Page 38 of The King's Man 1

I haul in a breath and I’m about to mount the step when the sound of my name drifts over from where the aklos are working. “I have a delivery for Caelus Amuletos.”

Another one? I already woke to bushels of rare iqi husk sent by Silvius.

“Here,” I call, and a gold-sashed aklo weaves through the early morning activity in the courtyard to stand before me.

“Can I see some form of identification? I’m instructed to hand this over personally.”

I show him our family badge, my name carved into the front, and he places a small box in my hand. “My master says to use this well.”

On the gravel-bumpy ride to the Temenos manor, I refuse to open the box.

“But aren’t you curious, Cael?”

“I am, but until I’ve given this back”—I lift the purse containing Megaera’s hundred-weight dowry—“I can’t find joy in anything.”

* * *

There are two types of red seen in the city. The colour of blood just before it dries—the colour of redcloaks. And the colour of fresh slaughter—the favourite of Megaera, my former intended. Today it’s painted on her lips, twirling in her skirts, knotted into her hair. With a tight jaw, she allows me inside, orders her aklas and mine to stay and, with an even tighter look at the purse, leads me to the back courtyard.

I clear my throat, at which she crosses her arms. “You came yourself. I was beginning to think you a complete coward.”

She takes the purse and throws it aside, coins and jewels spilling out over the ground.

Even without love, she wanted marriage. Everyone wanted it but me.

I close my eyes to images of her in her golden wedding attire, the panic in her eyes as I fled. “I’m sorry, Megaera.”

There’s a glint in her eye that says my apology isn’t enough. Yet she looks away, to the stone walls enclosing her beautifully kept manor. There’s a resilience in her expression, like she’s familiar with disappointment.

“You can have anyone,” I murmur.

Her eyes narrow for a moment, then she lets out a raw laugh. “I choseyou. You were... promising. You needed money, and I had it.”

“I can’t let that be a reason for us to end up miserable. Despising one another.”

She steps forward, prodding her own chest. “Iwould not have been miserable. I would have beengrateful.”

I frown, not understanding.

“You have ambition! And ability.” Her voice is quiet, brittle. “I tested you.”

“You what?”

Images flash in my mind, of Megaera’s visit with her injured rabbit. I recall the trembling creature in my hands, its strained breaths and matted fur, its pained red eyes. My stomach roils. She’d hurt her pet. As atest?

“I needed to know.”

I rock back on my heels with a repulsed, anguished whisper, “You—”

“For my father!” Her eyes darken with something heavy and desperate. “He always said magic should belong to those who can wield it, not just pure linea. He even wanted non-linea to be taught—given crude skills, allowed to heal in those ways. He called it fairness.”

Her voice wavers and breaks but she still holds her head high, pinning me with her gaze. “The last king called it treason. He forced my father to drink life-shortening tea. Every year since, his health has plummeted. No official vitalian dares treat him.”

My breath falters.

She continues, “We petitioned for pardon last year, hoping his son would be more benevolent. But no.”

She tried to marry me to save her father. The desperate act of a loving daughter.

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