Chapter 42 #2
“I have a great many secrets,” she rasped, acknowledging the implication in his words.
“Ones that will alter the course of my life when they are widely known, but none of them are as serious as what is being suggested, and Brand knows everything. And believe me, convenient though it may seem, this might be the last place in all of Bordoroth I want to be.”
He studied her, utterly still.
“Second to last, if you’d like me to be specific.”
Too used to Magnus and Vann, Lunara belatedly realized she’d spoken to him as if they were familiar with one another. She dropped into as much of a curtsy as she was willing to risk with that spear-tip still hovering inches from her face, and mumbled a rushed, “Your Highness.”
Which did exactly nothing to thaw him.
He drifted away, his eyes sinking to stare into some middle distance.
What the—
Searing rage tumbled through the bond, licking like acid through her veins just before Brand’s hand shot down and seized Amal’s weapon, bringing it up to his own chest.
Trembling with his fury, Lunara stumbled back, straight into Magnus and Vann.
“I’ve been as patient as I am fucking able, watching you threaten my mate,” Brand sneered. “If you’re so bent on violence, you can direct it at me.”
Amal was clearly surprised by the turn of events, an uncertain furrow appearing between her brows. “Your Highness…”
Brand took a step forward, the spearhead jabbing into his sternum.
Amal looked between them, jaw ticking as her lungs heaved. “Brandir, please. Do not make me do this.”
“Brother.” Vann reached up, his fingertips brushing Brand’s forearm. “You know full well she may only relent once she’s assured of Amun’s safety, or he releases her himself.”
“My word is fucking assurance.”
“You’re right, but she doesn’t deserve your ire.” Vann’s voice went quiet. “She’s only doing her sacred duty.”
Eyes darted in every direction, the building tension so thick that Lunara was choking on it.
Not what you expected mixing with Imperials? What did you think was going to happen—hugs and fun, all the time?
Amunkar sucked in a sharp breath. “Enough, Amal. There is no danger. She is who she says.”
They broke apart at once. Amal sagged, withdrawing her spear with obvious relief and mumbled apologies. Brand ignored the warrior entirely.
“Before we go in,” Amunkar murmured close, as if sharing a secret, “you should know I’ve been looking deeper into the contents of your missive.”
Brand went tense again. “And?”
“And there are many things that may not be as they seem. You’ll know as soon as I do, once I’ve found the answers.”
“That isn’t at all helpful, Amun.”
“It is what it is.” Amunkar straightened, pushing his shoulders back as he walked away. “Come. We have much to discuss and they are waiting.”
Brand’s nostrils flared at the command. “Apparently that’s that, then. Luna, meet Amun and his ajma, Amal,” he grumbled.
“Ach, well…” Magnus bounced on by, following after their oldest brother with a grin. “Never dull in Argoph, that’s for damned sure.”
Argoph’s Seat was as dazzling as the rest of the Weeping City.
The circular room was packed with creatures from every realm, Solyrian blazing through the open spaces of the vaulted dome above. Glittering over wings and scales. Shimmering on skin. Gleaming on horns.
The variations in dress—or lack thereof—were enough to make her dizzy. Otherworldly Fae mingled with Wolflords in elaborate robes. Riders flashed sharp teeth as they laughed with boisterous Demons.
Only the Nachthellians held themselves apart, silent and judging—and blessedly paying her no mind.
Yet.
In the center of the space, a humongous throne stood proud on a central dais—Emperor Alwyn aht Bordoroth entrenched on the wide seat beside Empress Fionerys o Koha.
Imperial Sovereigns of the world. Brand’s fucking parents.
Stars and arses. This is the worst idea you’ve ever had, coming in here.
The Emperor’s heavy brow was pinched, mouth turned down in a frown—until he spotted his sons within the crowd and lit up. He spared only a moment to nudge his mate, whispering in her ear before he stood and helped her up with an impish grin.
He was huge, like his sons, with golden, shimmering skin and gossamer wings that brought sweet pollen and summer leaves to mind—rather like Fern. Indeed, if it wasn’t for the slightest hint of evergreen in otherwise black hair, she might’ve thought they were related.
His garments were similar to Vann’s—cut in long, billowing swaths—but the sage fabric was lighter, airier, and shot through with pale silk.
Empress Fionerys was tiny in comparison, nearly a head shorter than his shoulder.
Her petite frame was wrapped in an wispy lapis gown that perfectly complemented her midnight hair.
The shining blue curls glittered with frost against her light brown skin, too thick for anyone to see the pointed ears Lunara knew hid beneath.
Magnus dropped back as they approached and leaned in, murmuring, “Don’t be fooled by her small stature, witchling. Forget dreadbeasts—it’s our mam who’s the scariest creature in all of Bordoroth.”
Brand grunted. “Mag…”
“What?” Lunara’s heart turned over. “Why?”
“Because she’s captivating and kind—and fucking excellent at hiding the fact she’d gladly skin anyone who harmed her family alive. Probably with a spoon and that exact, lovely smile on her face. Not so much as a blink.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Ach, because”—He bumped his shoulder against hers—“she’s your mam now, too.”
