The Golden Specter
“I am always concerned for Your Highness’s well-being,” Barcas said in a tone so meticulously polite that Gareth could find no fault to seize upon.
“The Princess is resting comfortably. I spoke only to set your mind at ease. Please do not take offense.”
Gareth glared at him with open irritation, then strode into the broad hall. Raising his temper against this man of stone would only make a fool of himself.
He clicked his tongue lightly and crossed the chamber, which had been appointed as lavishly as any noble banquet hall.
“Thank you for gracing us with your presence, Your Highness the Crown Prince.”
As Gareth approached the long table draped in pure white linen, the abbot rose at once to greet him.
“Please, sit here.”
Gareth took the place the man had vacated and surveyed the table. The abbot clearly had not the slightest intention of mimicking a life of poverty. Silver plate, golden goblets, and sumptuous dishes seasoned with every manner of spice crowded the broad surface.
Having swept it all with a satisfied eye, Gareth gave a nod to the dozen or so priests seated around it.
“I am grateful for the welcome. Be seated.”
No sooner had the words left his mouth than the monks drew back their chairs as one. Only Barcas, present as escort, remained standing behind him like a shadow.
Curious glances flew toward the man. They seemed startled by the Imperial Knight Commander’s uncommon looks.
Gareth’s brow tightened faintly.
Barcas always drew more attention than necessary; it was nothing unusual. Still, the fact that these people paid greater heed to Barcas than to himself nettled Gareth. It was a wearisome constant whenever he kept the man at his side, yet the displeasure never quite faded.
He strove not to show his irritation and raised his goblet high.
“I offer my thanks to the abbot for preparing so pleasant a gathering.”
The priests’ eyes returned to him. Savoring the attention, Gareth paused a moment before continuing with deliberate care.
“May this hour hold meaningful significance for us all—”
He was about to close the toast with suitably lofty words when a golden specter abruptly invaded his vision. Gareth froze, staring blankly at the entrance to the hall.
For an instant he thought that nightmare of a woman, Senebier, had appeared.
He gripped the goblet savagely and raked his half-sister from head to toe. As if ignorant of the most elementary rule that one dressed simply within a monastery, Talia Roem Guerta had arrayed herself in a manner that would have drawn every eye even at an imperial banquet—and a vulgar, coarse manner at that.
He clenched his teeth in contempt. Over the thin skirts of her dress she displayed, without reserve, the still-unripe curves of a body not yet fully matured. Talia walked slowly toward the table.
The monks looked ready to faint on the spot. Some among them sat open-mouthed, utterly bereft of sense. Unable to contain his rage, Gareth surged to his feet.
“How dare you—do you know where you are, looking like that!”
The goblet he slammed down overflowed with wine. He did not even bother to wipe his wet hand as he jabbed a finger at her.
“Did you not hear my warning to keep out of my sight?”
“Ah, of course I heard,” the girl replied, drawing out the chair immediately beside him as though it were the most natural thing in the world and settling into it with a coquettish smile upon her lips.
“When my brother says he wishes to see me, how could I possibly remain still? Unable to refuse the earnest request of His Great Highness the Crown Prince, I even took such pains to adorn myself.”
She ran one hand deliberately down her skirts for all to see. Gareth stared at his half-sister in sheer incredulity.
“What nonsense—”
“Surely you are not ignorant of my contrary nature… Sending the Commander of the Imperial Knights himself to deliver such a message—was that not because you were dying to see your little sister?”
Eyes of pure, unalloyed cobalt narrowed slyly.
“When the Crown Prince entreats me so earnestly, a sister must of course rise to meet his expectations.”
He had to summon every shred of his meager self-control to keep from striking her across the face. As if to goad him further, Talia continued at a leisurely pace.
“Ah, it is good to see my brother’s face like this. Are you enjoying yourself as well?”
“...I was, until you appeared.”
The words ground out between his teeth, and Talia burst into laughter.
