Chapter 63
DRYSTAN’S brOTHERS. BOOTS wet like they’ve only just arrived through the snow. Eyes sharp, smiles sharper.
The not-quite enemies. Certainly not friends.
The blond one who spoke first steps forward. “And this must be the brand-new bride we’ve heard so much about.” He circles around Drystan, violet-blue eyes intent on me.
“Ostir.” Drystan’s voice is as cold as his domain. “What a surprise to see you here, in my fortress. In my kingdom. I wasn’t aware you’d sent us word of your coming—nor sought permission.”
“Oh, Drystan.” The shortest yet most handsome of the brothers approaches, throwing casually devastating smiles at the fae pressing back out of his way.
His teeth flash pale against his rich brown skin—such a contrast with Drystan’s.
I thought his hair was ash blond, but it catches the light with a greenish gleam.
“Who’d have thought you were the youngest of us when you’re such an old stickler?
” His eyes are so arresting, when they dart to me, I fall still.
They’re the bright, deep green of the algae that coats rocks on the shore.
He bows his head. “King Malvorn, at your service.”
I stand as tall as I can and give a small, polite nod in return.
Those arresting eyes, still on me, widen and he huffs a soft laugh. “My, my, my. It’s true, gentlemen,” he calls over his shoulder. “She is human.”
The red-haired king blasts out a breath, dark eyebrows clashing together. Lips pressing tight above a dimpled chin, he tosses a tinkling purse at Malvorn.
He snatches it out of the air with a mocking grin. “There there, Gatterglan. No need to be aggrieved I won our little bet. I’m as shocked as you are.”
Gradually, they prowl from the doorway, fanning around Drystan and me. He hasn’t drawn a weapon, though I spot the Twylth stationed on the edge of the crowd, attention locked on the brothers.
An outright attack doesn’t seem like the unseelie style, yet the air in the Great Hall strains with so much tension, it’s hard to breathe.
I mirror Drystan, who stands straight, regal. The hand that was splayed on my chest now sits at his side.
“Have you taught her no manners, brother?” Malvorn cocks his head. “She hasn’t even offered her name.”
Shit. One of the first rules I learned. And such a simple one.
I wear a calm smile, but I have to swallow before I can speak. “I was merely waiting for you to offer. But now I have half of yours, I will give you half of mine. Rhiannon.”
“Rhiannon.” The pale-eyed brother who hasn’t yet spoken rolls my name around his mouth. I want to fidget at the way he tastes it, gaze on me all the while. “Rhiannon,” he purrs with a slow smile.
“That’s Queen Rhiannon to you, Lithern.” Drystan’s voice, soft like distant thunder.
“Stickler,” Malvorn sighs.
“Is it so wrong to wish to congratulate our brother on his wedding night?” Gatterglan lifts his chin, a challenge in his eyes, even though he wears that unseelie half smile. “What say you, Prindar?”
“Are we fools to expect a warm welcome from our brother when we visit his court?” The last, with ash white hair, watches me with a hungry look. The shadows under his cheekbones are sharper than Drystan’s, the blackness of his pupils deeper.
The tension ratchets tighter. Out the corner of my eye, I search for Asti. In my heart, I curse Drystan for not carrying a weapon. Unable to control my magic, I’d be no help.
I’ve never heard a whole room of people so quiet.
I barely breathe. Waiting. Praying. Please gods, let this break without bloodshed.
Malvorn laughs. It echoes off the vaulted ceiling, sending the shadows scattering. “You all look so serious. Drystan, you always were the most dour of us—except for maybe Gatterglan. Who can blame us for being curious?” He spreads his hands. “Especially when you’re the first to take a consort.”
The brothers smile, but beneath that veil, there’s something sharp about the looks that bore into Drystan. Daggers hidden by velvet.
The consort’s power. By marrying first, Drystan gains an advantage over them—for himself and his kingdom.
Perhaps if they think I’m no advantage at all… A mere human. Let them see how small and inconsequential I am.
I step forward and take Drystan’s arm. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
Very well. I’ll disarm this situation—or try.
“You’re quite right.” I share a grin with Malvorn.
“Your curiosity is understandable—admirable, even. It’s so kind of you to visit us upon this special night.
” I indicate the Great Hall, the shimmering decor that matches the ceremony room, the half-drunk guests.
“Won’t you join us—eat, drink, be merry? ”
Gatterglan doesn’t bother to disguise his snort. Malvorn flinches at the sound before smoothing it over with a charming smile. “My lady—my Queen—you just might be the cleverest one in here.” He looks back at his brothers.
I don’t spot their responses, but after a couple of seconds, he bows his head to me. “We accept your gracious offer, Your Majesty.”
“You heard your queen.” Lithern’s voice slithers through the room, lifting the hairs on my arms. “Play on.”
The music resumes. The crowd stares for a few beats longer, then drinks return to lips alongside gossip and hungry kisses.
Drystan’s chest rises and falls twice, long and deep, before he finally moves. We leave the dance floor and circle the room. He speaks. Drinks. Walks at my side. But it’s like he’s barely there. Phaedra made a better Drystan than the man standing next to me.
Speaking of my favorite saboteur… I note more than one of the brothers speaking to her as night deepens. Ostir and Malvorn in particular.
It makes sense. She’s of royal lineage, and since Drystan has snubbed her, one of the other kings might expect he can tempt her to his realm with the promise of a crown of her own.
It seems unlikely the brothers will allow Drystan to be the only one with a consort for long, even if marriage is a risk to their absolute power.
Despite being a celebration of our wedding, the night grates on me. And the more distant my new husband becomes, the more agitated this feeling in my chest grows. Not my heart playing up, but a restlessness that fills me, like words unspoken.
It becomes too much to bear, and catching Drystan’s eye, I retire to his suite. Our suite.
Thinking of this space as ours makes it seem strange and new.
I pass through the rooms, touching everything with a new sense of permission.
His favorite chair by the fireplace. The mantelpiece in the small dining room.
A small bird skull on a side table—the King of Death’s one obeisance to decorative cliché.
I grin to myself as I enter the bedroom.
On the bedside table is a vase of whisper-pale blossom.
My steps still as I realize. Not just any blossom—the branches I grew when we first made love and my magic awakened.
The sight of it, right there where he sees it each night when he wakes, speaks to something in me. It straightens out the tangle behind my ribcage. My heart drums a solid, strong beat, certain in a way I’m not sure I’ve ever been certain before.
I love him.
“Shit.” I laugh out the word, rubbing my chest.
Somehow.
Some-bloody-how, I, Rhiannon Archer, have fallen in love with Death.