Interlude
PRINCE RHISTEL AABERG, HEIR TO WINTER’S REALM, HOUSE OF THE WHITE BEAR
Deep in the cavern of his mind, the prince waited and gathered his strength. For a moment in time. A heartbeat. An instant to break free from his mother’s hold.
Since the day she’d taken control, the queen had not delved further into his thoughts.
Rhistel wondered if it was because he’d threatened her so often that first day that she’d grown tired of hearing his thoughts.
Or maybe his resolve to kill his sister had shaken her, and she was fearful of what else she might find. If so, she was right to fear him.
Nothing and no one would stand in his way and take the throne he’d been promised. Not even kin.
He exhaled, placid on a settee, his body docile as his mother wished while he tracked that very female across the solarium. Warmth and the scent of plants and dirt enveloped him. Not uncomfortable, but not to his taste either. In his heart, frost and snow and ice reigned.
The queen, on the other hand, adored the solarium. The prince had known it would only be a matter of time until she dragged him to the humid room, so he’d made a plan.
“Set that one just over there,” the queen instructed two servants, brawny dwarves carrying a potted plant fresh off a ship from the Summer Kingdom. Rhistel wondered how soon those ships would stop arriving in the harbor of Avaldenn. If there was a war trade would surely be affected.
The dwarves did as she requested, and the queen smiled.
“That will be all for today.”
Dismissed, the servants exited, leaving only the prince, the queen, and the Clawsguards at the door. Rhistel stood, and the motion caught his mother’s attention.
“Do you need something?” the queen asked.
“To move. I’ve grown quite stiff of late.”
She didn’t allow him to leave her side, save for when he required a toilet or sleep.
In those moments, Queen Inga tightened her grip on her son and released it only slightly in his presence.
Enough for him to speak and interact with those who might address him, all the while avoiding topics the queen did not wish him to indulge in.
The queen’s power was a suffocating vise around his body, and at night it was worse.
If he broke free, it had to be during the day, in a place where the queen was at ease.
She waved her hand. “Get some exercise, my son.”
My son. How dare she use that term. As if she wasn’t choking the life from him.
“A million thanks,” Rhistel hissed, making his derision plain.
The queen merely shrugged. She had no remorse for what she was doing to him, for making it clear that he, of all her children, was the least loved. The one she was willing to sacrifice.
Their forbidden magic should have bonded them but instead it had torn them apart. Had made the queen distrust her eldest. He saw it even as a youngling, and he never forgot.
No matter. He walked among the plants. Soon, she’ll no longer have power over me.
The room stretched long and housed many plants.
Hundreds. Some of them grew tall enough to reach the ceiling, and all that greenery muffled noise.
This place was one of the spaces in which his mother had often brought him and Vale to teach Rhistel his magic.
Hidden by tall ferns and showy flowers, Rhistel had dived into his brother’s mind again and again and again.
But learning whispering magic wasn’t all that happened here.
Occasionally, the queen would see fit to teach them about the various plants she’d imported.
Neither Vale nor Rhistel cared much, but the heir absorbed knowledge easily.
Many of the plants were medicinal. Six in the room were poisonous to varying degrees.
The bláth aislinge, a flower native to the Autumn Court with distinctive pale-blue pointed petals, was among the most poisonous.
If ingested, its pollen would induce a haze and sometimes even full-blown hallucinations—of which Rhistel was familiar for he’d taken the plant recreationally many times.
He located the plant, picked a few flowers from the lush bush, and stuffed them in his pocket, wiping off some of the light blue pollen that dusted the silk of the prince’s Aaberg blue shirt.
A quick glance around told him his mother was nowhere in sight, but it wouldn’t do to rush back to where her wine goblet waited. She might suspect something.
So he continued to meander through the solarium, and stopped to gaze out upon the city and the Shivering Sea. In the distance, Virtoris Island jutted out of the water. Rhistel scowled. That family would soon pay for the disrespect they’d shown the throne.
Even if King Magnus’s blood did not flow through his veins, Rhistel still considered him a father. The king had raised him. Had tutored him.
Lord Riis? He’d interacted with Rhistel at court, and given him a few gifts over the turns, but they had never bonded. He was no father, blood or not.
Somewhere in the solarium, his mother began to hum and the soft sounds of scissors cutting and falling leaves indicated the moment was right.