“Then dragging my weary body here was worthwhile after all.”
Gareth clenched his jaw until it threatened to crack. Every time the girl smiled that way, the urge to smash that unnaturally beautiful face became almost unbearable. Fists trembling so hard his shoulders shook, he spat each word as though chewing it.
“How much further do you mean to push? Are you testing just how far I can endure you?”
“What a hurtful thing to say…”
She propped her elbows on the table and leaned her body askew toward him. Chandelier light poured over shoulders pitifully thin and the sharp ridges of her shoulder blades. The monks’ gazes, too, poured toward that body carved as if from ivory.
Viperous bitch. Overwhelmed by fierce revulsion, he dragged rough breaths through his teeth. As though sensing the rage that had climbed to its limit, the corners of Talia’s mouth curled sharply upward.
“I merely answered an invitation. I cannot think what I have done to make you seethe so. Do you not find it excessive… toward so lovely a youngest sister?”
She turned her head toward the abbot seated opposite, as if seeking agreement. Caught by the sudden question, the monk’s face stiffened in bewilderment. Finding his innocent reaction amusing, the girl curved her eyes in a strange smile. The sight of her flirting like a whore made bile rise in Gareth’s throat. He seized her forearm roughly.
“Seems you are in heat. If you need a bed partner, choose one from among your attendants. Do not think to toy with the monks… Should you soil the imperial name with filthy scandal, I will see to it that pretty face of yours is never carried about again for the rest of your life.”
At the savage threat her pupils flashed.
“And what exactly will you do?”
Talia tilted her head as if challenging him and spat the words with fierce intensity.
“When my brother speaks so, it makes me so eager to live up to his expectations I could die.”
He could bear no more. He stretched out his hand to twist that slender throat that would fit in a single fist.
In that instant a heavy hand settled upon his shoulder.
“Your Highness.”
Gareth flinched and lifted his head. Barcas Laedgo Seorkan looked down at him with a face of perfect calm.
It was the same expression he had seen to the point of weariness—a face devoid of any remnant of emotion. Yet for a single moment Gareth felt himself threatened. Though that could not possibly be so.
“Everyone is waiting for Your Highness’s toast.”
Barcas pressed down hard upon his shoulder, as if warning him not to be drawn into Talia’s provocation.
Gareth shook the hand off rather roughly. His fingertips trembled with the unspent hunger for violence.
Hiding it by clenching his fist tight, he glared at the girl’s alluring face.
Talia Roem Guerta was deliberately raking at him. He must not be swept along. Repeating the thought to himself, Gareth forced the boiling rage to subside and flung her arm free. Then he took up the goblet once more and cried out in an exaggerated tone, as though performing a play.
“We have wasted time on pointless squabbling. Now, let us partake of the food. Once more I express my gratitude to the abbot for preparing so fine an occasion… and hope that today may prove a meaningful day for all.”
With frozen faces the monks glanced back and forth among the Crown Prince, the bastard princess, and the Imperial Knight Commander standing solidly behind them, then gingerly lifted their goblets. Only Talia Roem Guerta watched the scene with arms folded, a mocking smile upon her lips.
Just as his temper threatened to flare again at that defiant posture, Barcas bent over her head.
“Please observe the basic courtesies of a guest, Princess.”
Then he gently unfolded the girl’s hand and set a silver goblet into it. Startled by the sudden contact, Talia stiffened and shot him a venomous look.
Gareth fully expected her to hurl the cup at once. Having clashed with him over every trifle since childhood, Talia had always been particularly desperate to tear Barcas apart.
Yet contrary to his expectation, the girl who had been glaring like a poisoned cat soon righted her posture. Gareth narrowed his eyes. Yielding to a warning of this degree was unlike Talia Roem Guerta. Was she not the girl who always ran wild without knowing measure? Rather than submit meekly to Barcas’s pressure, she ought to have foamed at the mouth and flung herself at him—that would have been true to her nature.
What scheme is she hatching?