A fortnight later, Cillian wandered through the expansive gardens of the king’s castle. A slight chill in the air heralded the approach of autumn, the time of year Cillian enjoyed the most, when work in the smithy wasn’t as miserable as the summer. His wound had healed and Malo promised he could work with the royal blacksmiths as much or as little as he liked, as long as he returned to the king’s bedchamber every night.
For Cillian, it was the best of both worlds. He feared he would not be comfortable at court, but Beyta and the castle’s residents made him feel at home. Pari had become subservient and almost obsequious as a result of Cillian’s continued domination of him. Even Itha warmed to him.
His thoughts were interrupted by a page.
“Sir,” the page said with a slight bow. “His Majes
