Page 27 of The Orc's Princess Bride
“In her chambers, my king. She has not yet emerged.”
“Summon the queen to the throne room,” he commanded, his voice like ice. “And double the guard. On her.”
Rook hesitated. “My king, perhaps a more private?—”
“The throne room,” he repeated, cutting him off. “This is not a private matter. This is treason against Norhaven.”
Rook bowed and departed, leaving him alone with his rage. He forced himself to breathe, to think past the roaring in his ears. The Curse heightened his emotions, turning his pain into something feral and dangerous. He needed control now more than ever.
She had betrayed him, not with her body the way his mother had betrayed his father, but with something far worse—his trust.
He dressed methodically, armoring himself in the trappings of kingship—the heavy leather tunic embossed with the crest of Norhaven, the ceremonial furs, the ancient sword passed down from king to king.
Each piece was a shield, a layer of protection against the hurt that threatened to cripple him, a barrier between himself and the vulnerability he’d shown her.Never again.
By the time he entered the great hall, he was encased in cold fury. The room emptied at his approach, courtiers and servants scattering like leaves before a storm. They sensed the danger in him, the barely leashed rage. The massive stone throne of Norhaven, carved from the mountain itself, had never felt more appropriate. He was stone now—unmovable, unfeeling.
The letter, smoothed out again, rested in his hand. He stared at it, replaying every moment with Jessamin in his mind, searching for the signs he had missed, the clues that should have warned him.
Her insistence on learning to ride—had that been to facilitate an escape? Her interest in the ledgers—had she been gathering intelligence for Lasseran? Her tender ministrations to his wound—had she been assessing his weakness?
He sat rigid, waiting. He would have the truth from her, no matter the cost. He would look into her eyes and see if everything—every touch, every smile, every kiss—had been a lie.
The great doors swung open. Guards flanked the entrance, their faces grim, hands resting on sword hilts.
Jessamin entered, her steps light, her face open. She wore a simple gown of deep green, the color of Norhaven’s forests, her hair braided in the orc style with leather cords. The sight of her in his people’s fashions twisted the knife deeper. She looked every inch his queen, a perfect illusion.
She smiled when she saw him, but the smile faltered as she registered the guards, the empty hall, the rigid set of his shoulders. Confusion flickered across her face, followed by a shadow of hurt.
For a heartbeat, doubt crept in. Her reaction seemed genuine. The pain in her eyes felt real, but the letter in his hand was also real. The evidence was overwhelming. His wounded heart could not afford to be deceived again.
His own pain was a wall he couldn’t see past. The memory of her in his arms, of her lips on his, of her hand on his chest as he confessed his darkest fears—all of it poisoned now.
“My king,” she said, her voice hesitant as she approached the dais. “You summoned me?”
“I did.” His voice was devoid of all warmth, stripped of the tenderness that had colored it the night before.
She stopped before the throne, her eyes searching his face. He saw the exact moment she realized something was terribly wrong. Her posture stiffened, her chin lifting in that proud, defiant way that had once captivated him.
“What is it? What has happened?” The concern in her voice sounded authentic. She was skilled, this southern princess. A master of deception.
He held up the letter, watching her face carefully. “Explain this.”
Her eyes widened as she recognized the parchment, and the color drained from her face.
“Where did you get that?” she whispered.
“It was found outside your chambers,” he replied coldly. “Dropped, apparently, in your haste.”
She looked up at him, her blue eyes wide with what appeared to be genuine shock.
“Ulric, I received this letter last night. From Elspeth. She said a messenger from my father had just arrived. I was going to show it to you this morning.” Her voice cracked on the last words. “I was coming to you for counsel because I knew something was wrong. This isn’t from my father. It can’t be.”
“No?” He stood, towering over her. “Then tell me, wife, what should I think when I read that your father is negotiatingwith Lasseran? That he wants you to return to Almohad? That arrangements are being made for your ‘safe passage home’?”
Her face had gone completely white now. “I don’t believe my father wrote that letter. “
“The signature is his,” he said coldly. “The seal is authentic.”
