A Suitable Consort (For the King and His Husband) Read online

  The discussion paused as he left, or it felt as if it did, the softest skip in the king’s low voice, although there was nothing unusual in Mattin scurrying out in the middle of a meeting, on a fast path to the Great Library.

  The only thing that made this time different from any others was the knot of concern in Mattin’s chest, and the unpleasant flush to his cheeks that not even a blast of freezing winter air could dispel. He rubbed his arms as he hurried, having forgotten his cloak once again, and thought of the stories, of the songs, of that day in the palace and all the horrors Mattin had hidden from, but also those moments he wished he had witnessed.

  Arden—not the king then, not officially, had thought he was dying—had been dying—when he’d fought his way to Mil and collapsed at his feet, and whatever Arden had said then, in all the many different versions of the story, had made his love achingly clear.

  The cold made Mattin’s eyes sting.

  He would reach the library, and he would have his tea, and he would do his best to help them, either to avoid this mess or to mitigate it. It was his job to do it, and his honor, and he would work through the night if he had to.

  He didn’t think he would have slept anyway.

  Mattin jerked upright at the noise of metal scraping against stone and was halfway ducked beneath his desk before he realized that the noise was not approaching warriors or guards, but one of the library’s assistants, there to light the fire. A fire Mattin had let die out in the night, as he seemed to have fallen asleep at his desk again.

  He blinked, and shivered, and forcibly relaxed his grip on the edge of the desk as he straightened back up, although Elbi was already giving him concerned looks. Elbi had only worked in the library for two years or so. She didn’t understand.

  Mattin mumbled an apology for startling her, and got an exasperated shake of her head for it—exasperation, from an assistant who was not that much younger than him. Although, at five-and-twenty, Mattin was an exceptionally young Master Keeper, out of necessity more than anything else. The years of turmoil had been hard for more than nobles and the other beat-of-fours. Anyone who made a home within the palace walls had suffered. Not all of them had lived.

  He pulled his cup of tea to him and drank it all, grimacing at the cold, bitter taste but hoping it would shock him awake. Elbi added to the pile of logs next to the fireplace—the one fine quality to Mattin’s tiny office, before hurrying out the door to fulfill her morning duties.

  Mattin squinted after her before giving another jolt and surging to his feet. The assistants usually made their rounds in the early morning, before the Keepers were in. The light creeping in around the window shutters was gray and faint, but there. Mattin was already late.

  He patted his braid, vainly hoping that would neaten it, while staring blankly at the half-formed lists scattered across the desk. He took a deep breath, decided to leave the lists for now, and wiped the sleep from his eyes as he moved toward the door, pausing only for his satchel before darting out.

  The library was not much warmer than his office. Mattin came as close to running as he dared, not wanting to alarm anyone who had the same memories of the past few years as he did. He cringed backward when he stepped out into the corridor, which was open on one side to face a courtyard covered in white. It had snowed in the night, and it looked like it might begin again at any moment.

  But Mattin ducked his head and pressed onward through the courtyard and into another corridor, this one just as open to the elements, something that suited him in the summers. However, since these corridors were more in everyday use than the paths around the library, these were lined with more braziers, already bright with fires.

  He passed those as well, nodding whenever a guard or a member of the staff called a greeting. Even in his boots, his toes were freezing. He crossed his arms over his chest and went through one of the gardens, skirting some of the older buildings that housed visiting noble families, who lived here and visited in name only.

  There were several royal residences on the massive palace grounds, each built during different reigns. Arden had chosen an ornate, but small, building decorated with pale tiles and complex ironwork. It was an unexpected but wise choice; this way he could not offend anyone by occupying the space of a recently deposed ruler. The old queen’s residence, the one that might best be called the official royal house, remained empty out of respect.

  Arden was cannier than most gave him credit for, although they should have remembered that he had grown up here, and came from the family that many thought should have ruled in the old queen’s place. Arden and his siblings would have been educated as possible future rulers for at least part of their childhoods.

