A Question of Worth

The mirror could’ve at least done him the courtesy of lying.

Cenric had hoped that when he stared into the glass, he’d find someone else staring back at him, someone suited to the rich clothes he’d been afforded for the occasion. To his mind, the doublet seemed to swallow him, the tight sleeves fitting awkwardly, the leggings too tight in some places and too loose in others. It was meant for someone else, someone better born and better suited to standing witness to a king’s wedding.

Not an upjumped kitchen boy with no name, and a middling talent at arms. But his king—his friend—had been insistent.

“Would I be standing here without you?” King Haldane Montressor had asked him, setting a hand on Cenric’s shoulder. He’d shrugged for an answer until Haldane had pestered him into acknowledging that he, in fact, wouldn’t have been. “Then who better to be standing with me?”

At the coronation, they’d both been boys. Cenric had been permitted to be little more than just a face in the crowd. That had felt right, and no one had scoffed at his placement in the ceremony. This was an affront to Hal’s better born allies, to his wife, and to Cenric’s own sensibilities. He’d saved Hal, fought and killed for Hal, but that didn’t change what he was.

Did it?

“Nearly done,” the servant intoned, a spindly woman with a plain face.

For an answer, Cenric just nodded, chestnut eyes still lingering on the stranger in his reflection. His dark hair had been brushed straight and tied back, which made him look more refined than his usual mess of tangles. Almost presentable, but the face that looked back at him still seemed too soft. Too many soft curves, not enough hard lines.

The door to the chamber creaked as it was shoved open, and Cenric looked over his shoulder to find the last person he wanted to see.

Filling the doorframe, nearly having to duck under it as she sauntered inside, was Sionnan Dor’Oriann. A long dress of forest green was wrapped around her imposing frame, cinched tight around her waist. It was a different look for her, but she seemed as infuriatingly at home in cloth of silk as she was in chainmail and plate.

“Spirits alive, you almost look like you belong, kitchen boy,” she mocked, flicking her thick red braid over her shoulder. There was a ribbon through it now, green as her dress, and that made her look all the more dignified.

His eyes rolled in annoyance as he tried to ignore both her and his stomach’s churning.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d be impressed. You might manage to not make a fool of Haldane after all, so long as you keep your mouth closed.” She marched across the room to him, her steps deceptively soft. Sionnan circled him, counter to the servant, chin between her thumb and forefinger as her eyes swept over him. The dress brought out the green in them, made them shine like emeralds. God, he hated it when she looked at him.

“Don’t you noble ladies have something important to be doing, Shan? Some ass kissing, my vulgar commoner mind can’t comprehend?” Cenric bit back, staring past her into the mirror, ignoring the furrow in her brow. She hated the nickname—it offended her clan's honor or something like that. The truth was, she hated that he’d dare to talk to her like that. He knew better, she knew it, and she knew he’d do it anyway.

The corner of her lip curled up in a sneer. “What could be more important than ensuring you don’t go making a mess of things?” Sionnan paused behind him, running a finger along his collar. “Expensive thread,” she observed blithely. “Try not to ruin it.”

“Try not to give me a reason,” he bit back, giving the servant woman a nod of thanks that doubled as an invitation for her to flee. The woman took it graciously and made for the door as Sionnan stalked around to face him.

She was damnably tall. Cenric despised needing to look up to meet her shining eyes, and made an effort to seem as disaffected as possible. That proved difficult, given his face’s insistence on tightening into a scowl in her presence.

“It isn’t my conduct that’ll be scrutinized. Ladies get carried away at weddings all the time, Lords too, bound to happen with all that wine.” Shrugging, she traced the crescent of the moon embroidered on his chest with a calloused fingertip. “Kitchen boys, though, particularly those at a King’s side rather than in the kitchen…”

Red rose to his cheeks at her taunting, cold anger spreading in his veins. “My thanks for the reminder, Shan, I was in desperate need,” Cenric said, stepping out of her reach. What he needed was for her to go the hells away, off the nearest battlement and into the castle moat, preferably.

“I’ve a generous disposition, Cenric, you know that. Only trying to help.” Her face lost its mocking twist and grew serious. “This is important for him, for the kingdom.”

“No, truly? I’d forgotten. Thought this was just an elaborate pretext for Hal to bed the girl.”

It was, in a way, but in truth, Cenric had just hoped it might be enough to offend Sionnan’s highborn sensibilities. It didn’t. She did not flinch from the rebuttal—she only smirked. Damn her.

“See,” she tutted, rolling shoulders, the daggered sleeves of her dress rising along thickly banded muscle. “You’re making my point for me.”

He scoffed. “You have a point?”

“Aye—you’re not suitable to stand at his side.”

Cenric’s jaw clenched tight, and his brows drew into a scowl as icy anger spread in his blood. “Get out,” he snarled.

Sionnan tilted her head, lifting an auburn brow. “I meant today, kitchen boy, for the ceremony. A battlefield is a different matter. It’s about appearances.”

She was trying now, but it sounded almost rehearsed. Like she’d said it all before—perhaps she had.

“If your opinion on the matter was worth anything, then Haldane would’ve listened to it when you went and tried to convince him before you came here.” Cenric knew he’d found his mark when her lips twitched into a frown. “I’m where he wants me to be.”

“But not where he needs you,” she growled, taking a step towards him. “You’re of low birth and lower honor, Cenric. The things you’ve done aren’t going to be easily forgotten, nor your lapses in judgment easily forgiven.”

A memory of blood over his fingers, warm and sticky, a man becoming a corpse with each thrash against Cenric’s blade.

“You’re going to say you did what you thought was best, and I’m not denying the—”

“No,” he interrupted, a vein in her brow bulging at his audacity in doing so. “I’m going to say you should leave, Lady Oriann.”

Sionnan's fingers tightened into fists at her side, shaking. They’d come to blows before, more than once. She won, more often than not. Height and strength worked in her favor, but she wouldn’t take it there today, and they both knew it. The towering woman smacked her lips, the clack echoing off the chamber walls as she drew in a breath. Her hands steadied. “You know I’m right, you know that they’ll whisper and that whispers—”

“I know I asked you to leave.”

They glared across the room, a stony silence hanging in the air. Cenric’s breath came slow and steady, while Sionnan’s came sharply. The storm between them was always brewing, but today it might break. Again.

He wanted to let it. Wanted to shout her down, to rub her nose in it—that he wasn’t any peasant, that she couldn’t just order him about like a dog. The thought summoned a swell of pride in his chest, warmer than the cold bite of his anger. Haldane was his shield.

Haldane, whom he shamed. Haldane, whose grace he did not deserve. Haldane, who today was for. Might’ve been Sionnan was right after all. The pride bled from him as he chewed the inside of his cheek.

“Can’t you swallow being a face in the crowd for him?” Sionnan asked, keeping the bite from her words.

He wished he could’ve, but it was for Haldane that he was doing any of this. “Sionnan,” Cenric drew in a breath, expelling his anger with it. “He’s Haldane Montressor—everyone is a face in the crowd when he walks in.”

“Cenric—” It was a hard point to argue about Haldane, even for her.

For the first time in a long time, Cenric gave ground. “I’ll behave.” He turned for the door, pulling it open with a sigh, then pausing at the threshold. “See you out there, Lady Oriann. Friend of mine is waiting for me.”

And he left her there to find his king.