Page 9

Chapter nine

A few minutes after Jamie and Blake leave, Llywelyn strides into the sitting room. He goes straight to a decoratively carved drinks cabinet and pours himself a glass of the honey-coloured liquid he seems to prefer. He tips his head back and downs it in one.

My mind balks at the sight. Even though I have seen Llywelyn do this before. For some reason, this time it is hitting differently. It is such a very human reaction to having to deal with family. Everything in Llywelyn’s movements seems so very human right now. The way he hurried across the room. The tension in his shoulders. The fluid ease with which he downed his drink, clearly a well practiced and familiar gesture even though I have only witnessed it a couple of times.

I can’t believe that the fey are so very similar to us. It is a disconcerting thought. I want it to be wrong. The fey are aliens. Invaders and enemies. I don’t want there to be any similarities between us. I don’t want him to need a stiff drink after arguing with his family.

Llywelyn’s gaze flicks to the tea set on the table. “How was your interrogation?”

“Fine. How was yours?”

He lets out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Fine.”

“Anything I need to know?” I ask.

He turns to face me, still cradling his empty drink. “No.”

I don’t believe that for one moment, but I will let it lie for now .

I take a step towards him. “How about needing to know what an alltudid is?”

Llywelyn pales. He angles his body away from me and pours himself another drink. This time, his hands shake ever so slightly.

“An alltudid is a person who has lost a duel and has been banished. They must never be spoken of.”

There is definitely more that he is not saying and that is such a pain in the ass. I don’t want to be wasting time and energy prising secrets out of the very person I’m supposed to be helping. But it is what it is, I suppose. Knowledge is power and Llywelyn is not the first person to not want to share. He is just the first person to annoy the hell out of me.

I take a quick breath. “So, in summary, you gave a pet to someone. They killed it. And then they were challenged to a duel, lost and were banished?”

“Yes,” says Llywelyn.

I stare at him. He stares back. He is going to tell me more whether or not he likes it.

“I’m not going to let anyone kill you,” he says.

I blink. That wasn’t what was on my mind but I guess it’s nice of him to realise that I might be concerned.

“Glad to hear it,” I snap. “Now, what’s on your social calendar for today?”

Llywelyn looks surprised by my abrupt change of topic. Then his expression shifts to one of alarm. As if the thought of going out is his personal idea of hell.

“I can’t learn anything by sulking in your rooms,” I remind him sternly.

It’s true, and it is something that definitely needs to be addressed. It is also true that maintaining control of the conversation while throwing the other person off balance by switching topic, is one of the oldest tricks in the book.

His golden eyes narrow. “There is a ball this evening. ”

“Perfect!” I say. “In the meantime, you can tell me all about this pet and this duel.”

Llywelyn’s eyes dim and his shoulders droop. But I don’t give a shit. I have a job to do and I’m bloody well going to do it.

I ’m enjoying this ball far more than the naked wrestling. Which isn’t exactly surprising. However, in my defence, this really is a better setting for gathering intel. And that’s not me being influenced by my emotions or sense of comfort. The simple fact is, more people means more conversations to eavesdrop on. Nevermind all the things they don’t say. There is so much to learn from a glance, a frown, a trembling hand.

Talking to pets in privacy was a great start. They know a lot about their masters, but this ball is a feast. It’s frustrating that no one is talking to Llywelyn, but it does mean I get to stand quietly at the back and observe in peace.

Llywelyn is clearly not enjoying it. He is fidgeting and breathing far too fast. His gaze is fixed firmly on the floor, as if ignoring everyone cancels out their disregard of him. It is childish and annoying. If he wants to be king, he needs to start acting like one.

He snatches another drink from the tray of a passing server. As if he didn’t nearly drain his drinks cabinet before we left.

Clenching my jaw, I pull my attention away from the sulky prince. I can observe him for hours and hours when I’m stuck alone in his rooms with him. Right now, I need to focus on other people.

My gaze drifts over to Jamie. He is laughing and talking animatedly with Blake. His hands are dancing through the air expressively as he talks. He looks sweet. Innocent. Soft.

But according to Llywelyn, Jamie challenged a fearsome vizier to a duel and won. It seems unbelievable. I’m going to have to verify Llywelyn’s version of events with another source, even though, as far as my training can tell, Llywelyn was speaking the truth.

I probably should have pushed more for the vizier’s name. Llywelyn’s discomfort and unease at taboo things can go be damned. The only reason I didn’t is because I’m not convinced it’s relevant. Pushing Llywelyn would have been for my own curiosity, nothing more. Pure gossip. I am better than that and that doesn’t mean I’m growing soft.

There will be other ways to find out, if I need to. At least I hope so. My superiors didn’t even know about this duel.

I bite back my frustrated sigh. There are some huge gaps in the agency’s knowledge. Almost shockingly large ones, but that’s why I am here. To fill in the blanks. Make an accurate assessment. There is no point in being irritated about it.