  Then, of course, his parents and some of the others of the Canamorra had decided to take what they felt was theirs, and had tried to murder the old queen. Some said they had; though she had survived the attempt, she had not lived much longer than that. A few months only. Just long enough to witness the executions of the traitors and to make the decision to care for the children and keep them in the palace.

  Some of the ballads rather poetically said she had died of a broken heart after learning the once-great house had betrayed her.

  Of the children, the ballads did not say much, not even to note the cloud of suspicion and anger that had been directed at them in their time here. Nearly half of the rulers of the country had sat on the throne through deliberate acts that might have been called traitorous had they not been successful. Mattin knew that for a fact as a Keeper of the Records at the Great Library. But the younger generations of the Canamorra, orphaned and punished for their parents’ deeds, left to their own devices, had chosen to keep with tradition, and had named the strongest and boldest of them The Canamorra.

  The title was stained, but might have been Jola’s; Mattin suspected it wasn’t because Arden had thought to protect her. Just as Mattin had no doubt that being The Canamorra had been part of the reason Arden had eventually fled with his best friend to serve as a wandering outguard. Arden had made himself a target, the head of a tarnished house, forever suspect, and then all but announced he had no interest in the throne and proved it with years of absence.

  Nonetheless, the cloud of suspicion had followed him even into wilderness.

  It was some of the reason for his nickname now.

  But only some.

  The number of guards doubled as Mattin reached the new royal residence and he paused as always at the doorway, to stamp the snow from his shoes and to make sure his presence was expected, but he supposed he was easily recognizable, even sleep-rumpled, because the guards opened the door for him without comment.

  He shuddered at the warmth the moment he was inside, flexing his cold hands and then rubbing his chilled nose as he walked through the room where visitors to the king’s chambers were told to wait. The next room, called a study although Mattin had doubts Arden did any studying there, was as empty as the first.

  Mattin cleared his throat since he had not been announced, and gave his hair one last hopeful pat before pushing aside the heavy curtains that blocked the king and his husband’s private chambers from the view of anyone privileged enough to make it this far.

  The space beyond the curtains was even warmer, and he shivered helplessly as they fell closed behind him.

  The king and his husband looked up from their breakfast, seated, as they almost always seemed to be when Mattin showed up, at a small table inlaid with black stone, in front of a roaring fire, on seats lined with soft, thick cushions. Mattin had been asked to brief them in the mornings with information either they or Cael had requested, and so he did, despite not wishing to rise early if he could help it. The king and his husband liked to get up with the dawn, or perhaps that was habit from their days of patrol. They had likely been up for an hour or more already. Mattin was late.

  They should have broken their fast long before, if that were true. But Mattin forgot the suspicious thought the moment he was frowned at by the king h
imself.

  “Are those the same clothes as yesterday? From our Master Arlylian?” Arden put down his heavy mug of tea. “Are you well?”

  Mil finished chewing his bite of toasted bread, then swallowed. “And his linens wrinkled? He must be sick. I’ll get the healer.”

  Mil had actually put a hand to the table to push himself to his feet before Mattin woke up enough to huff an embarrassed protest.

  “I’m fine. It’s fine. Please sit back down.”

  “Only other time I’ve seen you this mussed was when you got caught in the rain,” Mil grumbled, but sat back down, and then gave Mattin a study that only made Mattin more conscious of his doubtlessly bedraggled appearance. He did not like to look a mess, especially not in front of these two, who fit even their simple clothing with enviable grace.

  “Hmm.” Arden’s noise of agreement drew Mattin’s attention away from Mil’s warm glare.

  In the privacy of his apartments, Arden wore no armor, only comfortable clothing of linen or wool that was doubtlessly as soft as a cloud. Today, he was in deep blue, as if dark, serious colors were something he put on with his mail or his vambraces. Up close, there were a few lines at the corner of his eyes, and a few more sparks of silver in his hair. He was young for that much gray, but injuries and stress were said to do that in some.

