Page 5

Chapter 3

Leon

“E ighty years and they’ve barely changed a thing. Don’t they know they can redecorate?”

I stifle a snort at Alastor’s remark, ignoring the way the stable hand flinches as I toss my horse’s reins to him. My friend is right. The castle at Elmere looks much the same as the last time we saw it, despite two generations of kings and queens passing through it in the meantime.

It’s been four days since we left the northern reaches of Trova. We had to make a swift exit from the rundown village inn after that strange woman was dragged off and the serving boy seemed so upset about it. He’d disappeared into the other room and returned with our coin. Slapping it down on the table, he’d informed us that the rooms were no longer available. When we tried to order more drink, he refused. His attempts at bravado would have been laughable were it not for his threats to call for the local militia if we didn’t leave immediately. The others weren’t best pleased to spend the night outdoors on the hard ground when we’d planned to sleep in beds, but needs must. We’re all soldiers—we’ve slept in worse. And I’d rather sleep on the ground a million nights over than share a roof with a group of humans I don’t trust.

Not that I have any choice now.

I stare up at the majestic turrets and stained-glass windows of the queen and king’s residence. I was glad to turn my back on this castle all those years ago. I only wish I could turn my horse around and do the same right now.

Instead, I drag myself from the saddle and allow the two of us to be escorted across the courtyard and up into one of the castle’s main antechambers. Humans dart out of our way as we stride down the hallways, and I’m reminded of what I thought coming through the capital’s streets—there’s just so damn many of them. I feel naked with only Alastor to watch my back, but we left the others in the city. They have a job to do far more important than mine.

“Do you think the queen looks like him?” Alastor asks as we pass a portrait of Palquir Angevire on the wall. It’s a good likeness of the current queen’s grandfather. The artist captured his stature—fighting beside him, I always thought he was tall for a human—and they’ve even kept the receding hairline in.

“For Queen Elowen’s sake, I hope not,” I grunt.

Alastor throws me a warning look. “Careful now. You’ll need to be more diplomatic than that when we meet them.”

“Then he should’ve sent someone else.” I can hear the edge in my voice, and I don’t bother trying to smooth it out. Each step we take deeper into the castle, the more my temper flares. This whole mission is a farce and my reluctance to go was made plain at the onset, and yet, here I am.

Servants whisper as we pass. Even in the capital, fae are worthy of comment, and some of us more than others.

“ There he is. ”

“ That’s him? The Nightmare Prince? ”

“ Don’t look him in the eyes. He can turn you mad just by thinking it, you know. He can make you do terrible things. ”

I turn my head to find the footman who’s murmuring to his colleague, making sure to lock eyes with him. I won’t pretend I don’t enjoy the way he gasps and goes white before whipping his gaze down to the floor.

They leave us alone in the chamber, a sweaty-looking nobleman saying Their Majesties will be along shortly. I can’t tell if it’s some kind of slight. Does Trovian etiquette dictate keeping their guests waiting? Or is the pale servant quivering in the corner considered welcome enough? This is exactly why I hate this kind of thing. Too many bloody games.

At last, the doors at the end of the room swing open, and the Trovian royal retinue files in. Most hang back, wide eyes staring at us like frightened cattle in a slaughterhouse, but Queen Elowen strides forward, back straight, eyes calm and resolute, looking every inch a royal with the rubies in her crown gleaming against her dark hair. That, at least, she got from her grandfather.

“Prince Leonidas.” She offers her hand. Only Alastor has eyes sharp enough to catch my moment of hesitation before I take it, offering a bow.

“Your Majesty.” The title is bitter in my mouth, but I force myself to say it before turning to her husband, King Alaric. Unlike his wife, his hair is a deep brown, and he greets us with a quiet smile.

“May I introduce my friend and advisor, Lord Gyrion,” I say, going through the motions, even if with every word I want to replace their pleasant smiles with expressions of horror. These people took something from me that can never be replaced, and now I’m supposed to make nice with them.

“You two traveled alone?” Queen Elowen asks, raising her eyebrows. “I confess, I didn’t expect your party to be so small.”

I stare into her hazel eyes, looking for the hint of insincerity, but she’s hard to read.

“I find I don’t need much of an extended entourage to serve my purpose,” I say, scanning the small crowd now lining the antechamber. I don’t say, of course, that my extended entourage is in fact searching the city at this very moment. Only Alastor and I have to waste our time here—their quest is better kept secret.

