Chapter 2
“What do you mean, you won’t marry her?” High King Faradir demands. “Princess Listhra is beautiful, of royal descent, a worthy warrior. You cannot have an objection to her.”
I make a show of tapping my temple, and then say, “Well, if you require a more literal clarification, I mean that I shan’t pledge myself to her, and likewise shan’t accept any pledge from her. Is that clearer? Or shall I rephrase, Father?”
The court goes so quiet that one very soft intake of breath from somewhere is audible to everyone. I keep my arms crossed as I lean against one of the columns circling the High King’s throne and framing the sacred stream.
The princess in question glares daggers at me with her cold, amber eyes and tosses a lock of rich brown hair over her shoulder. Why she expected anything else from me is utterly beyond my comprehension. She should know not to take it personally. After all, she’s only the sixth fae woman I’ve declined.
Faradir has this idea in his head that the more royal and beautiful a woman is, the more tempted I’ll be. As if I’ll fall for his thinly veiled tricks. I know him better than that. And he should know me better.
Alas, here we are.
“I mean no offense to you, of course, Princess Listhra,” I say with a sigh, tossing a grin her way. “You’re fairer than the choicest firerose at the height of its bloom, and there’s nothing you could have done to change my decision.”
She stands opposite me, to my father’s left, so I’d have to stare at my shoes to miss her glare. She shouldn’t be so offended; she knows I’m not lying, so she ought to appreciate the compliment.
Perhaps my words were too harsh. But really, I’m almost insulted that the High King thought I’d agree to marry her. I’ve known her for some two hundred years now, and every year she grows more intolerable than the previous. He’d have had much greater success with the second woman he’d brought me. She wasn’t pretentious like the rest. I kind of liked her. One Oleria, second youngest princess of the Ildreer Court.
But, thankfully for me and her, Faradir gave up too early.
“Such a callous rejection, my son,” says the High King, glaring at me as he leans back against his throne, fingers drumming on the armrest. His glamour makes his face shine like a small sun, his hair falling like molten gold over his shoulders. It’s stark against his brilliant white robes. He’s daylight compared to me. I take after my mother’s darker complexion. She was a daughter of Nothril—the Night Court. “Can you not see how you’ve broken her heart?”
I lift one eyebrow at him. “She cares as little for me as I do for her.”
That familiar expression crosses the High King’s face, and I barely have time to fortify myself for that dreaded snap of his fingers. It resounds in the stone-still court full of bodies who dare not make a sound.
I almost don’t want to look, to see who it is this time.
But everything I do and don’t do is carefully measured by the man on Faerieland’s throne, and I owe whoever will be dragged through that door my acknowledgement—and my promise.
I sigh loudly. “This again? How predicable, Father.”
Without moving my body, I swivel my head with disinterest toward the opened double doors. Toward the winged, fanged guards and the human chained in iron between them. They drag him forward, the crowd of Faerieland’s denizens rustling to allow them through. Though, the stench of iron and the pulse radiating from the chains are the stronger motivations for the swift withdrawal.
The guards drop the man to his knees at my feet, facing the High King.
He looks up at me. Calver. Who, just this morning, laid out the very clothes I wear now.
“Prince Trenian,” he whispers, then, without lifting his head to the dais, “High King.”
“How long have you served my son?” the High King asks him.
He swallows. “Thirty years, Your Majesty.”
I hold his gaze for a heartbeat. As I have vowed to you, so I will do. A fraction of relief passes over him as he bows his head, his shoulders shuddering.
“A pity to lose one so faithful,” says Faradir as he lifts his hand into the air and curls his fingers inward.
I don’t flinch at the gasp of pain at my feet, at the wheezing gurgle. I don’t flinch when the High King squeezes his hand into a fist, and a snap cuts through the air with sharp finality.
“It grows more challenging to keep my household staff populated these days,” I drawl, flicking my wrist for the guards to drag away the body. I don’t let my eyes linger, lest I betray the fury burning through my blood. “High turnover is simply not good for morale, and the effort to train new staff is quite headache-inducing.”
“Then perhaps you ought to behave yourself, Prince Trenian, and I won’t find myself needing to discipline my wayward son,” says Faradir.
I chuckle. “Come, come Father. You always present it as if it is you against me. Surely, we can arrange something mutually beneficial. You want me to have a son to continue the line of succession.” My mouth twists into some semblance of a grin. “And I want to fall in love.”
Both are as close to lies as I dare come.
The High King leans forward on his throne, steepling his fingers and regarding me with obvious disdain. “And what, dear son, would you propose?”
Now I do grin. “A bargain.”
“Does this face”—Faradir points at his own—“look like it thinks you can give me a bargain I’d be tempted to take?”
Something shoots like glee down my spine. All these years of collecting my pieces and planning. Now the board is set, and it’s finally time to make my first move. “What if I promised to travel to the Fae Courts and return with a bride by the height of Lulythinar?”
At that, the High King’s eyes sharpen. “And what would you want in return?”
“The freedom to choose whom I wish.”
