Page 65 of Queen of Thorns
The advisors grow still as death.
I let the silence linger, holding my father’s stare. Brannon shifts awkwardly.
“These are Luminescent Court matters,” I say.
The king doesn’t speak.
“And I am the Luminescent Heir. Becoming High Heir does not change that.” Not technically. But it is common knowledge that the High King cannot also govern an individual court during their reign. A steward takes control for those one hundred years. Occasionally, the previous ruler would continue their reign, but more often the next predecessor takes control.
“Arlan is being prepared to take the throne now that you will be otherwise committed for the next century.” He says it like it’s an inconvenience, like being the High Heir is somehow bad for our court.
“That’s wonderful,” I say. One of the advisors lets out a relieved breath. “Arlan will make a wonderful steward.”
The Luminescent King clenches his jaw and finally breaks eye contact.
“You can deal with your personal grudges and small court matters on your own,” I say evenly, even though I’m itching to know what my father’s plans for ‘dealing with the Shadow Court rebels’ are, “so long as you don’t retaliate. That would then become High Court matters.”
The king sneers. “If they attack us as they attacked the Crystal Court—”
“The conflict is already being dealt with. Any rebels will be punished accordingly. We needn’t resort to war.”
“You think because you put that bitch on the throne—”
My metal chair clangs to the ground as I stand rapidly. “Do not call her that, father.”
“Do not call me that, Reveln.”
A bitter laugh bubbles up in my throat. “Oh, are we being open about that sticky bit of truth now?”
Cairo retrieves my chair quickly and quietly, placing it just behind me.
“Thank you,” I say kindly. He gives me a small smile. That smile is an impressive rebellion if I’m honest.
My heart is still hammering, but I take my seat again.
“What have you really come for, Reveln?” Arlan asks.
“I’d like to arrange a parade in my honor,” I say.
The room stills once again. The advisors exchange uncomfortable glances, trying desperately to read the room.
“Is that a joke?” the king asks.
“No. It is customary for the home court of the High Heir to celebrate in some manner. As a show of support. The tension between us is no secret to those in this room, but the citizens have no clue. And it would be strange to skip this important step.”
The king narrows his eyes. It is not direct anger but rather the examining of an opponent. “The townspeople held a celebration in your honor just last week. We provided food and drink. It was a merry time for all.”
I resist an eye roll. “That’s wonderful. However, did the palace plan it? Did anyone from the royal family attend?”
I wait, continuing the staring contest with the king.
“We do not need another event,” he says firmly.
“What if I give something in exchange?” I smile. “I’d like to make a deal.”
