Chapter Three
Iver
On the morning of the first day of Twelvetide, Iver and his court rode for Silverlight Castle. Winter blanketed the land in white snow, which shimmered in the morning sun as the wedding party rode past Sapphire Lake.
Silverlight Castle sat on a hill dwarfed by the towering peaks of the White Mountains at Vale’s northern border.
The castle’s sandstone walls glowed in the warm light of the sun, watchtowers and spires soaring toward the sky.
Silverlight looked different during the day, so bright and lofty and unlike the dark, gothic castle it was at night.
Iver and his entourage ascended the hill, arriving at the first gate.
The Lion of Vale, symbol of the Lady and the kingdom’s coat of arms, graced the pediment.
Even this far in the north, the knights manning the gate were women.
A herald announced Iver’s arrival, and the knights lifted the portcullis.
As Iver rode inside, the human knights stared at his ghostly white horse, its mane and hooves made of white smoke, its eyes glowing red.
Iver proceeded through the Zwinger—a winding series of walkways, barriers and tunnels that led up the mountain and onto the bastions by the final gate.
Ice and snow slicked the cobblestones in Iver’s wake.
He was taking possession of Silverlight, the castle drifting into the faerie realm.
From the towers, trumpets proclaimed his arrival.
The knights opened the gate, and the wedding party proceeded, crowding into the courtyard.
To Iver’s left, gardens stretched around a central well.
To his right, the castle church rose high above the bastions, stained-glass windows gracing the facade, lion gargoyles perching on projections.
Straight ahead, the palatial buildings and their towers curved like a horseshoe around the courtyard.
In celebration of Twelvetide, the humans had hung mistletoe above the many entrances, holly decorations framing the corners.
William’s household greeted Iver, at their head a smiling woman in her thirties.
The wind played with her loose, woolen cloak, which revealed the delicately embroidered bodice and fitted trousers she wore underneath—beautiful yet practical clothing.
A gust drove into her chestnut mane as she strode toward Iver and bowed to greet him.
“Your Majesty. Welcome to Silverlight. I’m Charlotte, Countess of Northwood and cousin to the king. It’s a pleasure to receive you and your court inside our walls.”
Iver glided off his horse. “The pleasure is mine.” He’d seen Charlotte many times on his reconnaissance runs, and she was as amicable in person as she’d seemed from afar.
Behind Iver, another pair of feet quietly hit the ground, and Ailenor stepped to his side.
She’d forgone her usual dresses and wore a steel blue riding ensemble under her fur cloak.
Still, the riding habit was jewel-encrusted, and she’d curled her white-blonde hair into ringlets.
Her youthful appearance gave no hint of the century she’d already lived.
Ailenor fumbled her words as she introduced herself to Charlotte, a bit unsure of who outranked whom. Silenia, who’d ridden further back in the train, did not introduce herself.
“The king awaits you in the throne room,” Charlotte said, bowing once more to Iver, indicating the Eastern wing of the palatial buildings. She led him to an enormous portal, which was guarded by cloaked knights in heavy armor. Iver entered first, his sisters and the high fae of his court following.
The throne room was a splendid hall of white marble floors, soaring pillars and gothic archways.
Lancet windows ornamented with tracery lined the walls.
Between them hung paintings depicting the history of Vale, starting with the descent of the Lady from the heavens, followed by the pastoral life of the Zertic period, then the Turian Conquest. For four hundred years, the kings and queens of Vale had been lieges of the Turian Empire.
This had been true until, during the time of William’s great-grandmother, the Turians, hungry for land, had crossed the sea and invaded the southern continent, Xaustra.
There, they stirred something in the depths of the jungle of Oordoon they should’ve left alone—the orcs.
Discovering their appetite for men, the orcs hunted them.
When the Turians fled across the sea, the orcs chased them.
They overran the Turian homeland, and the empire fell, Vale only saved by the Great River’s magical barrier.
Iver remembered the events with razor-sharp clarity. He’d just ascended to the throne and observed the human world with interest. At the time, he’d had no desire to intervene. For most of history, fae had stayed out of human affairs. After Malorn, Iver, too, was breaking with tradition.
At the end of the hall, marble steps led to a raised dais. A golden lion-head relief, mouth spread in a roar, graced the wall. Underneath it, William, in regal attire, reclined on the throne.
Iver had watched him from the shadows many times, but he’d never seen him like this.
Whenever he’d observed William, he’d worn little to nothing.
When they’d met in Winterbourne, William had come in an armored riding habit.
Now he wore his golden crown, and an ermine fur cloak, fastened with a gilded brooch, hung from his shoulders.
His doublet was of richly embroidered red velvet, and silken shoes clad his feet.
William had dressed up for the occasion.
How oddly pleasing. And yet… he hadn’t closed his doublet all the way to his throat but left a sliver of skin exposed, an inverted triangle that ran down his chest suggestively. What a tease.
Iver strutted toward the throne, his entourage following. Mist crept across the floor; ice ran onto windows and paintings. William’s face remained impassive, his body relaxed and motionless. A few feet from the marble steps, Iver stopped.
