Gleam (The Plated Prisoner 3)
“A messenger from where?”
“Fifth Kingdom.”
I feel my advisors go tense, anxious air stilling in their throats. “Ah, Tyndall has at last come to the conclusion that I’m ignoring him,” I say. “Show the messenger in. I’ll receive him here.”
A few tense minutes tick by while my nails continue to drum on the table. My dear husband has finally deigned to realize that his hold on Highbell is being challenged. I feel both excitement and anticipation to see what his response will be.
This is what I’ve been waiting for. The chess game of kings and queens is never dull, and I’ve been wanting to go up against Tyndall for a long time.
When footsteps sound down the hall, my thrumming fingers hit a little too hard. My eyes dart down to where the white paint has scraped off, now buried beneath my nail. Frustration blooms in my chest when I note the sliver of gold now showing through the scratch on the tabletop. One slip, and five coats of paint are ruined, just like that. The damning metal mocks me, a taunting crescent smile to meet my glare.
“Your Majesty?”
I look up at the open door, as two of my guards escort the messenger inside. He’s dressed in gold armor and a heavy cloak with jagged tufts of snowfall stuck to it, like white-barbed brambles.
As soon as I look upon his wind-chapped face, recognition flares. “Ah, Gifford. Still delivering Tyndall’s messages, I see. No promotion?”
The olive-toned man bows to me in greeting, ignoring my jab. “One doesn’t need a promotion when doing the gods’ bidding.”
One of my snow-white brows arches up. “The gods? Goodness, first Tyndall rises above his station to become king, and now he’s a god? How much gold did that cost him?” I ask with a wry pull of my lips. I feel Wilcox shoot me a disapproving look, but that only adds to my amusement.
Gifford shakes his head, brown eyes giving nothing away. “Not so much blasphemy as that, Your Majesty. Just that the gods ordain and bless the monarchs. By doing a king’s bidding, I’m doing the gods’ bidding as well.”
My head tilts. “And what of queens and goddesses? Am I not ordained, Gifford?”
He hesitates, shooting my advisors a look before answering. “Of course, Your Majesty, I meant no offense.”
“You’ve given none. I don’t hold the sap accountable for its dribble. It’s the tree that makes it, after all.” I can tell by his furrowed brow that he has no idea what I’m saying. I wave a hand at him. “I assume you have a message from my dear estranged husband?”
Gifford shifts on his feet. “I do, Your Majesty. He sent me on a timberwing so I may arrive swiftly. He is concerned about you.”
A corner of my mouth curves. “I’m sure.”
“When all of his hawks went unanswered...” the man trails off.
“I’m on tenterhooks,” I say blandly, holding out a hand.
He starts to come forward, but my guard holds up an arm to stop him. “I’ll hand Her Majesty the message.”
Gifford dips his head. “Of course.” Digging into a pouch that’s strung across his hip, he takes out a gold cylinder and passes it over.
My guard opens it, dipping the letter out, eyeing it suspiciously before he passes it to me. “Thank you,” I murmur as he takes a step back.
The metallic wax seal of a bell—my bell—greets me.
The parchment is thick, though shorter than I expected. As I unroll it to read, my back stiffens with every scratched word, my lips pressing together so hard they probably turn white.
I’ve crumpled the letter in my fist before I even realize I’m doing it.
“Your Majesty?”
I don’t know which of my chirping crickets speaks, and I don’t care. I stand, shoving my chair back too hard. The legs scrape against the painted floor, more white flaking up to leave behind a skid of gold.
My fist tightens harder around the letter.
“My queen?”
Still ignoring them all, I stalk out of the room, my guards hurrying to keep up with me as I leave behind a bewildered audience. The entire way upstairs, I keep my hand clenched, letting the thick, sharp edges of the paper dig into my palm.