A Prince of Autumn by A.L. Knorr

Author:A.L. Knorr [Knorr, A.L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Intellectually Promiscuous Press

Twenty

Çifta

Çifta paced outside the closed door, chewing a thumbnail. With a glance at Rayven—standing beside the chair she’d vacated the moment that Çifta stood, because if the queen wasn’t seated, no one else could sit—she covertly slipped a finger up underneath her crown to scratch her scalp.

Miss Sabran didn’t look up from the documents in her hands. “Why don’t you just take it off, My Queen?”

Çifta, letting out a pent-up breath, plucked the crown off and tossed it onto a nearby table with a clatter. She resumed pacing and Rayven resumed reading… or whatever she was doing. Honestly, she had more energy than a herd of kid goats, the woman never stopped from morning until night. Çifta got it. Rayven was excited. The whole of Silverfall was excited. Çifta was too. Good things were finally on the horizon for this kingdom, but did they have to happen all at once? Rayven wanted Çifta’s coronation to take place as soon as possible. Çifta refused, not until Laec arrived. He had to be by her side. Rayven had no choice but to acquiesce, but had begged Çifta to wear a stand-in crown until the real one could be officially placed. She wanted the citizens to grow accustomed to seeing Çifta as their sovereign. Çifta felt unable to say no, since delaying the coronation appeared to cause Rayven physical pain. But wearing a crown for most of a day was uncomfortable. She was beginning to see it as a ploy to wear her down and agree to the coronation without Laec. It had become a battle of wills.

Çifta eyed the grandfather clock—a monstrosity made of white marble that weighed about as much as one of Kazery’s ships. Only a half-hour had passed since Sasha had gone inside the private parlor with his father.

“He may be in there for some time, Your Grace.” Rayven looked up from under silver brows. “He hasn’t seen Elvio since he was… what… five?”

“Four, I think.”

The former sorcerer had been fetched by soldiers and brought to the palace on a litter. He couldn’t bear to ride in a carriage, nor would he ever sit in a proper chair or on a bench. He lived in squalor, she’d learned, so she had requested her soldiers clean him up and make him presentable for his son.

She’d known that the backfiring spell had twisted him, but Elvio’s appearance in person had still alarmed Çifta. Lying on the litter, his shoulders faced left, but his knees and feet pointed right. She dared not picture how his body looked beneath the quilts, it would be the stuff of nightmares. His physical being aside, his face had surprised her on a level she could not possibly have anticipated. There was pain in his eyes, yes, but there had been immense joy too.

Her soldiers had brought Elvio into the room—a little-used parlor with an adjacent private salon—and paused before the queen. He had been bathed and anointed with lavender oil. His hair was very long, and had been combed back away from his forehead, exposing a receding hairline, and tied into a queue.

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