The wedding party came to a halt. Iver kept his sights trained on William as, accompanied by the soft rustling of their clothes, the high fae of the Winter Court fell to their knees before the king of Vale.
Only when every knee was bent and every head had bowed, Iver the only one left standing, did William rise from his throne.
High up on the stairs, he towered over the court.
He descended in measured steps, the knock of his heels against the marble proclaiming his approach.
“Your Majesty,” William said in greeting as he came to stand before Iver. “I welcome you to Silverlight Castle. May my home be your home. I have eagerly awaited your arrival.” William delivered the official greeting without missing a beat.
“You have my gratitude. May our union bring joy and prosperity to our kingdoms.”
William kissed him on the cheek, not more than a fleeting brush of the lips.
It was a perfectly acceptable gesture between those of equal rank, a display of fondness and trust. Iver returned the gesture, asserting a hint more pressure.
William’s cheek was freshly shaven and soft.
A clean, masculine scent filled Iver’s nostrils.
William stiffened at the contact, his breath hitching. Interesting.
When they parted, William’s haughty gaze came to rest on him.
“Present the gifts,” Iver called out.
Three fae holding small chests rose and stepped forward, sinking back onto their knees in front of Iver and William.
The first one unclasped her chest, presenting William with its contents: a selection of colorful sachets. “Faerie dust to flavor your food, Your Majesty,” she said.
William nodded politely. Faerie dust was rare and expensive. It came in different colors, each signifying a specific, sweet flavor.
The second fae offered a chest filled to the brim with silver bars. It would’ve been heavy for a human, but she lifted it with ease. “Silver to fill your treasury, Your Majesty.”
The third and last gift-bearer revealed a pair of richly crafted crystal glasses. They glistened in the rays of light falling through the tall windows. “Goblets to serve your wine, Your Majesty.”
“You’re most generous,” William said to Iver, raising his voice so that it echoed in the hall, carrying to every corner. Quietly, barely moving his lips, he added, “Where’s the winter faerie fruit?”
What an ungrateful brat. Between the faerie dust, the silver and the goblets, Iver had gifted him a small fortune. The value might not be obvious to a human, but Iver had expected more appreciation. Fae kept score for a reason.
“Not now,” Iver bit out.
Human attendants came and collected the gifts.
A procession of servants arrived, presenting Iver in turn with a series of wedding gifts: An ermine fur cloak that matched William’s.
A small chest filled with sapphires and diamonds—purchased from the dwarfs in the White Mountains, Iver was sure.
A jewel-encrusted silver dagger. The last was a jab at the iron blade William had decidedly not received as a wedding present. How petty.
The royal reception ceremony proceeded with official introductions, music and much fanfare.
Afterward, William’s servants took the fae and their personal effects to their guest chambers in the west wing.
Iver and William left the throne room through a door at the side of the hall, which revealed a spiral staircase.
They climbed upward, William in front, the two of them alone for the first time since Iver’s arrival.
“My servants have prepared the consort’s apartment for you,” William said, his sights trained on the stairs leading up as he walked.
“The consort’s apartment?” Iver grabbed William by the elbow, forcing him to a stop in the tight confines of the stairwell. William turned, annoyance written all over his face.
The consort’s apartment was where William had kept his whores. Well, not in the consort’s apartment, but the adjacent rooms. Iver was not going to live there. Besides… “I’m a king, and I will reside in the monarch’s apartment.”
“I live in the monarch’s apartment.”
The step between them created a height difference that Iver didn’t appreciate.
He stepped up, squeezing next to William in the narrow space, bringing them eye to eye.
Forced back, William pressed against the wall, his pupils dilating in the semidarkness.
They were but an inch apart, William’s warm breath tickling Iver’s face.
He smelled of wine. This close, Iver could count William’s every lash, every line of his full, parted lips. Color crept onto William’s cheeks.
“Frankly, I don’t care where you live,” Iver said. “Why don’t you move into the consort’s chambers?”
William laughed. He wrest away and ascended the stairs.
Iver followed him to the next floor and down a series of rooms, barely taking in what he saw—drawing room, study, dressing room.
Only when they arrived in the bedchamber did William stop and turn.
“I’m certainly not moving out. These rooms are mine. ”
They looked like William’s—empty wine glasses sat on every surface, clothes lay on the floor, and paperwork piled up on tables. For the love of the winter forest—how often did William have his servants clean up after him? Once a week? Once a month? The chaos was ridiculous.
Despite the mess, the chamber was beautiful with its powder blue walls and vaulted ceiling.
Arched windows granted sweeping views of Sapphire Lake and the mountains beyond.
An enormous bed with an intricately carved and upholstered headboard dominated the room.
It was covered in a ludicrous amount of cushions.
White pelts served as warm and fluffy bedside rugs.
With a bit of tidying, this would be a nice room.
“You might not be moving out,” Iver said, “but I’m certainly not staying anywhere else. The monarch’s apartment is my right as much as yours.”