Epilogue
King Alder approaches the podium. He’s aged quickly since he took the throne fifty-three years ago. Ruling Faery is a hard job, after all, he tells himself whenever he stands in front of a looking glass. Especially with this Goddess-damned rebellion.
How could anyone hate me? I’m the best ruler Faery has ever seen.
But the years since his father’s untimely death have aged him to a degree he refuses to acknowledge, even if the servants titter about a curse behind his back.
“Yes,” he creaks, “Hello.” He clears his throat, trying to remember the main points his advisors had wanted him to get across.
Where is Rafe? King Alder wonders. Rafe always wrote notecards.
The various Fae standing in front of him wait expectantly. They would transcribe his words and send the messages to every city, village, and pigsty with a town square.
Ah yes, I’m giving a speech, he reminds himself.
“The attack upon our holy brothers and sisters cannot stand.”
Yes, that’s it. Monkwick. Well done, he praises himself.
“The loss of the fleet is bad. Very bad. The worst.”
A sunny-skinned Fae calls, “What fleet?”
The attendees shoot each other glances, wondering if this is another of the rotten king’s delusions, or if he’s letting state secrets slip again.
“I didn’t say anything about a fleet!” he blusters. “Now, yes, Monkwick. Monkwick was a great ally. The best ally. Very important. And...”
Again, the Fae discreetly look at each other, torn between dismay that this fuckwit is running their lands and amusement at his blathering.
Counselor Fitch hobbles to the podium, placing an aged arm over King Alder. Counselor Fitch is indeed ancient, and most Fae have been praying for his passing through the Veil for decades.
“What King Alder is trying to say is that we must strike back. The aggression against our allies, one of the ruling families, cannot stand. If we ignore it, who will those insane rebels attack next?” He stops to clear his rheumy throat and several audience members roll their eyes.
The King nods agreeably. “They are traitors to our realm! And they must be drawn and quartered! From now on, suspected traitors will be drawn and quartered. Very gruesome, very painful. I love the sound of traitor bones.” He smiles, patting Counselor Fitch on the back.
“You tell them I came up with that myself.”
As the king wanders off and the crowd departs to start the process of writing out the missives, Counselor Fitch frowns.
Counselor Kudrons approaches him. She flips back her flouncy blue hair.
She’s never been too concerned with much besides keeping her family estate rich in gold and making sure she’s on the arm of the correct Fae, but with the loss of the only other royal family that supported Alder, some feeling tickles at her brain. Worry, perhaps? she wonders.
“Counselor Fitch.” She bats her eyelashes in the way male Fae generally like. When he merely stares, annoyance fills her. Too old to be interested in that, she tells herself, rather than acknowledge that some Fae may not find her attractive.
She continues, less sweetly, “I am disappointed we lost our only powerful ally. Do you believe Rafe died in the attack?”
Holy shit, I sure hope so. That bastard knows entirely too much, Fitch thinks, but he keeps his face blank. “I believe so. It is unfortunate he had been visiting with the heads of his house when the attack happened. But we have someone better than Rafe.” He taps the side of his nose.
Counselor Kudrons tilts her head like a confused dog. “What do you mean?”
Fitch smiles, his green jowls and gummy smile making him look oddly turtle-like. “A spy. One placed very, very close to the pretender that is fucking the entire rebel army.”
A smarmy smile spreads across Kudrons’s face as she lets that annoying feeling of fear slip away.