“Well, perhaps if we did the same, we’d actually arrive to greet our visitors on time,” Alaric’s tone is light, and Alastor laughs. It breaks some tension in the room, as a handful of Trovians join in with a chuckle, but Elowen’s face stays perfectly still, and her eyes never leave mine.

Is she thinking what I am? Filusia and Trova might officially be allies, but lately the cracks have been showing—and someone else in this room knows that better than anyone. I see him in the corner, his scarlet robes impossible to miss, and wonder exactly how they’re going to play this.

“We should introduce you to some of our number, of course,” Queen Elowen says, sweeping an arm toward a woman with the same dark hair as her.

“My sister, Duchess Oclanna Rosier, and her husband, Duke Jocor Rosier.”

I barely look at them, focusing my energy on keeping the distaste from my face as the royals guide me through a growing list of introductions. If this is how they fritter away their time—on small talk and endless roll calls—I can see exactly where their problems come from. I manage to get through most of them without saying as much, however, and there’s a moment when I think they’re going to guide us out without any more fuss. Then Duchess Rosier chimes in, beckoning the man in red forward.

“And this is Anointer Nunias, one of the Temple’s best.”

The sisters exchange a look I can’t decipher, but I’m still asking myself the same question I had when I first laid eyes on the holy man. What are they doing bringing their cleric here to meet me ? There's no human still living who saw firsthand how many clerics I brought low, fighting beside the king in his civil war, but surely there are books on the matter. Enough to make my position crystal clear. The royals have made peace with the Temple of Ethira in the years since, but that doesn’t mean I have. Nor will I, as long as they keep preaching of the inherent “sinfulness” of the fae in general—and me, most of all.

The stocky priest bows his head just a fraction. I can imagine how much even that pains him. A Temple man, having to show respect to the very same heathen fae his predecessors fought against so bravely? So stupidly? So pointlessly? His boss would be in fits.

I give him a cursory glance but say nothing. He seems oblivious to the threat I pose, as if he has no idea I could bring this building down on his head if I so wished. I glance over at Alastor, and then the Trovian royals. What do they want from me here?

Then the cleric speaks. “I’ve been praying for your country, Your Highness. That Ethira may bless it with his wisdom and splendor and bring it into a new age of truth and light.”

The little prick. He’s going to invoke Ethira to a fae, when the Temple uses his name to condemn our kind every other week?

I look over the man in his finery, red as flayed flesh, and offer him a dangerous smile.

“A cleric, talking to me about truth?” I laugh, low and hard. “Save your breath,” I say. “As a matter of fact, save some of that wisdom for yourself. Your precious Temple needs all it can get.”

The silence that follows is sharp enough to injure, and I can’t resist the flare of satisfaction that comes with the fear returning to the faces around me. The cleric flushes, but Queen Elowen steps in without missing a beat.

“We’ve kept you too long from your rooms, Prince Leonidas,” she says smoothly. “I’m sure you’ll be eager to rest after such a tiring journey. We can speak more tomorrow about the proposals your grandfather has sent. I hear he has some exciting ideas for the eastern trade routes.”

At least Alastor waits until we’re alone in our rooms to point out the obvious.

“ Save your breath ? Sweet Firesta , ” he curses. “You thought that was the winning response?”

“You’re hardly one to lecture me on tact, Alastor.”

He collapses into a plush chair, running a hand through his floppy hair.

“That may be, but what would your grandfather have to say about it?”

“Respen knew what he was getting into when he sent a soldier to do a politician’s job,” I shoot back.

“With good reason, Leon,” Alastor says.

I turn away, not wanting to think about why, exactly, I’m here and not someone else.

“Besides,” Alastor continues, “I think he assumed you’d at least try to maintain civility. Inter-kingdom relations is, after all, the whole point of this trip.”

Technically, new trading routes and tariffs between our borders are the point of this trip, but those are just a cover for the main message: reminding the Trovian royals who their real friends are.

“And I have been civil, haven’t I?” I say. “I looked the pair of them in the face without making a single threat—that should be commended.”

I’m being truthful. I didn’t know if I’d be able to do it, after everything, but Elowen and Alaric Angevire are just tolerable enough—on the surface anyway—for me to hold my tongue.

The Temple of Ethira is another matter, however. My grandfather didn’t give me any orders about respecting them .

A servant knocks and enters with a trolley, laying an impressive selection of food across the nearest table with shaking hands.

“Well, it’s clear we won’t be dining with the royals tonight,” Alastor comments, but he doesn’t sound too cut up about it, leaning in to sniff a dish near him.

“Ask him if that’s normal.” I direct Alastor toward the human with a flick of my wrist.

