“And you may never order me arrested or imprisoned or killed,” I said, ignoring him. “Nor hurt. Nor even detained.”
“What about asking a servant to put a very sharp pebble in your boot?” he asked, expression annoyingly serious.
I gave him what I hoped was a scathing look in return. “Nor may you raise a hand against me yourself.”
He made a gesture in the air, as though all of this was ridiculously obvious, as though somehow giving him the commands out loud was an act of bad faith.
I went doggedly on. “Each evening, you will meet me in your rooms before dinner, and we will discuss policy. And if you know of harm to be done to me, you must warn me. You must try to prevent anyone from guessing how I control you. And no matter how much you hate being High King, you must pretend otherwise.”
“I don’t,” he said, looking up at the sky.
I turned to him, surprised. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t hate being High King,” he said. “Not always. I thought I would, and yet I do not. Make of that what you will.”
I was unnerved, because it was a lot easier when I knew he was not just unsuitable for, but also uninterested in, ruling. Whenever I looked at the Blood Crown on his head, I had to pretend it away.
It didn’t help how immediately he’d convinced the Gentry of his right to preside over them. His reputation for cruelty made them wary of crossing him. His license made them believe all delights were possible.
“So,” I said. “You enjoy being my pawn?”
He grinned lazily, as though he didn’t mind being baited. “For now.”
My gaze sharpened. “For far longer than that.”
“You’ve won yourself a year and a day,” he told me. “But a lot can happen in a year and a day. Give me all the commands you want, but you’ll never think of everything.”
Once, I was the one to throw him off balance, the one to ignite his anger and shred his self-control, but somehow the tables turned. Every day since, I’ve felt the slippage.
As I gaze at him now, stretched out on my bed, I feel more off balance than ever.
The Roach sweeps into the room as late-afternoon light streams from the hill above us. On his shoulder is the hob-faced owl, once a messenger for Dain, now a messenger for the Court of Shadows. It goes by Snapdragon, although I don’t know if that’s a code name.
“The Living Council wants to see you,” the Roach says. Snapdragon blinks sleepy black eyes at me.
I groan.