  “You’re shivering,” Arden observed in his low voice, which sent yet another shiver down Mattin’s spine.

  Mattin took a breath before turning back to Mil, as if Mil would be more reasonable, as if Mil had ever been more reasonable. Mil was in a long-sleeved tunic of white that was untied at the throat. He was flushed from proximity to the fire and there was a hint of a reddish-purple mark near the hollow of his collarbone, the kind of mark left by kisses or teeth or both.

  Mattin could not seem to remember the words that had just been on his tongue. “It snowed in the night,” he answered at last, then winced for such a meaningless statement.

  “It will again today,” Mil said, with confidence. Mattin had heard of those with old, healed wounds who could predict weather changes by the way the wounds twinged or ached. But Mil might have just been saying what would likely happen anyway. He waved at Mattin a moment later. “At least sit down. You’re worrying him.”

  Mattin swung back toward the king, startled. Arden regarded him steadily, expectantly, and something, words of some sort, tripped out of Mattin’s mouth. “This is your breakfast time. I wouldn’t want to impose.” But the cushioned seats were so comfortable, and he fell onto one when it was kicked out toward him in invitation. The fire was blazing. He briefly shut his eyes to bask in it.

  “’Impose,’ he says,” Mil grumbled, returning to his bread while also moving a small jar and an equally small pot to Mattin’s side of the table.

  Arden reached for their sturdy and somewhat battered teapot and poured some tea into a tiny cup half the size of one of their mugs. Delicate cups of that size had appeared in their breakfast settings for a while now. Mattin was convinced the kitchen staff was teasing him, but said not a word to the king as Arden stirred in a spoonful of honey before handing the small cup to him.

  Instead, he stared at the tea in tired consternation, because it smelled like his favorite blend and it was too hot to drink without slurping, which he would never do in front of the royal couple. He settled for holding it tightly before his face. His eyes fell closed again.

  “Looks ready to fall asleep, he does,” Mil remarked, a not-quiet quiet aside.

  “This is my favorite blend.” Mattin opened his eyes. “And you added honey.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” Arden asked easily, handing his husband a section of an orange he must have peeled before Mattin had arrived. “You like the stuff.”

  Mattin blew on his tea in vaguely annoyed frustration, realized his peevishness was visible, then wondered why he should be peevish to have his tastes remembered at this table. He blew on his tea again before risking a sip. It was perfect and he sighed for it.

  His shoulders slumped as he took another drink.

  Plates were nudged in his direction.

  “Eat.” Mil’s narrow-eyed look would have been intimidating if Mattin had been more awake. “Before you fall over. Fuck me, not even that useless, damn fool cloak on.”

  Mattin carefully sipped his tea and reflected that yes, he had forgotten his cloak… again. No wonder the morning had been so cold. “In my defense, I am very tired.” It did not seem a good defense when the king clucked his tongue. “That cloak is quite pretty,” Mattin tried to defend himself again, lifting his chin. “That style is all the rage.”

  “It is indeed lovely,” Mil replied, voice rough but polite. “Is it made of paper?”

  Mattin opened his mouth to argue that some needed more decoration than others to appear their best, a hand already curled to gesture to the exposed column of Mil’s throat against the simple white linen of Mil’s shirt. He stopped himself just in time. “I have warmer cloaks,” he argued weakly instead.

  Mil scoffed. “I’ve yet to see them,” he muttered, again not quietly.

  “Every morning,” Arden remarked, almost to himself, only to gaze innocently back at Mattin when Mattin turned to him in question. Arden popped a piece of orange in his mouth and grinned as he licked at the juice on his lips. Mattin turned his attention swiftly to his tea. “You finish your first cup, and you finish your breakfast,” Arden added, speaking to Mil, who took a vengeful bite of his toast. “Then tell us why you’re so tired, Arlylian of the Records.”

  Arden’s habit of using all of Mattin’s possible titles at different times was as distracting as Mil’s habit of using none of them.