Alastor rises, peering curiously into the human’s face, who looks alarmed.

“My lord?”

“What does the queen mean by sending food directly to our room?” Alastor asks him in a voice layered with magic. “Does she do it with all her guests, or just the ones who’ve offended her?”

I roll my eyes at his phrasing, but Alastor’s sensic power is already at work. The servant’s eyes glaze slightly, and then he blurts out a stream of truth.

“Her Majesty often prioritizes guest comfort over formality, my lord. Even if the Nightmare Prince hadn’t spoken blasphemy in front of her court, she may well have saved him the chore of dining in the royal hall on the night of his arrival.”

The servant’s eyes glint back into focus, falling nervously on Alastor.

“I—I’m sorry my lord, I…” For a moment I think the servant is going to be one of those people who realizes exactly what Alastor’s just done to him, but then his expression smooths as his mind lets the strange experience go. “Is there anything else I can do for you, my lord?” he asks, back to the nervous-but-polite manner he showed when he first came in.

“That will be all, thank you.”

“Blasphemy,” I snort once the servant is gone.

“It’s what he believes to be the truth,” Alastor reminds me as he picks through a bowl of fruit. “Who knew that after nearly a century your reputation for doling out terror and mayhem would still be so fresh with the humans?” he adds, selecting a bright green apple and taking a bite out of it.

I can’t keep the scowl from my face as I throw myself down opposite Alastor. My friend didn’t hear the servants whispering earlier, but I know what he’s referring to.

“Nightmare Prince,” I grumble. “I suppose it’s slightly less of a mouthful than ‘Prince of Nightmares.’”

“Turns out the humans have longer memories than we thought.”

“And the Temple’s rhetoric is such a help with that, I’m sure,” I add.

Not for the first time since arriving in Elmere, I wish we were still using our glamours. Things are easier in disguise, even if the occasional Trovian knows enough to see through it.

Unwillingly, my mind drifts to the young woman from that little village tavern, the one with chestnut hair and burning eyes. She’d caught my eye even before Hyllus heard her identifying us as fae, and I knew before she opened her mouth to me that she’d be trouble. Women like that don’t blow through life quietly, so when she’d turned out to be wanted by the local militia, it made sense. Still, it was admirable, the way she’d tried to bargain her way out of it—quick thinking on her part, even if it hadn’t worked out for her in the end.

Not my fault she’d picked the wrong fae. I don’t make other people my problem. Not unless absolutely necessary.

The food in front of me no longer looks appetizing, and I rise to move toward the adjoining chamber.

“Where are you going?” Alastor asks, mouth full.

“Bed,” I say. “I’m taking the queen’s advice.”

“Good,” Alastor says. “Try taking that attitude into the rest of this trip.”

I’ll say one thing for the Trovians. Their beds are just as comfortable as I remember them.

* * *

I wake to the sound of footsteps drumming in the hallway—dozens of them, marching in military unison. I know the sound like I know my own heartbeat.

Soldiers, coming this way.

I meet Alastor in the drawing room of our chambers, the gleam of his drawn sword visible by the light of the moon through the windows. I dip my own blade toward the door.

“Trouble?” Alastor asks.

“Sounds like it.”

I reach my terrial magic into the ground beneath us, searching for the telltale cracks and fissures I can exploit, ready for whatever’s coming.

“Leon…” Alastor says, his voice a warning.

“What?” I say, feigning innocence.

“Be careful. Don’t go rushing into anything.”

I don’t have a response, because the soldiers are already at the door, barging through with swords drawn.

“Drop your weapons!” barks their captain.

There’s about twenty of them—probably more in the corridor. I estimate that with a bit of focus, Alastor and I could clear the room in about four minutes.

But that would mean a lot of dead humans.

I look to Alastor. Neither of us have any idea what this is about, so there’s still a chance it’s just a misunderstanding we’ll be able to clear up quickly. If I start taking lives, though, it’ll send this diplomatic mission up in smoke.

But isn’t it already?

The little voice in my head is almost hopeful. How much easier would it be to cut my way through these men and be done with this whole mess?

“One last time, drop your weapons! You’re under arrest,” shouts the captain. Rogue magic sizzles across the thick rug toward us, leaving a burning ember among the threads. The soldiers are getting restless, clearly unnerved by our inaction. Things could easily escalate now whether I start it or not.

“Remember what your grandfather said,” Alastor reminds me.

Civility . Diplomacy . Tact . All very much in conflict with mass execution.

I heave a sigh and lower my blade.