Chapter 1311: Lost in the Fog(3)
With that heavy confession finally out of his chest, Alpheo settled back into the deep cushions of his chair, feeling the crushing weight on his shoulders halved by half.
Even though he knew there was very little Jasmine could practically do for him to alter the military reality in the south, it was a rare luxury to simply unleash his frustration upon someone who would just listen, someone who would simply perk an ear, nod in understanding, and allow him to bleed all the bile out of his system through his mouth.
Somewhere in the midst of his grumbling, the dynamic had shifted, seamlessly turning into the Queen soothing her weary husband. Her soft, delicate hands remained parked firmly on his broad shoulders, rhythmically kneading the tight knots in his muscles. Alpheo was not often at the receiving end of such a massage,usually, it was his hands providing the comfort to her after a day of court, but it was undeniably nice to have the roles swapped for once.
"I am certain my brave and invincible knight will make remarkably short work of those curs," she murmured playfully, gently pecking at his earlobe.
Alpheo could feel through her almost childishly confident words that she genuinely believed what she was saying. And why the hell shouldn’t she? After all, the world had yet to draft a list containing the first name of a commander who had successfully defeated the Fox of Yarzat in a proper war. The real, biting question they ought to be asking, however, was just how much precious time, coin, and effort he would be forced to utterly waste on this wretched matter before Edric could finally hang the broken, bloated carcass of the Vulture high on a cross for all the province to see.
It was a toll he could ill afford with the coronation looming.
One of her hands drifted lazily down from his shoulder, her fingers trailing a warm path to caress the nape of his neck. "Is there perhaps... anything else a devoted Queen can do to properly soothe her restless King?" she whispered, her voice dropping into a register sweeter than summer honey.
Something trembled deep within Alpheo’s chest at the invitation.
But it was not yet the time for such distractions.
He caught one of her delicate hands in his own, lifting it slowly to his face so his lips could linger deliberately against her smooth knuckles.
"There may yet be one vital thing you can do for me tonight. I require honest counsel," he said, shifting his weight as if to guide her down into the heavy chair he occupied.
She flatly refused the seat, however, opting instead to gracefully pivot and sink directly onto his lap, her silk nightgown pooling over his heavy thighs. She was surprisingly, delightfully playful when the mood struck her behind closed doors.You would not think it possible by how rough and bored she was usually at court.
"I suppose answering a sovereign’s query is a husband’s right," she hummed, though the smoldering weight of her emerald eyes made it abundantly clear that she would vastly prefer him to claim an entirely different kind of husband’s right.
Nonetheless he asked his question ’’What do you think of Malaya?’’
"Malaya?" she repeated, the name tripping over her tongue as a sharp flash of suspicion crossed her eyes. Her lips thinned instantly, her body tensing on his lap as if she were suddenly wondering whether she had just been made the unwitting butt of some elaborate, twisted jape.
As Alpheo’s face remained entirely unyielding, locked in a solemn, business-like mask of statecraft, the spark in Jasmine’s expression began to stutter. Her fair face slowly settled into a mask of deep confusion, her brow furrowing as she looked at his scarred features.
She realized there was no joke to be found.
"But why?" Jasmine asked, her confusion morphing into genuine protectiveness. "I have found her to be a dear friend. Quite a novelty to have around these halls, truth be told, honest to a fault, fierce as a tiger, and an all-in-all comforting presence. Her brother is a fiercely leal servant to your crown, and neither she nor he has ever given me a single, solitary reason to be displeased by their company. I would dare say she is among my dearest of companions. Why ask?"
Her dark brows furrowed, a new, sharper spark of intuition lighting her emerald eyes. "Is there something wrong with the Voghondai?"
Once again, Alpheo was left quite struck by just how terrifyingly perceptive his wife could be.
"They have done absolutely nothing wrong per se," the King explained, his voice low and measured. "Except existing I suppose? For a great deal of dangerous dissatisfaction has risen within the holy church regarding my lax, tolerant treatment over their barbarian religion."
"I see." Jasmine didn’t flinch. Instead, she deliberately shifted her weight, making herself thoroughly comfortable at his expense as she resettled her hips on his thighs, crossing her arms over his chest.
"And you? Does it not bother you? Regarding her stubborn faith?"
She thoroughly surprised him by casually shrugging her elegant shoulders.
"Her soul is her own keeper," the Queen stated plainly. "If she ever desires a change of faith, I shall welcome her to the Star with open arms. Still, considering how much precious blood her people have so willingly shed for the crown’s sake, the absolute last thing those warriors need to see is a queen unperceptive of their heavy sacrifice. Loyalty is bought with respect, not just coin."
In response to that Alpheo pressed an affectionate kiss directly onto her forehead. "If only some wrinkled, incense-breathing bastards in the Eternal City possessed a fraction of your mind, my life would be a paradise."
