?”