Chapter 5
CHAPTER 5
I nside, the cottage is enchanting and cozy. A fire burns in the hearth, casting golden light over rustic wooden chairs. Books line every wall, their gold-lettered spines labeled with titles like Songs of the Hawthorn Kings and Spirits of the Yews . I suspect they’re mostly religious texts.
As Griflet makes us nettle tea, his movements seem stumbling, nervous, and the clatter of porcelain fills the quiet. We sit on an upholstered bench by the fireplace, and I breathe in the sweet, nutty scent of the burning chestnut wood. Embers drift from the crackling flames.
“Right, then.” Griflet hands us each a hot, steaming mug of tea. “A royal wedding. Customarily, the gods demand a sacrifice of a dozen wild boars and the release of five hundred white pigeons. I don’t have any of those on hand.” He drops down into a wooden chair across from us. Next to him stands a rough-hewn table strewn with papers.
Talan leans back, utterly relaxed, and drapes one arm over the back of the sofa. Even seated, his powerful presence dominates the room. Sometimes, I get the sense that the whole world exists for his entertainment.
“We don’t have time for the boars and birds.” Talan’s deep voice thrums over my skin. “My father means to arrange for my marriage tomorrow, whether I’m there or not.”
I clear my throat. Here’s my chance for a delay. “On the other hand, we can’t afford not to. If Auberon realizes we skipped the boars and the pigeons, he could pronounce that we aren’t truly married. Surely we want to follow the ancient traditions for members of the royal family.”
“Five hundred pigeons?” Talan narrows his eyes at me. “Do you have any idea how long it would take to organize that?”
“Lady Nia is quite right,” Griflet says, gripping his little leather bag like his life depends on it. “Of course, this is all quite symbolic. We could try to perform the ritual with something symbolizing the pigeons and the wild boars.”
“Like what?” Talan asks.
“Well, the intent is a sacrifice. We could, for example, sacrifice some finely baked biscuits and release a chicken from my coop.”
“Are you serious?” I ask.
Griflet nods wildly. “Yes, yes. I’m always serious when it comes to the gods. The ancient texts permit me some leeway. It’s about the intent , you see.”
“Excellent.” Talan runs his tongue over one of his sharp canines. “Let’s sacrifice the biscuits.”
Griflet clutches the bisen-root to his chest. Snatching up a pen with his free hand, he starts to scribble on the parchment. “Now, for the guests…in royal weddings, all the nobles throughout the land are invited to witness the sacred matrimony.”
“Right. We can’t do that.” The firelight gilds Talan’s perfect features. “Because, as I said, this needs to happen tonight.”
Griflet looks up, wide-eyed. “I’m afraid we must. You are the heir to the crown, should anything happen to Auberon, gods forbid. You have been chosen by the gods. All the nobles from the Court of Morgan must be invited. It’s what the gods demand.”
“Griflet, you will be our witness.” A knife’s edge cuts through the low tenor of Talan’s voice.
Griflet’s jaw clenches. “Your Highness, I will not cross the gods, not for all the bisen-root in the world.”
“And yet, you would cross me?”
A chill spreads through the room. Outside, thunder rumbles.
“Well, I’d rather not. But even you are not the gods, and I will not ignore their demands.”
Already, Griflet is pouring more bisen-root onto the parchment. He pulls out a small silver straw and snorts a line. I stir uneasily on the bench. He reminds me of my mom, and I wonder what she’s up to at Avalon Tower. Wrapped up in Tarquin’s machinations, no doubt.
I touch Talan’s arm. “Maybe there’s another way besides marriage.”
Talan’s eyes spark in the firelight. “There isn’t.”
Griflet stares at the ceiling, blinking wildly.
“Stay with me, Griflet,” says Talan. “So, the gods demand that we invite the nobles. But do we need to wait for them to arrive?”
Griflet drags his gaze back down to Talan, his eyes glinting. “Let’s consult the texts. They have been my closest companions these long years, and I think I remember…” He trails off. Standing, he leaps over to a dusty bookshelf.
Talan brushes the melting snow off his trousers. “I have full confidence in you.”
Griflet pulls a dusty tome from his bookshelf and darts back to his chair, flipping through the pages. After several moments of perusal, he raises his eyes from the book. “We are required to invite them. That is all.”
“Fine.” Talan shrugs. “I will send out a messenger. He’ll deliver those invitations on foot. They’ll all be invited. Too bad that they won’t receive notice in time.”
“You’ll need actual witnesses,” Griflet says.
“How many?”
“Two should do the trick, one more besides me.”
Talan sips from his mug. “I’ll handle it.”
Griflet nods, writing it down on his parchment. “Now, royal weddings are always conducted when the red moon shines brightest.”
Talan sighs heavily. “And when is that?”
“In a week’s time.”
