Jezal sat in the darkness. He watched the fire dance in the great hearth, and he thought about what might have been. He thought about it with some bitterness. All the paths his life could have taken, and he had ended up here. Alone.
He heard hinges creaking. The small door that connected to the queen’s bedchamber crept slowly open. He had never bothered to lock it, from his side. He had not foreseen any circumstance under which she would ever want to use it. Some error of etiquette that he had made, no doubt, for which she could not wait even until morning to admonish him.
He stood up, quickly, stupidly nervous.
Terez stepped through the shadowy doorway. She looked so different that at first he hardly recognised her. Her hair was loose, she wore only her shift. She looked humbly towards the ground, her face in darkness. Her bare feet padded across the boards, across the thick carpet towards the fire. She seemed very young, suddenly. Young and small, weak and alone. He watched her, mostly confused, somewhat scared, but also, as she came closer and the firelight caught the shape of her body, ever so slightly aroused.
“Terez, my…” he fumbled for the word. Darling scarcely seemed to cover it. Nor did love. Worst enemy might have, but it hardly would have helped matters. “Can I—”
She cut him off, as ever, but not with the tirade he was expecting. “I’m sorry for the way that I have treated you. For the things that I have said… you must think me…”
There were tears in her eyes. Actual tears. He would hardly have believed until that moment that she could cry. He took a hurried step or two towards her, one hand out, no idea of what to do. He had never dared to hope for an apology, and certainly not one so earnestly and honestly delivered.
“I know,” he stuttered, “I know… I’m not what you wanted in a husband. I’m sorry for that. But I’m as much a prisoner in this as you are. I only hope… that perhaps we can make the best of it. Perhaps we might find a way… to care for one another? We have no one else, either of us. Please, tell me what I have to do—”
“Shhhh.” She touched one finger to his lips, looking into his eyes, one half of her face glowing orange from the fire, the other half black with shadow. Her fingers worked through his hair and drew him towards her. She kissed him, gently, awkwardly, almost, their lips brushing, then pressing clumsily together. He slid one hand round behind her neck, under her ear, his thumb stroking at her smooth cheek. Their mouths worked mechanically, accompanied by the soft squeak of breath in his nose, the gentle squelch of spit moving. Hardly the most passionate kiss he had ever enjoyed, but it was a great deal more than he had ever expected to get from her. There was a pleasant tingling building in his crotch as he pushed his tongue into her mouth.
He ran his other palm down her back, feeling the bumps of her spine under his fingers. He grunted softly as he slid his hand over her arse, down the side of her thigh then up between her legs, the hem of her shift gathering round his wrist. He felt her shudder, felt her flinch, and bite her lip in shock, it seemed, or even in disgust. He jerked his hand back, and they broke apart, both looking at the floor. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, inwardly cursing his eagerness. “I—”
“No. It’s my fault. I’m not… experienced… with men…” Jezal blinked for a moment, then almost smiled at a surge of relief. Of course. Now everything was clear. She was so assured, so sharp, it had never even occurred to him that she might be a virgin. It was simple fear that made her tremble so. Fear of disappointing him. He felt a rush of sympathy.
“Don’t worry,” he murmured it softly, stepping forward and taking her in his arms. He felt her stiffen, no doubt with nervousness, and he gently stroked her hair. “I can wait… we don’t have to… not yet.”
“No.” She said it with a touching determination, looking him fearlessly in the eye. “No. We do.”
She dragged her shift up and over her head, let it drop to the floor. She came close to him, took hold of his wrist, guided it back to her thigh, then upwards.
“Ah,” she whispered, urgent and throaty, her lips brushing his cheek, her breath hot in his ear. “Yes… just there… don’t stop.” She led him breathless to the bed.
“If that is all?” Glokta looked around the table, but the old men were silent. All waiting for my word. The king was absent again, so he made them wait an unnecessarily long time. Just to stab home to any doubters who is in charge. Why not, after all? The purpose of power is not to be gracious. “Then this meeting of the Closed Council is over.”
They rose, quickly, quietly, and in good order. Torlichorm, Halleck, Kroy and all the rest filed slowly from the room. Glokta himself struggled up, his leg still aching with the memory of the morning’s cramps, only to find that the Lord Chamberlain had, once again, remained behind. And he looks far from amused.
Hoff waited until the door shut before he spoke. “Imagine my surprise,” he snapped, “to hear of your recent marriage.”
“A swift and understated ceremony.” Glokta showed the Lord Chamberlain the wreckage of his front teeth. “Young love, you understand, brooks no delays. I apologise if the lack of an invitation offended you.”
“An invitation?” growled Hoff, frowning mightily. “Hardly! This is not what we discussed!”
“Discussed? I believe we have a misunderstanding. Our mutual friend,” and Glokta let his eyes move significantly to the empty thirteenth chair at the far end of the table, “left me in charge. Me. No other. He deems it necessary that the Closed Council speak with one voice. From now on, that voice will sound remarkably like mine.”
Hoff’s ruddy face had paled slightly. “Of course, but—”
“You are aware, I suppose, that I lived through two years of torture? Two years in hell, so I can stand before you now. Or lean before you, twisted as an old tree root. A crippled, shambling, wretched mockery of a man, eh, Lord Hoff? Let us be honest with one another. Sometimes I lose control of my own leg. My own eyes. My own face.” He snorted. “If you can call it a face. My bowels too, are rebellious. I often wake up daubed in my own shit. I find myself in constant pain, and the memories of everything that I have lost nag at me, endlessly.” He felt his left eye twitching. Let it twitch. “So you can see how, despite my constant efforts to be a man of sunny temper, I find that I despise the world, and everything in it, and myself most of all. A regrettable state of affairs, for which there is no remedy.”
The Lord Chamberlain licked his lips uncertainly. “You have my sympathy, but I fail to see the relevance.”
Glokta came suddenly very close, ignoring a spasm up his leg, pressing Hoff back against the table. “Your sympathy is less than worthless, and the relevance is this. Knowing what I am, what I have endured, what I still endure… can you suppose there is anything in this world I fear? Any act I will shrink from? The most unbearable pain of others is at the worst… an irritation to me.” Glokta jerked even closer, letting his lips work back from his ruined teeth, letting his face tremble, and his eye weep. “Knowing all that… can you possibly think it wise… for a man to stand where you stand now… and make threats? Threats against my wife? Against my unborn child?”
“No threat was intended, of course, I would never—”
“That simply would not do, Lord Hoff! That simply would not do. At the very slightest breath of violence against them… why, I would not wish you even to imagine the inhuman horror of my response.”
Closer yet, so close that his spit made a soft mist across Hoff’s trembling jowls. “I cannot permit any further discussion of this issue. Ever. I cannot permit even the rumour that there might be an issue. Ever. It simply… would… not… do, Lord Hoff, for an eyeless, tongueless, faceless, fingerless, cockless bag of meat to be occupying your chair on the Closed Council.” He stepped away, grinning his most revolting grin. “Why, my Lord Chamberlain… who would drink all the wine?”