"Yes, that would be rather fine, I suppose," she hummed, accepting the praise with a smug little tilt of her chin. "But let us circle directly back to the meat of the problem. What exactly happened during your meeting? Did our ancient, white-robed guest do something?"
"He merely informed us of some foul air currently driveling around the Supreme Pontifex’s ears," Alpheo growled, his jaw tightening at the memory of Vesperian’s raspy whispers. "Airs that I do not welcome in the slightest. Voices are aggressively rising in the high conclave, demanding that I convert the Voghondai through absolute force of the sword as a strict, non-negotiable term for my coronation.Apparently that did not come to pass on the lastest note"
A deep, angry furrow instantly developed between Jasmine’s brows. "A forced conversion?" She locked her eyes onto his. "And what does the Archon have to do with this drivel?"
"Because," Alpheo said, a slow, predatory smirk finally stretching across his scarred face, "our dear, pious guest explicitly told me he wishes to help us."
Jasmine’s head tilted back, her eyes narrowing into cold, deeply skeptical slits. "An Archon of the true faith wants to help a secular king harbor heretics? From his own holy brothers?" She let out a sharp, mocking scoff. "Forgive me if I don’t immediately weep with gratitude, husband. Did he grow kind and traitorous to the church, all at once?"
"Hardly," the King replied, a dry chuckle rumbling in his chest. "It seems church politics are much like bugs under a rotten log. Overturn a single stone and you will instantly find a miserable myriad of them scurrying for the light. Our dear, pious Archon wishes to replace his current dress with the supreme white garb of the Pontifex himself."
"Not a grand surprise, I suppose," Jasmine mused, her fingers absently tracing the heavy collar of his tunic. "There is remarkably little else to aspire to once you don the cloth. No women to hold. No legitimate children to inherit your name. I suppose the only true, intoxicating pleasure left for a man of that sort is to see the proud crowns of men kissing his holy feet." She lingered in thought for a moment, a sharp, regal glint in her eyes. "Though, truth be told, having your boots kissed all the time would undoubtedly please any man. Or any woman."
"And therein lies the heavy crux of the matter," Alpheo said, his tone shifting back to the pragmatic calculus of a ruler. "Placing him on that white throne will require an extraordinary amount of gold and a massive deployment of raw political leverage. It is a shadowy task that will demand a great deal of our effort, and one that may very well bear absolutely no fruit in the end. Vesperian is by no means a favorite in the college; we would be starting his campaign virtually from scrap. Considering the current, bleeding state of our treasury after the wars, I wanted to ask for your honest opinion."
"My opinion?" she asked, her eyebrows lifting in genuine surprise.
"Whether to back his play or let the vultures tear each other apart," Alpheo said, his gaze steady. "I shall leave the final choice to you."
Jasmine nestled her head against his broad chest, curling inward like a sleek, calculating cat. She lingered there in the heavy silence for a long, quiet moment. At long last, she spoke, her voice vibrating softly against his breast.
"It would be profoundly nice to have the next Supreme Pontifex speaking beautifully of our house during his grand sermons," she murmured. "And besides, it would cause an unimaginable amount of bloody trouble for us if those impatient louts in the conclave actually decided to go headstrong on their little forced crusade.
As much as the holy see may mislike it, the Voghondai are firmly, permanently settled on this land. They fought our wars, they pay their taxes, and they provide us with service in peacetime, patrolling our high roads and fiercely protecting our caravans and smallfolk.Not to say that you and I both like their companies well enough..."
Alpheo looked down at her, his arm tightening around her waist. "Am I to take that as your official consent, then? We gamble the gold on the priest?"
"Unless you have a sudden, desperate yearning to ignite another false priest to lead a holy war" Jasmine replied, looking up at him with a wicked little smile.
"I have already fought one brutal war to keep the Voghondai securely on this land," Alpheo said, his scarred face hardening with aggressive pride. "If the zealots want another, I would not be shy for a single second to show them how my legions bleed priests."
Jasmine smiled and leaned up to press her lips firmly against his. The kiss was slow, deep, and tasted faintly of the sweet wine from the feast.
"I have absolutely no doubt of that, my Fox," she whispered against his mouth as she pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. "None in this realm doubt your immense courage, and fewer still doubt your might. But for tonight, the zealots can wait. All they truly need down south is a small, quiet reminder of who wears the iron crown."
As she spoke, her hand slid slowly down his chest, her delicate fingers trailing a warm, deliberate path past his belt, moving between his thighs with a promise that had absolutely nothing to do with statecraft.
"Come," she whispered, her voice a sultry, commanding purr as she subtly shifted her weight, guiding the heavy warlord up from his chair and toward the massive, silk-sheeted bed. "Let us secure our borders here first. And in the morning... we can begin the busy work of ensuring the man who wears the holy white garb becomes our own kept creature.I would not shy to have a pontifex under a leash...."