Lunara blinked. “Oh.”
He was still chuckling when they approached the base of the dais steps—and she was still trying to wrap her mind around what he’d said when her gaze landed on an eight-pointed, star-shaped hole beneath the throne, an eddying flow rolling and rushing beneath the diamond floor.
Even she heard the awe in her tone. “Is that…”
“Mmm.” Brand nodded, half a smile on his lips. “The Fountain of All Life.”
The Sister’s weeping regret—the perpetual source of sustenance for the world—was right there. Swirling. So close she could almost reach out and touch it.
But, before they could stop or say a word, Emperor Alwyn offered a silent arm to Empress Fionerys and headed for a set of doors on the opposite side of the room.
Lunara tried—and failed—not to be disappointed.
They followed the Imperial Sovereigns down a set of winding steps and into a lofty corridor, and right through the first door they came across. As soon as everyone was closed inside the large room—a study if the desk and shelves of books were anything to go by—the Sovereigns whipped around.
“Come here, my gorgeous boys!”
The emperor opened his arms wide and laughed as Brand, Magnus, and Vann all swooped in, a tangle of massive arms and flexing muscles, the empress buried somewhere in the middle. It was ridiculous, and sweet, and—
“Not what you expected of us.”
Lunara jumped at the sound of Amunkar’s sedate voice beside her.
And you’re absolutely sure escape isn’t an option?
“If I may be so bold as to say so, Your Highness.” She waved a hand at the pile of bodies, shouting and laughing over one another. “It doesn’t exactly paint the picture of an all-powerful Empire.”
“Does it not?” he asked. “What better picture than that of love and family?”
“I rather agree with you, Your Highness. I just hadn’t realized that’s what I would find when we got here.”
“Hmm. Fair enough.”
The others had separated themselves, and Alwyn was looking at her like he’d been waiting his entire life for this day to come. Which was odd, to say the least.
Brand smiled and gestured towards her. “Mum, Dad, this is Lunara.”
She bent at the waist, staring down at the tendrils of her hair pooling on the floor. “Your Majesties.”
“No, no. Come on.” A hand at her elbow pulled her upright and she found herself staring into the Emperor’s bronze gaze. “None of that. Let us have a look at you.”
She swallowed as he led her to the empress. Closer, Lunara could see she had eyes like winter bark, peeking from behind ringlet bangs and staring straight into her own.
“The mystery Sorcerit. Have you…” Empress Fionerys cleared her throat and looked at Brand. “You’re sure? The bond is set?”
“It’s done.” Brand smiled down at her, his peace settling like a warm blanket. “A true match, blessed by the Sisters.”
“Brace yourself, witchling.”
The empress transformed with the shriek she loosed, throwing her arms around Lunara.
“A daughter! Finally! Ohh!” She squeezed hard enough to make Lunara wheeze. “You’re so beautiful! Hurt him and I’ll make you wish you’d never been born. I’m so excited!”
“Fi…”
Lunara’s eyes bugged at the exuberant promise of maternal retribution.
She surprised even herself when she said, “Likewise, Your Majesty,” and the emperor barked a laugh.
No one could prove she’d just threatened Her Imperial Majesty’s life, but she’d meant it.
Meant every ounce of the protective ferocity barreling over her.
It may have been decades since she’d navigated the social battleground of the Evesong’s Elder tier, but she hadn’t forgotten the lessons she’d learned.
The empress tossed her head back and cackled, too. “You’re a right spark, eh? You’ll do fine. Wouldn’t have it any other way for our precious Brand. Please, call me Fionerys. Or Fi, or mum. Whatever you’d like.”
“Indeed, and I am Alwyn. There is no greater joy I would wish for my sons than that of blessed matehood.” The emperor shocked her to her bones when he offered her a bow, his eyes welling when he straightened.
“And if you are Brand’s, then you are ours as well, and we thank the Sisters for their gift.
May I embrace you, Lunara, my daughter?”
What in the Five fucking Realms is happening? Daughter this, daughter that… They don’t even know you.
True, but the idea of being wrapped again in paternal arms… To find the safety of family gathered around her, even if it was an illusion…
It was almost too much, how intensely she craved it.
Lunara took a tentative step towards him. “Your Majesty, Alwyn, I would be honored to—”
Araxis aht Bordoroth—Blessed Nightmare of the Endless Dark, Fifth Imperial Son, and High Ambassador of Nachthelliae—appeared behind his parents from out of nowhere and immediately recoiled at the sight of her.
He was the same as her in so many ways, as if their ghostly, shimmering skin and piercing blue eyes had been crafted from the same spark of light in the cosmos.
The only real difference, the only part of him that was not in perfect place, was his raven hair.
Done in the old way—cropped nearly to his scalp on the sides, fading into longer lengths on top and in the back—a single lock had fallen forward to brush at his brow in a carefree flop that did not at all reflect his capacity for ruthlessness.
Oh, and the fact that he was a treacherous bastard.
“What in the cosmic fuck is the very dead Lunara the Moonweaver doing here?”
Ohhh, shite.