Nothing a King did was quite as dull as checking the post, but it had to be done, and birds brought letters to the palace hourly. Ulric had half a mind to ignore the lot of it, to let Edwin read them all and relay what little importance there was to him after. But Ulric knew better—he was taught better.
'A King who reads no letters knows no Kingdom,'
his father had told him. Ulric never knew the man to be wrong.
Every letter was the same as the last. Empty threats from arrogant Lords, warning they'd pull their men from this or that fort along the coast—all bluster. Empty well-wishes for some cousin or other of Ulric's who had just wed or had just fallen ill—both tragedies. It was empty, all of it. Words upon words, printed in the finest writing, all with no meaning behind them. In a way, Ulric thought it astounding. Unbearable, but astounding. When his father passed and left him the Crown, this wasn't quite the King's life Ulric had expected. Not as glamorous, and—the war aside—not as exciting. But the drink would see him through it.
Ulric gulped the last of his wine and clanked the thick glass down on his desk. He slumped back in his chair and sighed a long breath, giving his eyes just a short moment's rest. The tall window at his back basked him in the heat of the rising sun, warm and soothing, tempting him into a deep slumber. Ulric had only woken a few hours ago, but already he wanted nothing more than to return to bed.
His eyes snapped open when he heard Edwin drop another letter before him. "This ought to be an interesting one, Your Grace," He said to Ulric, and Ulric knew the letter's seal. It was blood-red, of a thorny rose coiled around a mackerel fish, strangling it. The seal of Lord Rosewall, Elise's father.
Ulric grunted as he took a small knife to the letter. "And here I thought marrying his daughter would keep him quiet."
Edwin gave a little chuckle of approval. "Out of sight can't always be out of mind."
Ulric pored over the letter, and Edwin took to filling his glass for him as he read. The writing was of Lord Rosewall's own hand, a rare occurrence, though Ulric wasn't sure the topic merited it. "The good Lord Rosewall requests my presence," He said with a bit of a mocking edge. "He asks I join him for the first hunt of the spring."
Edwin scrunched his brow. "
Now
?"
Ulric had a hard time believing it himself. Lord Rosewall knew damn well the Syderan emissary would be here in the capitol within the month, and Ulric would be a fool not to be here to greet him. The letter was nothing more than some ruse or trick, but to what end Ulric couldn't be sure. Lord Rosewall was a schemer, always plotting, always looking for another card to add to his hand. His daughter was no different.
Ulric tossed down the letter and took to his drink again. "I'm sure Lord Rosewall was gutted to hear I'd survived the war," He mused. "A hunting accident would be a perfect way to correct that, don't you think?"
Edwin gave him a wide-eyed look. "You don't really think? ..."
"No, dear Edwin," Ulric shook his head and took a swig of his wine. "Just thinking aloud, is all. And I'm not going."
"You'll reject him?"
"Aye. He should know better than to ask. The Syderan will be here before long, and I intend to be here when he arrives."
Edwin nodded. He had known Lord Rosewall a long time, far longer than Ulric. Edwin knew the man, and he knew his arrogant ways. "Lord Rosewall never thought the Syderans a threat," Edwin said. "He still doesn't."
Ulric chuckled into his glass. "Easy for him to think that. He was never on the field. He never saw the war as I did."
"Elise won't be happy to hear this, you know," Edwin said, his lips curling into a frown. "She'd want you to jump at the first chance for her to return home."
Ulric looked to his steward wearily. "Elise can't always get what she wants." At his words, an angry fist rapped the knocker against the study's door, as loud as could be managed.
It was eerie how quick Elise would come at the uttering of her name. It often had Ulric wondering if his worst fears were true, and the woman was in fact some well-veiled demon cast down on him as punishment for his sins. If that were true, then the wrath of God was indeed terrible.
Ulric finished the last of his glass as the door swung wide. True enough, Elise stood there in the doorway, standing tall on long, sculpted legs. Smooth, well-brushed hair, black as midnight, fell down her shoulders. The gold lace of her tight-fitting dress shone bright in the sunlight. Much as Ulric wished he could deny it, Elise was stunningly beautiful, as gorgeous as any Queen could ever be. Were he a younger, less worldly man, he'd wonder how he could ever be unhappy with her as his wife. But Ulric wasn't that man. He knew better now. He could see it in her eyes, emerald-green, hard and piercing, watching him like a predator would its prey.
Elise looked to Edwin and made a sharp gesture towards the door. "Leave us," She said curtly to the steward, though Ulric very much wished he would stay.
"Of course, My Lady," Edwin bowed low and scurried for the exit. He gave Ulric a final nod before heading through the door and gently closing it shut behind him.
Ulric eyed the tight, low cut of Elise's bodice. "Must you insist on dressing yourself so?" He asked her dully. "You look more suited for a whorehouse than a palace."
