Free The Second Empire by Paul Kearney

half—what?
    “Unbelievable,” King Abeleyn of Hebrion muttered. “Golophin has really surpassed himself this time. But why wood? Old Mercado got himself a silver face. Couldn’t I have been given limbs of steel or iron?”
    “He was in a hurry,” Isolla told him. “They vote on the regency today. There was nothing else available.”
    “Ah, yes. My noble cousins, flapping around me like gore-crows looking for a beakful of the Royal carcase. What a shock it’ll be when I walk in on the dastards! For I will walk in, Isolla. And in full mail too.”
    “Don’t overdo things. We don’t want you looking like an apparition.”
    Abeleyn grinned, the same grin that had quickened her heart as a girl. He was still boyish when he smiled despite the grey of his hair and the scars on his face. “Golophin may have had to fix my legs, Issy, but the rest of me is still flesh and blood. How do you feel about marrying a carpenter’s bench?”
    “I’m not a romantic heroine in some ballad, Abeleyn. Folk with our blood marry out of policy. I’ll wear your ring, and both Astarac and Hebrion will be the better off for it.”
    “You haven’t changed. Still the sober little girl with the world on her shoulders. Give us a kiss.”
    “Abeleyn!”
    He tried to embrace her and pull her face towards his, but his wooden feet slipped on the stone floor and he went down with a clack and crash, pulling her with him. They landed in a billow of her brocade and silks, and Abeleyn roared with laughter. He kept his grip, and kissed her full on the mouth, one hand cradling the hollow of her neck. She felt the colour flame into her face as she pulled away.
    “That put the roses into your cheeks!” he chortled. “By God Issy, you grew up well. That’s a fine figure you’ve got lurking under those skirts.”
    “That’s enough, my lord. You’ll injure yourself. This is unbecoming.”
    “I’m alive, Isolla. Alive. Let me forget Royal dignity for a while and taste the world.” His hand brushed her naked collarbone, drifted lower and caressed the swell of one breast where the stiff robe pushed it upwards. A jolt ran through her that dried up the words in her mouth. No-one had ever touched her in that way. She wanted it to stop. She wanted it to go on.
    “Well sire, I see you are feeling better,” a deep, musical voice said.
    They disentangled themselves at once and Isolla helped the King to his feet. Golophin stood by the door with his arms folded, a crooked smile on his face.
    “Golophin, you old goat!” Abeleyn cried. “Your timing is as inept as ever.”
    “My apologies, lad. Isolla, get him to the bed. You’ve excited him enough for one morning.”
    Isolla had nothing to say. Abeleyn leaned heavily on her as she helped him back to the large four-poster. Only a two-poster now. The other two were grafted on to the King’s stumps.
    “My people have to see me,” Abeleyn said earnestly. “I can’t sit around in here like an ageing spinster. Issy has given me the bare bones of it. Now you tell me, Golophin. It’s written all over your face. What’s been going on?”
    On his own visage, as the humour faded, pain and exhaustion added an instant fifteen years to his age.
    “You can probably guess.” Golophin poured all three of them wine from the decanter by the King’s bed and drained half his own glass in a single swallow.
    “It’s been only a few weeks, but your mistress Jemilla—”
    “Ex-mistress,” Abeleyn said quickly, glancing at Isolla. A warmth crept about her heart. She found herself taking the King’s hand in her own. It was dry and hot but it returned her pressure.
    “Ex-mistress,” Golophin corrected himself. “She’s proven herself quite the little intriguer. As we speak Hebrion’s nobles gather in the old Inceptine abbey and squabble over the regency of the kingdom.”
    Abeleyn said nothing for a moment. He was staring at his wooden legs. Finally he looked up. “Urbino, I’m thinking. The dry old