Page 5 of Fey Empire (Fey Lords #5)

Chapter five

T he feel of silk against my skin is nice. I’m so glad that fey court robes are comfortable. Although I’m not sure if I will ever be able to figure out how to put them on myself. This fey servant girl is still fiddling with bits and pieces, and she has been dressing me for ages.

Hopefully, this outfit is more complicated than most. It has to be the height of formality. I am being formally presented to court, after all.

Lord Coxley has been executed, and the fey are content with the apology. I’m trying not to think about the gruesome details.

The wedding is officially back on. I have no idea if the public consummation is now part of the arrangements, and that’s another thing I’m trying very hard not to think about.

Today needs to be endured first. One step at a time. Thousands of people are going to be watching me perform a ceremony.

Deep breaths. I can do this. I endured a debutante ball amongst humans, back when the fey were only a myth. This can’t be much different.

The servant steps back and inspects her work. I think it is done. I look at my reflection in the mirror .

Layers of snow-white silk are skimming over my body. Cinching in at the waist and falling down to my toes. The white matches my hair and makes my eyes look extremely vivid. Not that I plan on looking at anyone.

I turn a little, and the robes swish with a pretty effect. The cloth flows from my hips, but it fits close across my stomach and chest. Thank heavens mother has been restricting my diet. This outfit really doesn’t hide any sins.

The servant nods happily. Good. I assume that means that everything is in order and looking as it should.

My gaze tracks over the barely visible laces and ties. Holy goddess. I hope someone will come and help me out of all of this later.

A pair of gold-flecked eyes appear in my mind’s eye. Along with a set of long, nimble fingers.

Heat floods my cheeks, and I push the scandalous thoughts away. I am being presented to court, it is not my wedding day. There is no reason for Prince Selwyn to come anywhere near me. Let alone undress me by unwrapping me slowly like a gift.

Suddenly, the dressing room door swings open behind me. My heart leaps up into my throat. I haven’t conjured him with my thoughts, have I?

Mother steps into the room. My heart calms, but my shoulders tense.

Her green eyes rake over me. Inspecting every inch of my appearance. She smiles. She looks happy and pleased.

I blink to try to clear my vision, but I’m still seeing the same things. This can’t be happening. Mother is never pleased with me.

“My plans are coming to fruition,” she beams.

Ah. Of course. That makes far more sense .

“I will be the mother of a prince consort of the fey. The race who rule the Earth.”

I drop my gaze and turn back to the mirror. She steps up to me and begins fussing with my hair.

“The Goddess blessed me with a pretty one when she burdened me with a vessel.”

My throat tightens. That’s the nicest thing she has ever said to me. Maybe one day I will make her proud. It might be possible. Giving up on that dream could have been premature.

She finishes with my hair. I can’t see the difference, but she seems happy. I’m still not used to it brushing my shoulders, but she told me to grow it out. All the fey, apart from Prince Llywelyn, have long hair. So, she was right. It is what they prefer.

I bite my bottom lip. Since my addled conversation with Prince Dyfri, I’ve been worried about wearing my hair down. It clearly means something. But I have no idea how to broach the subject with Mother. So, I’m just going to have to trust her judgement.

“Time to go,” she says as she heads out of the door.

I snatch a quick breath and follow dutifully behind her.

I keep my eyes on the floor as we make our way through Buckingham Palace. Thankfully, it is mostly the same high-quality carpet of old. There are only a few patches of moss or grass. An occasional pebble. The odd spot that sparkles for no discernable reason.

So with the help of my imagination, I can pretend this is still Buckingham Palace and not the fey court.

We reach the closed doors of the throne room. There is a hum of a great many voices coming from inside. Out here, there are only a handful of fey staff .

My hands move to smooth down my robes, but I manage to stop them just in time. I don’t know what I am doing, I will only mess things up.

Prince Selwyn’s heady magic swirls around me. I look over my shoulder just in time to see him stroll nonchalantly into the antechamber.

His eyes look mahogany in this light. And they go straight to me. They slide all the way down my body, and then back up again. A slow, purposeful appraisal that I feel on every inch of my skin.

Goosebumps erupt, and I shiver. A strange feeling flutters in my stomach. I stand still and bear the weight of his attention as best I can.

His chestnut-coloured hair is gleaming. The twists and plaits holding most of it up are complicated and exquisite. His horns are magnificent. As are the pointed tips of his ears.

He is not dressed like most fey. He is wearing beautiful, soft-looking brown trousers. And a waistcoat over a billowing white shirt. The waistcoat is red and gold.

The costume reminds me of a faun. I think that is the intention. Selwyn wants to look affable and harmless. Fun. Possibly a little mischievous. It is a good disguise.

