The Queen of All that Dies
Page 19

The rest of the WUN got set back decades that day.
Bright rays of sunlight wake me. I wince at the sight of them and rub my eyes. My head pounds once, then a few seconds later it pounds again, and again. A horrible headache blossoms, worsening with each passing second. All I want is to fall back asleep, but the churning pain in my stomach has me throwing off my covers and running for the bathroom.
I lift the lid of the toilet and vomit. My stomach spasms while I bend over, letting me know it’s only just warming up. I spend the next thirty minutes huddled around the porcelain bowl, retching until there is nothing left in my stomach. I flush it all down, pretending that last night’s wine is responsible for the crimson tint of the water.
I feel weak, and my head is screaming at me. I might as well have drunk poison last night; it would have the same effect on me. I push myself to my feet and lean over the sink to catch my breath. I wonder briefly if the king also feels this way.
My skin heats at the thought of him. Last night I got to know him too well. We shared secrets, drank wine, kissed.
Oh God, I’m going to see him soon.
And that’s when I notice it. The strange silence of my suite. Surely my father would’ve poked his head in by now. I haven’t seen him since I left last night.
I pad back into my room and take another look out my window. It’s late morning, but that can’t be right, not unless …
A sick feeling that has nothing to do with my hangover washes over me. Did I sleep through the negotiations?
I cross the room and fling open my door. In the common area a lone WUN soldier waits.
He sees my face. “The king requested that the remainder of the negotiations be done without your attendance,” he explains.
“What? Why would he do that?” I ask, furrowing my brows. My worry is quickly morphing into a more familiar emotion. Anger.
The guard shrugs. “You’re probably doing your job a little too well.”
I give the soldier a sharp look, and he holds up his hands.
“All I’m saying is that the king probably wants to make sure he’s still in control of the situation. Having you there might affect his decisions.”
Because one really shouldn’t mix business and pleasure. And last night I established that I was here for the king’s pleasure.
The guard is still talking, but I can’t hear him over the noise in my head. I leave him, slamming the door to my room a little harder than I had intended.
I clench my hands. I want to scream—no I want to hurt something. I want to slam my fist against skin until it bruises.
The king wasn’t drunk like I was last night. No, he’s been busy orchestrating a plan of his own. One where he makes no consolations to the WUN, or to me, or to my father.
Just like I had hoped last night, my hatred is back; however, what stokes it is not my country’s wrath, but my own.
I’ve only been awake an hour when I hear a knock on the door. The WUN soldier answers it before I do.
“The king wishes to deliver a present to Miss Freeman,” I hear someone say on the other side of the door.
That’s all I need to hear. “Don’t bother taking the gift,” I yell at the soldier. “I won’t accept it.”
My guard shrugs to the person standing in the hallway. “Sorry sir, orders are orders,” he says before closing the door.
Once it clicks shut, the guard shakes his head and glances at me, a twinkle of respect in his eye. “The king’s about to learn just what a ballbuster you are.”
“The king’s a fucking prick.”
The guard snorts. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
I’m staring out my window, bathed under the dwindling sunlight, when I hear my father enter the suite. As soon as I do, I rush out of my room, ignoring the faint pound of my fading headache.
My father rubs his eyes, his face weary.
“That bastard,” I say.
“Serenity, watch your language,” he says.
The irony is that I’ve been ruder to the king’s face than this.
“What happened?” I ask.
My father takes a seat on one of the couches in the common area and drops a package he came into the room carrying. “Other than the medical relief you managed to wrangle from him, King Lazuli’s not budging on most of his conditions—and they’re the important ones.”
“He kicked me out of the peace talks,” I say quietly.
My father meets my eyes. “I know,” he says, his voice resigned. Of course my father knows.
As we stare at each other, I feel another strange pang of sympathy for the man in front of me. The situation is unfolding how he feared it would.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“You shouldn’t be the one apologizing,” my dad says.
But that’s exactly why I’m apologizing—because he blames himself. My father has a whole lot of insight, yet none of it could prevent what’s happened. What a burden it must be to perceive the future yet be unable to change it.
His eyes shift to the package at his feet. “You have a present from the king.”
“He can take his present and shove it up—”
“Serenity.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble. I grab the package and walk it into my room. Once I’m alone, I rip open the cardboard box. Inside is a pale yellow dress, and resting on top of it is a necklace made of yellow diamonds. Yellow, because it’s my favorite color.
I work my jaw at the sight. How many stomachs could these items feed? How much medical relief could they afford? Everything that comes from the king is blood money.
My hands shake when I pick up the card resting on top of the pale fabric. The note is simple.
Forgive me, and feel better.
I crumple up his note. Forgive me my ass. The king is not sorry. But he will be.
Marco raps on our suite five separate times before I decide to meet the king. He has my father to thank for that.
The entire time my father sits in the corner of the room, peace treaty on his lap, his hands threaded through his hair. He hasn’t turned the page since the knocking began.
Marco bangs on the door once more, and my father stands suddenly. Throwing the document on a nearby table, he strides towards the door.
“Dad, what are you doing?” I say, standing up from my own seat.
“I’m going to tell Marco that you will not see the king.”