  Mattin nearly forgot his purpose in coming here this morning. He gulped the hot tea to help explain his warming cheeks and then cleared his throat. The honey and conversation had lulled him. Perhaps he had wanted to forget.

  He put down his cup slowly and observed both of them, one at a time and then together. Mil moved on to some porridge, unsweetened. Mattin belatedly noticed the empty bowl in front of Arden. They had lingered at their table this morning, likely waiting for this briefing, and Mattin had no good news for them. They must have worried over this all night. Or, well, not all night since Mil had….

  Mattin ended that thought there and inhaled sharply. “Well, you see—oh. Thank you.” He took the slice of orange from Arden’s outstretched hand and ate it as neatly as he could. Mil, for whatever reason, sighed. Arden was generous to share the fruit, which at this time of year, came from the palace hothouse. “That is…” Mattin regarded them intently, searching for some sign that they’d had as restless a night as he had. He accepted another section of sweet orange and ate it in two precise bites.

  He caught Arden and Mil exchanging a look as he licked a bit of juice from his thumb.

  Knowing he’d get no explanation for whatever their shared glance was about, Mattin nonetheless asked, “What?”

  As though Mattin had not spoken, Arden handed him a piece of toasted bread that Mil hadn’t gotten to. “Take your time, if you wish. Something is obviously bothering you. Would you like your second cup now?”

  It was soon for it, but Mattin was tired, and sleepily distracted from his questions by the warm bread now in his hands. He studied them both for another moment, then took a bite before nodding.

  Mil reached for Mattin’s cup, hesitating before grasping the tiny creation of bright porcelain and holding it still as he poured the tea. He was quicker to pour what tea remained into their two mugs, and sprinkled lein spice over the top of his. Neither of them put anything else in their tea.

  Mattin poured a small amount of milk into his tea, pleased to no longer be questioned on why he liked his first cup one way and his second another. He returned to his bread while Arden took hold of a pear and began to carve slices to offer his husband. Fruit seemed to be the one area where they treated themselves. Mattin should not have found it charming, especially when Mil might have worn necklaces or Arden mi
ght have adorned his fingers with more, or finer, rings. He imagined them as outguards, younger, sitting around a campfire and sharing meals just like this.

  “Are those new sparkles?” Mil asked, pulling Mattin from his dreaming. “In your hair,” he clarified when Mattin blinked, bemused. “Thought so, yesterday.”

  “Oh.” Mattin patted his hair clasps, and did indeed find strands that had come loose as he slept. He sighed and left them there. “Yes! A lovely set of berries! They’re from this jeweler who just set up shop in the capital now that more and more of the old families are returning for longer and longer stays. They weren’t that expensive, considering.” More than a Keeper’s pay, or more than a Keeper his age should have received, but Mattin had funds from his family as well, and the clasps were only colored glass. “Though once he gets popular, I am sure his prices will go up.” He dropped his hand when he realized he was prattling about jewelry, which Mil could not possibly find interesting. His gaze caught on Mil’s big hands, unadorned and callused, wrapped around his large mug. Mattin cleared his throat. “I believe it’s a family business. The sister works with iron and steel and makes very pretty things, if you wanted something more along those lines.”

  “Mil was just remarking that he could use some more pretty things in his life,” Arden commented, visibly amused, and then grinning outright when Mil snorted.

  “Oh, aye,” Mil agreed nonetheless. “I’ve become fond of having a bit of sparkle about.”

  “Really?” Mattin asked without thinking. Surely, if Mil wanted something in precious metals or stones, the king would gladly provide it for him.

  “But I worry, you see.” Mil gave an odd sort of smile. “Never been around such things, not to touch them, and I think they’d likely break in my hands, or not suit me, after all.”

  “I have never seen you be careless, or reckless.” Mattin thought of silver clasps, the kind without jewels or stones or even enamel, but intricately designed all the same. “There are clasps, I would give—” He closed his mouth and stared in dismay at the crumbs on the table before him. He woke up just a fraction more than before. “You tricked me into tea and breakfast again.”