But how come no one can see the wolf in his eyes?

Hastily, I pull my gaze away and drop into a curtsy. I think I’m getting better at them.

Prince Selwyn’s expression is utterly blank. He is giving nothing away. It is like looking at a mannequin.

I force a swallow down my tight throat.

He offers his hand. I dutifully place mine on his. His skin is a perfectly normal temperature, yet still his touch burns .

On the other side of the large double doors, trumpets blare. The hum of voices falls quiet. They are waiting for us.

I turn and face the doors. I drop my gaze demurely to the floor without slouching my shoulders. Mother always says good posture is everything.

The doors swing open. With my lowered gaze, I can just about make out the expanse of flagstones before us. The fey crowd has parted to create an aisle for Prince Selwyn and his Intended to walk down.

An aisle that leads all the way to the dais and the throne of Crown Prince Rhydian.

Selwyn steps forward, and miraculously my feet remember to step in time with him, and not three paces behind.

Step. Step. Step.

Silently, we make our way through the throne room, a thousand pairs of eyes on us.

Eventually, we reach the dais. I drop into the lowest curtsy I can manage, while beside me, Selwyn bows to his oldest brother.

Prince Rhydian regally holds his hand up. His deep voice rumbles out a sentence in Arcane Fey. Something about a greeting, a welcome and an acceptance.

His long hair is nearly as pale as mine. His expression is stern, and his antlers are impressive. He looks every inch a fey prince, sitting on his throne.

The trumpets blare again, and I nearly flinch.

Behind me, the crowd erupts into motion. They fall out of formation and start mingling and talking. Harp music begins to play. Servants hurry out with trays of drinks .

The ceremony is over. Now there is simply want amounts to another cocktail party to endure.

Selwyn lets go of my hand. He walks away without a glance or a word. He takes a drink from the tray of a passing server and joins a small group of fey, who greet him warmly.

I look away and find Prince Rhydian frowning down at me. Oh hells! I make a quick curtsy and hurry away.

This far corner looks quiet enough. A servant drifts over with a tray of champagne, I take one and offer a weak smile. She weaves back into the crowd and disappears from sight.

I’m all alone.

I can’t see Mother or any of her lackeys, but I know she is here somewhere. Oh well, I’m pretty sure she can find me if she needs anything.

I guess I will just stand here with my drink.

I take a small sip, and risk peeking out. Nobody is paying me the slightest bit of attention. It is safe to observe the party.

My gaze finds Prince Llywelyn. He looks fully recovered, thank the goddess. His short golden hair is gleaming, and he seems to be healthily exchanging tense words with a striking male fey with blue hair.

Suddenly, the blue-haired fey turns on his heels and strides away. I inhale sharply. I’m sure that in fey culture, turning your back on someone is extremely rude? Especially if they are of a higher status.

Prince Llywelyn certainly looks furious.

He runs forward. Everything is a blur of motion. Suddenly, the blue-haired fey is on the floor, sprawled on his front. Prince Llywelyn is sitting on top of him, dagger in his hand .

He brings the dagger down, pulls it out and brings it down again. Blue liquid is flying everywhere. The violence is potent. Red and fierce and clogging up the air and weighing down the gravity.

Oh. Is the blue viscous liquid, blood? Llywelyn bled gold, so it seems quite likely.

I step backwards.

Straight into a very firm, very male chest. Selwyn’s vivid magic coils around me, like a nest of vines.

I walked right into him! I try to move, to spin around and apologise profusely, but his arm wraps around my waist. Holding me in place. Almost as if he is protecting me from the violence exploding in front of us.

I gulp and watch the drama unfolding.

Prince Llywelyn is still stabbing the blue-haired fey. The rest of the room has fallen silent. Everyone is watching.

The handsome man, who cradled Prince Llywelyn when he was dying, steps forward. He takes hold of his prince’s slender waist and bodily lifts him up and away from his victim.

“Enough!” he says sternly as he sets the prince on his feet.

“Why?” hisses Llywelyn vehemently.

“Because you are still recovering from a chest wound!”

Llywelyn startles. Then he chuckles. He wipes his arm across his brow and smears blue everywhere. He sways.

His handsome man sweeps him up into a bridal carry. Llywelyn rests his head on the handsome man's shoulder with a sigh. His man carries him out of the room. Nobody tries to stop them .

Oh my. That was the most romantic thing I have ever seen. How lovely. How lucky are they? Love is a rare blessing. Few are bestowed it.

Selwyn’s arm tightens around my waist, pulling me a little closer. Butterflies take flight in my stomach. There was danger, and he came straight to protect me.

The goddess has not chosen to bless me with love.

But maybe this marriage won’t be so terrible.