Elise cocked her head. "Does my pride in my body trouble you?" She taunted.
Ulric almost wished it did. "No," He said.
She scoffed. "Pity."
With a gait like a spider Elise came to Ulric, quick and silent, with long, graceful steps. A cold breeze followed her, prickling the hairs of Ulric's neck. It was an air that seemed to follow her always, wherever she went. Behind her back, the servants had come to call her 'the Ice Queen'—a name she more than lived up to.
Only a short moment passed before Elise's eyes came to rest on the envelope with the broken Rosewall seal, and the unfolded letter below it. "From my father?" She asked, snatching the letter up off the desk.
Knowing too well the argument to come, Ulric reached for the pitcher of wine. He tipped it over his glass, and a good few seconds passed before he noticed something was very wrong: the pitcher was empty.
Of course
the wine would be gone, now of all times.
"When are we leaving?" Elise asked, already grinning.
Ulric looked up at her, meeting her eyes. "We're not," He said.
Her face twisted into a scowl. "Like hell," She cursed.
Ulric took the letter back from her. "The Syderan will arrive soon, and I want us here when he does."
"He can wait a few weeks," Elise spat. "The savages wallow in dirt and muck, I imagine this one can survive waiting in a palace for a month or two."
"And when he tires of waiting?" Ulric barked back. "He'll call off the talks. He'll head back to Sydera, and the war will be back on by the year's end. Will you be fighting on the front when that happens?" Elise's mouth twitched, but Ulric didn't give her a chance to answer him. "No," He growled. "You won't."
God above, Ulric wanted a drink.
Elise's scowl hardened. "My father—"
Ulric shot up onto his feet, his temper flaring. He grabbed hold of Elise's arm and clutched it tight. "Your father isn't Lord here, love," He snarled, glaring into her eyes. "He isn't King. This is
my
city,
my
land."
Elise yanked at her arm, but Ulric wouldn't release her. "Let go," She growled.
Ulric shook his head slowly. "Not until you learn."
Elise looked down to Ulric's grasping hand, and the scowl vanished from her face, chased away by a wicked grin. She raised Ulric's arm before his eyes, until he too came to look at his wrist. The white cotton of his tunic's cuff was splotched dark red. A wine stain. As Ulric looked at it then, only one thought came to him: Vivian.
The memory was rushing back to him now. The girl's golden hair, her kiss, the warmth of her touch. It almost seemed like a dream now. But it
wasn't
a dream, no, it was far from it. Vivian's love was
real
, realer than anything in this god-forsaken palace.
Elise let out a short, cruel laugh, pulling Ulric from his thoughts. "Is this what a King is to you?" She mocked. "A drunk?" Her grin grew wider. "I suppose you learned from the best."
No one ever spoke of Ulric's father that way. Not to Ulric's face.
He wanted to hit Elise then. He wanted to beat her, to strike her upside the face 'till her cheeks burned red. But... Elise would want that. She'd feed off of it. She'd wear that bruise like the finest brooch.
God
, Elise knew
just
where to stick the knife. She knew well Ulric's idolization of his late father, and she knew the two shared a need for the drink. Elise knew where the stick the knife, and she knew how to twist it.
A revelation hit Ulric then, dawned on him as bright and blinding as any sun. The wine stain on his shirt, it was nothing to be troubled by, no, it was just the opposite—a gift from God, even. Ulric knew what he needed then, and it wasn't a drink. He threw down Elise's arm and stormed off, towards the door.
Elise smiled as he darted off, no doubt flush with a sense of victory. "Where are you off to?" She called after him.
Ulric didn't turn back. "Getting a new shirt," He hollered.
It was fate. A wine stain, a stain Elise herself had discovered, no less. It made for the perfect alibi. No one would question Ulric for visiting a tailor now. Not now and not later, either.
"I've taken a liking to her seams,"
Ulric could say.
"Her sewing is immaculate. There's no one else like her."
The justifications were endless. He could see her whenever he liked now, any day of the week. Most Kings who had ever lived were obsessed with their wardrobes, and Ulric could claim to be no different. Fate had given him this chance, and he wouldn't wait to use it.
Ulric moved quickly. In minutes he had changed tunics, gathered four of his Kingsguard, and set out with them down into the city proper, stained shirt in hand. Ulric's face was a familiar one on the streets of Weswyn, and he had no fear of traversing his city. The sword at his hip was more a formality than anything, and the presence of his Kingsguard had less to do with some fear of death and far more to do with his desire to move swift and unimpeded. He hailed a dozen or so commoners and nobles, and even shook a few hands, but he kept a brisk pace all the way.
There were nine tailors and seamstresses in the Diamond Quarter, and Ulric didn't know where to start. There was only one tailor he had in mind, but he could waste the better part of the day trying to find her. He wouldn't have that. He needed to see her
now
.
