The Skull Throne

But she always walked him to the door, and offered a farewell embrace. Sometimes—just sometimes—he put his nose in her hair, inhaling. Those times she knew he would accept a fleeting kiss, savoring it a moment before pulling away, lest it lead to more.

She lay awake in bed after he left, feeling his lips on hers and imagining what it would be like if he were beside her. But that was out of the question. Arlen had many of the same fears and mood swings as Wonda, terrified of hurting her, or getting her with a magic-tainted child. Her offers to take pomm tea were not enough to persuade him.

But like warding skin, all that had changed when Renna Tanner came along. She was nearly as strong as he was, and could take the punishment he’d feared to unleash in passion with Leesha. The whole town knew about the noise those two made.

Creator, Arlen, where have you gone? she wondered. There were questions she needed to ask, things only he or Renna could understand.

I don’t care if we never kiss again, just come home.

“Have a look at this,” Thamos said. He had his shirt off, and it was a moment before Leesha realized he was holding a coin in his hand. He flipped it to the bed, where she caught it.

It was a lacquered wooden klat, the common coin of Angiers. But instead of the seal of the ivy throne, the coin was stamped with a standard warding circle of protection, the lines sharp and clear.

“This is fantastic!” Leesha said. “No one will ever be left without wards for the night again when every coin in their pocket is a guide.”

Thamos nodded. “Your father made the original mold. I have half a million ready to disperse, and the presses are running day and night.”

Leesha flipped the coin over, and laughed out loud. Stamped there was Thamos’ likeness, looking stern and paternal. “It looks like you when one of the Hollowers forgets to bow.”

Thamos put his face in his hand. “My mother’s idea.”

“I would have thought she’d want the duke’s face,” Leesha said.

Thamos shook his head. “We’re making them too fast. The Merchants’ Guild feared the value of the duke’s klats would plummet if it were tied to entitlements in the Hollow.”

“So the coins will be worthless in Angiers,” Leesha said.

Thamos shrugged. “For a time, but I mean to make them worth as much as Krasian gold.”

“Speaking of which,” Leesha said. “Smitt is going to complain about Shamavah stealing his business again today.”

Thamos sat back down on the bed, putting his arm around Leesha and pulling her close. “He insisted Arther add it to the agenda. I can’t say he doesn’t have a point. Trading with the Krasians has risks.”

“As does refusing it,” Leesha said. “We don’t need to be abed with the Krasians to want civil relations and contacts in Everam’s Bounty, and those are made through trade.”

Thamos looked at her, eyes probing, and she regretted her choice of words. Abed. Idiot. Why not just slap him in the face with it, as Mother would have?

“Besides,” she added quickly, “Smitt’s motives are far from pure. He’s less interested in politics and security than he is in keeping down a rival.”

There was a knock on the bedchamber door. Early in her relationship with the count the servants Leesha made jump, especially when she was in a state of undress. But she had grown accustomed to the constant, discreet presence of Thamos’ staff. Most of his intimate servants had been with his family for generations, their loyalty beyond question.

“Let me handle them.” Leesha put on stockings and stepped back into her dress, then rang the bell. Thamos’ manservant Lord Arther entered silently with an older maid. Tarisa had been Thamos’ nurse since he was in swaddling. The count was one of the most powerful men in the world, but he still jumped when Tarisa snapped for him to sit up straight.

“Your Highness, my lady.” Arther glided across the room, eyes down, not daring to so much as glance at Leesha’s bared back as Tarisa came to tighten the laces.

“How is my lady this morning?” the woman asked. Her voice was kind, and whatever she might think of finding an unmarried woman in the count’s bedchamber, she had never once given an inkling. Of course, with Thamos’ reputation, she had likely seen far worse.

“Very well, Tarisa, and you?” Leesha said.

“I’d be better if you’d let me do something with this hair,” the old woman said, taking a brush to Leesha’s dark tresses. “Things have gotten so dull for me since His Highness learned to count past his fingers and wipe his own bottom.”

“Nanny, please,” Thamos groaned, burying his face in his palm. Arther pretended not to notice, and Leesha laughed.

“Yes, nanny, please go on,” she said. “Do whatever you wish, so long as you relate every last detail of His Highness’ privy training.”

She watched the old woman’s face in the mirror. Her smile lines became great fissures as she began to efficiently section and pin Leesha’s hair. There was nothing Tarisa loved more than telling stories of her lord as a boy.

“I called him the little firefighter,” Tarisa said, “for he sprayed like a hose all over the …”

Tarisa had many stories, but the nanny’s nimble fingers never stopped working as she spoke. Leesha’s hair was pinned up exquisitely, her face powdered and lips darkened. Somehow the woman had even talked her into a new gown, one of the many Thamos had presented her with.

All the preening and posturing for appearances at court would once have been anathema to her, but slowly, her association with the ever style-conscious Thamos had begun to wear her defenses. She was a leader that her people looked up to. There was no shame in presenting herself at her best.

Wonda was waiting as Leesha left Thamos’ chambers, falling in behind her wordlessly. The girl looked calmer now—Leesha had sent her for a walk in the sun to burn off the excess power while she met with the count. Wonda had no illusions about how she and Thamos spent their time, but like Arther and Tarisa, she never spoke, never judged.

Thamos was still inside, fussing over clothes and the trimming of every last hair on his beard, though Leesha knew it was as much that he might make an entrance after his councilors had been kept waiting a bit, and to give her time to leave in secret and enter properly.

Leesha exited by a side door to her private herb garden within the count’s walls. As the Royal Gatherer, His Highness’ health was her responsibility, so it was perfectly normal to be seen leaving the garden on her way to the main doors.

The deception seemed unnecessary for an open secret, but surprisingly it was Thamos who insisted they keep appearances, if only to keep his mother at bay. Araine seemed to approve the match, and—from what Leesha knew of the old woman—likely didn’t care what they did abed, but appearances were everything at court.

Leesha’s hand drifted to her belly. Soon enough, it would swell and force the issue. All would assume it belonged to the count, and there would be pressure from every direction for them to marry. When that happened, she would have to make a choice between evils.

Thamos was a good man. Not brilliant, but strong and honorable. He was prideful and vain, demanding obeisance from his subjects, but he would give his life for the least of them in the night. Leesha found she wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of her life sharing his bed and his throne, leading the Hollow together. But when Ahmann’s child was born with olive skin, it would all tear apart. Leesha was no stranger to being the center of scandal in the Hollow, but this … This they would not forgive.