Suddenly, there is a tug on my collar. Llywelyn is fidgeting with the handle of my leash, wrapping it around his delicate looking hand. He looks up at me and I glare at him. He pouts in return but thankfully unwinds the chain from his palm, slackening the tension and releasing the pull on my collar.

With one last scowl at him, I turn my attention back to the room. Just in time to see two new people arrive. A fey and his human looking pet.

The fey has flame red hair in two long plaits and a majestic set of antlers. If Llywelyn hadn’t told me only royalty could wear antlers, I’d still know this was Prince Tristan. The red hair and the confident posture are more than enough clues.

My attention turns to his pet and my mind stalls for a moment. He is absolutely gorgeous. Tiny and short. All blond hair and large green eyes. Sharp cheekbones and a scowl that does not detract from his beauty.

My briefing simply said Prince Tristan’s pet was called Ollie and that he was an unpredictable wildcard. There was no mention of him being breathtakingly stunning .

No wonder Prince Tristan claimed him, and no wonder Llywelyn challenged his brother for the pet.

My stomach squirms. Okay, now I understand Llywelyn’s whining about the way I look. I don’t look anything like this guy. Or Jamie. I’m not even a muscled beefcake like Blake. I’m a good-looking man, but not in any way that’s exceptional.

Tristan gives his pet’s hand a squeeze. Oh, that’s interesting. My trained eye quickly runs over the prince and his pet again. Yep. They have cleaned and straightened up well, but there are telltale signs.

They were late to the ball because they were just fucking.

And judging by how close they are standing to each other, they are very fond of each other. A happy partnership. Is that why Llywelyn tried to break them up? I can totally see him being that petty and spiteful.

“There is nothing to learn here,” whispers Llywelyn. “We should retire.”

“No,” I hiss back.

Of course he is going to be uncomfortable at being in the same room as Tristan, but he is going to have to man up.

Tristan’s pet sees Llywelyn and his back straightens, and he stares intently. Okay, he clearly doesn’t believe in this resyn stuff. The only person in this whole damn place.

Beside me, Llywelyn squirms. “There is no point in staying.”

“Annoyed that people aren’t fawning over you?” I snap. Because letting him know that I’ve read the true reason he wants to leave, is not a card I want to play just yet.

He sniffs. “That behaviour was always reserved for my brothers.”

“Aww, poor little princeling, no one likes you? I can see why.” I hiss while keeping my eyes focussed on the room.

Llywelyn’s sharp inhale causes me to instinctively look at him. His face is pale and the look in his golden eyes is wounded. Hurt. Lost and lonely, and alarmingly young. He turns away from me to grab yet another drink from the laden tray of a passing server.

I turn back to the room. I’m seeing things. The light in here is all gloomy and atmospheric. Llywelyn is an arrogant ass. He is not going to be upset by my throwaway comment. No matter how drunk he is.

However, it is unsettling to realise that I have no idea how old he is. I’m going to have to ask him later.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him finish his drink. He moves towards a different server, presumably to put down his empty glass and take another. Llywelyn steps right in the path of the fey server. An older looking man with brown hair and very pointy ears. Llywelyn and the servant collide and the tray of red wine spills all over Llywelyn’s white robes, painting them red.

The glasses shatter on the floor and every pair of eyes in the ballroom pause what they were doing to stare. Even the harp music falters.

Llywelyn’s face flushes. His golden eyes blaze with a frightening fury. Lightning fast, he pulls out a dagger from a sheath hidden in his flowing sleeve. His arm slashes across the servant. The servant staggers back, crimson blood spraying from his severed throat. He falls to the ground. Gurgles, and then dies. Eyes turning blank and unseeing.

Everything is red. Wine and blood mingling. My pulse thumping in my ears feels red too.

Everything has happened so quickly, so unexpectedly. I can’t process it. It doesn’t feel real. Did Llywelyn really just murder a servant for spilling wine on him? Are my eyes really telling me the truth?

I’m usually good in a crisis. I’m trained for it and I have plenty of experience, but this has shocked me to the core. My lungs are not moving and my mind is frozen.

Suddenly, the harp music resumes and everyone turns their attention away. Conversations start again. The ballroom fills with the gentle hum of chatter and the clink of glasses. On the dance floor, people recommence their swirling movements. And just like that, it is like nothing happened.

I stare at the crowd, unbelieving. Uncomprehending. Is it murder that is so unremarkable, or is it this resyn stuff that is so very powerful? Either option is bewildering. None of this is making any sense.

A small horde of servants rush over. Some begin dragging the body away. Others start mopping up all the mess. Blood, wine and shattered glass. The efficient way they are moving is pointing towards casual murder being no big deal.

“Now can we go?” says Llywelyn.

I can’t tell if his robes are now red with blood, as well as the wine. Either way, he has managed to not get any on his face.

I nod numbly.

Getting out of here seems like a very good idea.