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“I will make her,” I growled, for no one’s benefit but my own temper.

I had little to claim as my own in this life. My brother would inherit Eilean Gayl. I would take the throne of Annwyn as its High King, yes. But while the power was absolute, it was shared with the queen—Veyka Pendragon.

The secretive female who was too free with her tongue.

“Ha! No one will make that female do anything.” Gwen shook her head. “Her first instinct is to accuse, rather than listen.”

I didn’t care for this conversation any more than the first.

“Will you give her your father’s table?” I asked.

Gwen’s arms dropped to her sides. “I do not know.”

It would arrive soon; Gwen had mentioned when we left Wolf Bay that it was being packed and readied for transport. Her family estate was on the southern side of the Spine, meaning the massive piece of furniture would not have to cross the jagged mountains. Though it would take a troop of airborne fauna-gifted terrestrials to get it through the Blasted Pass and into Baylaur.

Gwen toyed with the golden cap at the end of one of her braids, her eyes drifting out the window once again.

“Arthur promised to be a king of strength and prosperity. She…” Gwen’s face contorted, holding back any manner of angry epithet. Finally she finished: “I do not know what she is. Not yet.”

19

VEYKA

Another day, another royal council meeting.

Another opportunity.

I’d begrudgingly admitted to myself that Guinevere’s reasoning in bringing down the white hart was sound. But I would die before I admitted as much to her or the Brutal Prince. Luckily, I’d had no reason to see either of them. After the Offering I’d returned to my rooms. If I was truly lucky, I wouldn’t have to deal with another terrestrial until the Joining itself at Mabon.

I hadn’t sighted any more owl-shaped shadows either.

The Royal Council, however, was something else entirely.

I’d surrendered control of my kingdom, but I’d agreed to be their cupbearer. For my own reasons, though I know that when Roksana suggested it, she’d hoped that hearing the near daily discussions would provoke interest in doing some ruling for myself.

I was interested in what they said—to a point. The point that it served me.

That was best accomplished if I blended in.

I’d selected a gown of burnt umber, nearly the color of the goldstone palace itself. If my unusual hair and less than willowy body made me stand out, at least the color of my gown could be non-descript.

My twin shadows walked on either side of me, a half step behind.

On my hips, my twin blades in their matching scabbards.

Rather ironic, considering I was a twin missing her other half.

I passed through the audience chamber where fae courtiers loitered. I’d never worked up the stomach to linger in this room, to try to hear what was being said outside of the council room. A court of treachery, I knew.

Someone within this court had plotted my brother’s death.

Whether that person stood here in the audience chamber, even now sipping tea and plotting, or whether I would be pouring them wine in a few minutes' time, I did not know. But I would find out, and then I would exact my revenge.

Imagining the brutal ways I would torture and maim was my nighttime lullaby.

“Hold a moment.”

The blood in my veins turned to ice. The fury and fire I’d felt moments before was replaced by cold. The sort of deep cold that killed, that froze your organs in place and sucked every bit of air from your chest.