He leans back against his throne. The hand that just choked the life out of my manservant strokes his long beard, considering. His eyes glaze and narrow, as he works through what angle I might be hiding. He’ll suspect that I am intending to marry, but not sire an heir, and will add a clause to the bargain involving an heir.
“Tell me what you intend to bargain,” he says.
“That I will travel to the Fae Courts and if I do not return with a wife by Lulythinar, I will marry whomever you choose.”
His attention shoots back to me. He wasn’t expecting my offer to marry whomever he chose—or so soon. Lulythinar isn’t even a fortnight away. I rein in my impulse to let my grin morph into something smug and calculating. He knows I’m angling for something. He knows I’m trying to trick him.
But it’s an offer he cannot refuse.
“And you, Father? What would your bargain be?” I ask.
The High King thinks for several long minutes. Our audience is silent, so silent I can almost forget that dozens upon dozens of fae creatures stand just behind me, hanging on every word. How quickly news will spread among Faerieland that the heir to the High King’s throne is searching for a wife. The Courts will be insufferable. I’ll hardly be able to attend a social function. Faradir had better add a clause about royalty. I would, but I must leave some gaps in the bargain for him to fill.
At last, he says, “I would give you freedom to choose a noble for your bride from among the Courts by Lulythinar. If you are without possession of a bride by Lulythinar, you will marry my choice and fulfill your duty to produce an heir. Will you accept the terms of this bargain?”
I turn his words over in my head, searching for any hidden tricks. It’s as I anticipated from him. “I will,” I say, and raise my fist into the air as Faradir does the same. “Let it be so.”
“Let it be so,” echoes the High King.
Light flares between us, sharp and fast, like a brand. A tattoo appears, adding to the ones on my right arm. This one spans the width of my wrist, the picture of a crown broken into two pieces. One to represent his side of the bargain, and one to represent mine.
If the High King is alarmed or concerned by the appearance the bargain has taken, he doesn’t show it. I lower my fist, leveling a hard gaze at him. “I shall request leave of Your Majesty. It appears I have a bride to woo.”
Without waiting for said leave, I push off the pillar and stride through the throng of onlookers. They part like the Maltun Sea at Lulythinar before me, and I don’t spare a single glance for any of them. The guards go to open the doors, but they move too slowly. I plant my palms and shove them open, letting them swing closed in my wake.
It’s technically true that the High King wants me to continue the line of succession, and that I want love. Faradir wants me to a have a son, but not because he wants a reliable line of succession. It’s because no one can sit on the throne who doesn’t have Great Kings’ blood flowing in their veins, and I am Faradir’s only heir.
The moment I have a son, however . . .
Nothing will stop him from killing me.
And I do want love. I’m just not stupid enough to risk such a thing. There will be no love in the marriage I’m about to begin.
My steward, Edvear, another lowborn fae about half my age with yellow cat eyes and nubby horns protruding from his curly brown hair, hurries to my side once we’re far enough from the throne room. I twist my fingers by habit, throwing a quick illusion spell around us to conceal his voice.
“Master Ash!” he says quickly. “Calver—”
“Is dead,” I reply briskly. “Tell Sanak there is an opening available if he wants it. I’m going to need a small unit of warriors, and if you could find some lowborn fae to dress up as dignitaries, that would be just fabulous.”
“Lowborn fae? My lord?”
“Yes, just anyone the High King doesn’t care about. Ones that won’t care about humans.” I glance sidelong at him, at the shellshocked expression he’s trying to hide, and I find myself softening. “You look crestfallen. What is wrong, my friend?”
“It’s just . . . Calver is dead. He was your manservant for over thirty years. Were you not . . . Are you not . . .?”
My jaw clenches, and I pick up our pace. “He knew what he was getting into. He accepted the position, knowing the risks, just as you did. I will fulfill my vow to him, as I will fulfill my vow to you should anything happen. My father won’t relinquish the idea that I’m attached to my staff, so he fancies executing them whenever he disapproves of me.”
Edvear looks ahead, toward the door of my quarters that we swiftly approach. His nostrils flare as he avoids my gaze. He says nothing, but he’s served me long enough that I recognize the expression.
I lower my voice. “The High King killed my mother when I disrespected him once. Was I glad when that happened? No. Neither am I glad for Calver’s loss. Or any loss. That doesn’t mean I am foolish enough to risk forming attachments. Truly, Princess Listhra ought to be relieved I rejected her instead of pouting like a pixie without a book to nibble on.”
Edvear nods once, back to his composed self as he bows his horned head and opens the door for me. “Which court are we going to first, then? I’ll have our servants pack us.”
“No need to pack. We’re not staying at any of them.”
He stops short. “What? But the bargain—”
“We’ll travel to a few of them—shouldn’t take but an hour to go through the portals and come back. We will stop at the Nothril Court and enlist Prince Rahk to come with us.”
Edvear closes his eyes. “I should have known. Where are we actually going?”
I pause in the doorway of my study, my hand gripping the lintel as I turn and flash a wicked grin at my steward. “We are going to the human world.”