My muscles relax. Thank god for Fey royal traditions. “We can’t make the moon shine brighter,” I say, trying to sound frustrated. “We’ll have to wait.”
“Is this also symbolic?” Talan asks. “Can we say that we lit a candle to signify the moon’s light?”
“No, not for this,” Griflet replies, “but you’re in luck. The Grand Cleric announced that the gods permit royalty to wed outside that auspicious day, probably at your father’s behest, so you could wed Lady Arwenna tomorrow.”
“So, the grand cleric can just change the rules?” My heart sinks.
“My lady, the Grand Cleric talks directly to the gods,” Griflet tells me. “I am but a humble cleric who can only listen quietly and do as he says.”
“Anything else?” Talan asks.
“I assume both of you ate no meat for seven days?”
“I haven’t eaten meat,” Talan says. I suspect he’s lying, and I also suspect that he doesn’t really give a fuck about the gods.
“Well, I can’t say the same.” Perhaps, this is my salvation. Fey always avoid meat before marrying. “I had venison yesterday. I’m afraid I didn’t know we were getting married.”
Talan cuts me a sharp look, his dark eyes sparking with metallic intensity. He holds my gaze for a moment too long.
Griflet frowns. “I can’t wed you within a week of eating meat.”
“I think you can,” says Talan, his voice dripping with a hint of venom.
I meet his cold, dark stare square on. “We don’t want to offend the gods. It would be terrible luck. We’ll have to figure out a way to buy ourselves some time, to delay your father for a week.”
“When did you become so pious?” His eyes burn like embers in the firelight.
A chill settles over my skin.
I’m navigating a razor-thin tightrope. On one side, I die at the hands of Arwenna and Auberon, ripped to shreds by dogs. They might send my head and hands back to Avalon Tower as a warning and leave the rest of me hanging off the castle gates.
On the other side of the tightrope, Talan learns the truth about me. He might kill me himself. The question is, will it be fast or slow? Will he torture me in my dreams first?
My job is to stop myself from plunging down either side.
Talan leans back in his chair and traces a finger over his lower lip, thoughtful. “Wait a moment, Griflet. Didn’t I have a cousin who got drunk the night before his wedding and ate duck confit off a courtesan’s tits?”
“Ah, yes. Archduke Bors de Ganis,” Griflet says. “A fine gentleman.”
“He did a purification ritual.” Talan straightens. “He spent a night in the forest, hunted by the spirit of a basilisk conjured by a cleric. After he survived the night, he was considered purified.”
Griflet pales. “That’s correct,” he stammers, “but it was very dangerous. He nearly died, and he wasn’t heir to the throne, was he? So, it was a risk we could take. If anything should happen to you, gods forbid…”
“But you can summon a basilisk?” Talan says.
He smooths out his robes. “Technically…I don’t like this idea very much.”
Talan’s lips curl in a half smile. “Well, I think it’s a fantastic idea, and it’s been a long time since anything exciting happened around here.”
Says the man who just rode a dragon to a battlefield.
“Hang on, a basilisk?” I say.
Horrific creatures—part serpent, part bird, all violence. One look into its eyes will drive you mad. According to the records in Avalon Tower, the fuckers were extinct.
“A basilisk hunt,” Talan muses, rolling the words off his tongue. “It doesn’t really seem like much of a challenge.”
“But we will be the hunted, not the basilisk, is that right?” I ask.
He tilts his head, considering. “Only if we’re slow. And a basilisk isn’t as fast as a Fey.”
I’m half human. I am fucking slow.
Griflet stands and shuffles over to the bookshelves again. “Very well. If this is your will, Your Highness, though I must say…” He trails off. “Well, there’s no religious reason to deny your request. Give me a moment for the incantation.”
As he flips through a book, the silence is broken only by the snapping of the firewood. In the glow of its flames, Talan stares into the fire. He taps his fingertips rhythmically against his mug. “Hurry up, will you? The gods are impatient, and so am I.”
Griflet doesn’t answer him. Instead, he mutters under his breath, a quiet incantation that makes the hair stand up on my nape. As he intones a spell, a shiver skitters up my spine. The atmosphere is growing thinner, darker.
I clear my throat. “Perhaps if we take a few moments to think?—”
With a gasp of breath, the cleric whirls to face us, his knuckles white. All the color has drained from his face, and he clutches the book to his chest.
“It’s here, isn’t it?” Talan’s smile is slow and satisfied.
“I wasn’t sure if it would work so quickly,” Griflet whispers, “but I think it already did. I think the basilisk is already in the forest. Already hunting.”
Outside, the wind rattles the shutters like a spirit trying to get in. My breath hitches at the sound of an otherworldly howl in the distance.
Talan’s smile widens. This is all a game to him. “Well, then, I’ll need a bow and arrows. Let the hunt begin.”