The Fairest (Book #1)

23: Plans

"I thought you'd never stop," Tarkel said, husky voice withering. "We need to get you dressed."

"Where's your team?" Eron grumbled, crossing his bedchambers, which glowed brightly thanks to the extra lanterns and the fire in the hearth.

"Thanks to you and the king, Grisonce refused to send them," Tarkel explained, giving him an accusing eye.

Eron gripped the shirt in his hand and disappeared into the washroom.

"The pathetic bastard," he muttered.

"Come now," Tarkel ordered, more like a father rather than a servant.

"Wait." Eron quickly washed up while the old man shuffled about his bedchambers.

Of course, Gris would retaliate this way to avoid being in the pathways of Eron's fists. This meant only one thing: the patchy slave must've confided in the Strange Prince and told him what he'd done to her. He shook his head and left the washroom.

Tarkel had already unpacked parts of his new uniform on the bed and even had his matching boots waiting to the side. Eron wished he could run across the palace, wrap his hands around Gris' neck, and squeeze as he watched the life slip from his body.

"Come now," Tarkel barked with a weak wave of his boney hand. Eron had noticed a week ago that the man had lost a few more pounds of weight.

"Are you still eating, Tarkel?" Eron asked, approaching the bed and staring at the outfit he'd ordered months ago from the royal tailor.

"Yes," the manservant replied lowly as he focused on his tasks.

Eron ground his teeth at the Strange slave who had served and raised him since infancy.

Tarkel Iisenor was from the estranged Iisebrinian bloodline. He had thin dusty hair that turned white around his fifteenth birthday, chalky white skin, and eyes so blue and vibrant one would've thought he was an Iisen-Soother. How his ancestors ended up in the north, far away from their kingdom in the chilly south, even Tarkel didn't know. But one thing Eron did know was that Tarkel's brittle bone illness proclaimed him Strange, which condemned him to slavery at a young age.

Like Grisonce's limping servant, Tarkel was bought by the royal trades master and managed to please King Thaddeus enough to officialize him just for Eron. And for some reason, the Diviines had no use for him because the Strange was beating his illness like a knight high on amberia leaves.

Until recently.

"Are you sure?" Eron doubted, picking up his white chemise.

Tarkel's brows clashed with some unreadable emotion. "I think I'd know if I wasn't eating or not," the Strange said. "Now get dressed so we can put on this futtin' armor."

Eron obeyed. He put on everything, from the uniform's cotton stitched white shirt, to the finest chain metal dipped in shiny red dye and gold trims. He fastened the gold buttons of the vest. The matching breeches were thick yet flexible enough for easy movement, and the boots' interior kissed his feet with delight.

"Now, the armor."

"Be a gentleman and come closer," Tarkel beckoned, abandoning his task of straightening things on his vanity table and went to roll the rack holding the gold-plated armor from beside the wardrobe.

Just as Eron approached Tarkel to help him, the door opened, and his maidservant barged in.

"I tell you two, it's a ruckus out there," the young lady of twenty said, shaking her head.

"I didn't know you were coming," Eron faltered and tried to subdue his shock and relief.

"Of course, I had to nag Gris a bit, but he has his reasons," Malana replied. She held out a beautiful embroidered box for him to take.