Moving as quickly as he dared, he returned to the settee, and after affirming that his mother was still deep in the vegetation, Rhistel pulled out the flowers.
He filled his own goblet again but tossed the contents of his mother’s into a nearby pot.
Then, he tapped the pollen into the carafe of wine.
Blue dust floated down into the liquid. He didn’t need much pollen, but to be safe, he tainted the wine with more than he’d ever used. Once done, he swirled the decanter, mixing the pollen in well, and poured his mother a fresh glass.
Then, he sat back and waited.
Many minutes passed before the queen strolled out of the sea of green, a soft smile on her lips that vanished when she saw him.
“How was your walk?” she asked.
“Fine. The water looks calm today.” He didn’t care for the plants, but that he watched the sea was believable. The heir had always liked the water.
“It has been for days,” she agreed and, as he’d hoped, lifted her goblet to her lips.
The queen drank. One sip. Two. Three. Apparently, pruning plants proved strenuous work, for when she set the goblet down again, half the wine was gone.
“It’s time to return to your room while I bathe,” his mother said.
He rose. The pollen didn’t take long to work, and he would recognize when it did because his power diminished when he took the pollen. Hence, his mother’s hold over him would too.
They made it to the door when her control faltered. Not enough for him to break free, but enough to feel. The time was growing close. The Clawsguards fell into step behind them, and they continued on, mother and son spending an inordinate amount of time together lately.
Down one corridor they went, and turned into another, and his mother stumbled. She grabbed onto the wall, catching herself, while he tested the boundaries around his mind. Flexible. Breakable. Victory swelled inside him and no longer able to wait, he struck.
She gasped, sensing his escape, and whirled upon him, but the intoxicating pollen had taken hold, and her eyes had glazed over.
Before the guards took notice, Rhistel slipped off one of his ice spider silk gloves and took his mother by the hand. Skin touched skin and his magic, free after so many days, sank into her. Immediately it arrested his mother’s power, which felt weaker. Drugged, just like the queen herself.
“You’re out of sorts, Mother,” Rhistel said, deceptive care in his voice as his magic delved deeper, harder into her, twisting her own powers into a cage of his making. He had her. “Perhaps a long rest is in store?”
She blinked heavily. “Yes. I think so.” Her tone had taken on that flat quality he’d heard and hated in his own. It might have taken him much longer than he wished, but his practice and planning had paid off. He’d bested his mother.
Do not leave your suite until I say that you can, he commanded.
Rhistel turned to the Clawsguards. “See the queen to her rooms.”
“Of course, Your Highness,” the more senior guard replied. “Would you like one of us to escort you to yours?”
Since Isolde and Thyra Falk had become a genuine threat, the Clawsguards were increasingly careful about leaving the royal family alone. Even if they requested privacy.
“No,” Rhistel said. “I have other plans.”
Unsurprisingly, the prince found the king in his personal library.
The small space filled with books and warmth from an ever-burning hearth was a retreat for Rhistel’s father. He allowed only his family, and a select few others inside. However, today, a male the prince didn’t recognize sat across from the king.
The stranger dressed in a style of clothing common in old paintings, the attire centuries out of style.
He had long black hair, nearly black eyes, and pale skin that made him appear almost vampiric, but his ears were pointed.
No wings, or he had glamoured them. Perhaps they were ugly, mutilated things?
The king rose, confusion clear in his gaze. “Rhistel, I didn’t think you’d be joining us.”
“I expect not.” He sneered. “But I’m feeling much more myself.”
Understanding flashed across the king’s features. “Your mother?”
King Magnus didn’t love Inga, but he respected her. As an extension of his house, he protected the queen. Rhistel didn’t think that would last for long.
“She’s much like I was.” The prince strode deeper into the room and turned his back on the stranger. “I came here to speak with you. In private.”
“Very well,” the king replied. “érebo if you wouldn’t mind—”
“I would mind,” the other fae said.
Prince Rhistel spun on the spot. No one spoke to his father like that. But this fae, érebo, only smirked at Rhistel’s astonishment.
“Who are you to talk to my father that way?” Rhistel glowered before his gaze slid to the male who had raised him. “It’s bad enough that Lord Roar is becoming so familiar, but I don’t even know this person.”