Page 14 of Kept

He held me while my limbs woke and my strength returned. Memories flooded me—recollections of him doing this at other times in other places. “Don’t think about the pain, my prince,” he’d say. “If you don’t think about it, you stop feeling it eventually.”

But I’d wanted to feel it, because I’d wanted to feel him.

“Hurt me,” I’d whisper in his ear when we were alone. “Hurt me the way I like.” I’d twisted around him so tightly that I’d twisted him too.

Varick pulled back now, but he kept his hands on my shoulders and squeezed. His voice was deeper than it had been at sixteen, but his golden eyes were the same. “You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly. “Do you understand? You don’t have to punish yourself when you make a mistake.”

“I deserve it.”

He squeezed harder. Anger flitted through his eyes, which was strange because they were also sheened with tears. His mouth worked like he was having trouble forming the words he wanted to say. “You don’t.” Another squeeze. “You don’t deserve it.”

I waited for the blood to tell me he lied. Blood never lied. People did—all the time. But blood was constant and true. The blood stayed silent…but I was tired. And, as Petru had always said, I was too impatient to really listen.

Varick’s deep voice rumbled between us. “Listen to me, my prince. You couldn’t have known what the humans were plotting. Today is not your fault.”

My breath caught. Unable to help myself, I reached up and stroked his beard. The hair was so soft, which was surprising. Varick’s soft spots always surprised me. “You haven’t called me that in a long time.”

He pulled me against him. Our lips met, and our kiss was…chaste. Slow and gentle, and yet somehow just as passionate as any he’d ever given me. He took his time, parting my lips with his tongue and then stroking softly. He always said he was bad at praying, but maybe his prayers just looked different than mine. Because it was like he was praying now, each rasp of his lips a litany, every brush of his fingers on my jaw a vow.

Eventually, he stopped kissing me and simply rested his forehead against mine. His breath teased my tingling lips. “Part of you will always be the prince I fell in love with. But you aren’t that boy anymore, Laurent. You’re not your father, either, and you’re never going to become him.”

“You can’t know that,” I whispered through a tight throat. The words were more painful than the ache in my knees. More agonizing than the solstone blade that had cut me to the bone. Because they were my biggest fear. The thought of losing my grasp on reality—of descending into madness and paranoia—terrified me more than I could say. Would I even know it had happened? That was the most terrifying part.

“I know you,” Varick said. He lifted his head and looked at me for a long moment. “We promised to have each other’s backs, and part of that is telling each other things we may not necessarily want to hear.”

“I have a feeling you’re about to.”

His eyes stayed serious. “You are the king. And kings can’t hide, even when they make mistakes. It’s easier for you to come in here and become the boy you used to be, but hurting yourself isn’t going to solve our problems. It won’t fix the Deepnight or help us figure out the prophecy.”

I bit my tongue so I wouldn’t say what I was thinking, which was that I should hurt for what I’d wrought at the Rift. Petru probably would have preferred pain to death. At least pain meant you were alive. But Varick was right about hiding. I had to face the Council. Spending hours on my knees did nothing for the people of Nor Doru.

Varick sighed. “We’re hardly living in ordinary times, Laurent. It’s been five hundred years since anyone, king or otherwise, confronted the problems we’re facing.” He gave me a small, soft smile. “Did you really think you were going to solve everything today?”

My chest tightened. “It would be nice if I hadn’t made everything worse.”

“We don’t know that you did.” He made a face like he just tasted something sour. “Jordan of Twyl will probably say it needed to happen. This is exactly the sort of thing that mysterious little fucker revels in.”

I permitted myself a quick huff of laughter. Then we stared at each other, letting our smiles fade into quiet worry. But it was worry neither of us bore alone. We were together. I’d broken us, but I’d managed to fix us. I could say that much for myself.

“How is Given?” I asked, guilt assailing me. Elissa had rebuffed her. Crasor had called her a whore. And I’d dumped her on Varick so I could wallow in self-pity in private. More weakness. I wasn’t a good king, but I was an even worse husband.

“She’s with the Council.”

I winced. If she’d spent the past ten hours with my lords and Varick’s captains, she was probably ready to mount my head on a spike. “Is she angry with me?”

“She’s the one who asked me to fetch you.”

“So yes.”

Varick stepped back and looked me over, taking in the open robe and my grubby skin beneath it. I’d come to the temple straight from the Rift, and I still bore the dirt and dried sweat of the road. “Come on. You need soap and blood-wine, and then you can face your wife and Lar Guna.”

I grimaced. “I think I’ll have better luck with Artur.”

Varick smiled. “A piece of advice from a male who learned the hard way, Your Grace. When she speaks, keep your eyes above her neck. And for the love of the gods, actually listen.”

* * *

A half-hour later, I strongly considered returning to the temple—and perhaps never leaving.

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