Chapter 40
Everly
If I had thought dinners with the courtiers to be trying, it was only because I had been younger then, and full of all the hope and optimism of a person who had never yet been forced to hold court.
Let alone when there was a war on the horizon.
I shifted uncomfortably in the throne Draven had crafted for me earlier this week, the first of many demonstrations meant to solidify my place at his side. I appreciated the gesture, if not the ornate seat that got colder with every minute I sat on it.
Wynnie assured me that it was impossible to get frostbite with this many layers of fur between myself and the solid ice, but my increasingly numb buttcheeks told another story.
Still, I forced myself to sit a little straighter, ignoring the way my crown dug into my skull as I prepared to welcome the seven thousandth person who approached with something petty or hateful or downright asinine.
Though there were a few rare, treasured opportunities to do something useful, for the most part, this felt exactly like the show Soren had intended it to be.
“First of all, may I thank our illustrious king for his swift dealings with the savages at our borders.” Though the village elder was slightly over the top in his praise, his navy eyes held the burn of sincerity.
“My wife and daughter were caught by the slavers, but the soldiers stepped in to save them.”
Draven, to his credit, did not radiate smugness at the male’s words, nor enter my thoughts to remind me of the many heated debates we had engaged in this past week over the law he refused to lift. He only nodded, gesturing for the villager to state his case.
“However, a group had already gotten away with our food stores for the winter,” the male went on. “I ask that we be granted stores from the crown’s holding to replenish them so that our people don’t starve.”
My husband looked at me, his signal that I was able to grant the people a favor. We were enacting Soren’s plan, bit by bit. It should have been easy, except for the daily rejoicing over the deaths of the Unseelie.
Some of them were warranted, like the male here now. Others… others would have gladly danced on the grave of the children who had been slain at the Frost Grave Pass for the sin of daring to escape the monsters Winter was responsible for in the first shards-damned place.
All of it made my teeth clench to the point of cracking.
Still, I nodded with as serene an expression as I could manage. “Granted.”
“Thank you, My Queen.”
The male stepped down, and a female took his place, Lady Feomyr.
She wore the height of Frost Court fashion, a gown of pale glacial silk layered over deeper storm-blue velvet, the fabric cut close through the bodice before spilling into sharp, angular skirts that echoed icicles mid-fall. Every accent was deliberate, and cold.
She was a recent arrival, reminiscent of Lady Thessara, from her upturned nose to the haughty tilt of her lips .
“I’m afraid there has been an error made with regard to our accommodations,” she said in a nasally voice.
“Oh?” Draven intoned.
“Yes,” she simpered, missing the warning in his expression entirely. “Surely the queen’s sister did not intend to house my family on the same floor as the peasants.”
“I’m quite certain Lady Noerwyn has been intentional in her rooming decisions, given the need for efficiency with the space at hand.”
I suppressed a snort. I was certain of no such thing. Wynnie had almost definitely placed the lady with the poorest villagers on purpose.
It’s a shame she’s out tending to just such peasants right now so she can’t tell Lady Feomyr herself how intentional her rooming choices were, I thought to Draven.
Amusement trickled from his side of the bond, but there was no trace of it on his stern features.
“Dismissed,” he said shortly, before the lady could protest.
She pursed her lips but bowed anyway, backing away into the crowd.
The next few hours continued in the same vein of monotony and frustration. My shoulders sagged in relief when the guard at the door finally announced that the morning was closed to petitions.
At least I was spared afternoon luncheons, since I still couldn’t be seen in the palace without Draven. Batty had not yet managed to stop my mana before it trickled out, and shadow powers were not a thing amongst the Winter fae.
Days passed in that same manner, holding court and dining with courtiers. Visiting Nevara in the afternoon, tracking the progress of the inky black stains as they receded from her nails and her pale, ethereal locks.
She still hadn’t woken. The Archmage was more optimistic than Amias on that front, the latter of whom administered strengthening tonics with a devotion that bordered on mania in the guilt of his antidote misstep.
She grew stronger, the venom grew weaker, but she never once stirred.
And unlike Isren, I became less and less sure that she ever would.
I was freezing.
The fire had died in the hearth, and of course, Draven was out.
Like most afternoons, he was in the war room while I listened in on his thoughts intermittently.
As fun as it was to force my presence on Eryx, we needed the Lord General more than I needed to irritate him with my very existence.
Especially now, when we had no choice but to match my uncle’s preparations for war.
Together, they moved troops along the borders, recalled some to the palace, discussed every defense strategy and contingency plan known to the realm, and waited for Soren to make contact with his flames.
One of the outlying estates had already fallen to monsters after refusing to bolster their borders.
Wynnie and I had drunk an extra bottle of wine that night, and Mirelda hadn’t even argued.
I padded into my former rooms to find the maid tidying up the herbs on the nightstand. Once again, it struck me how quickly my sister had made these rooms her own, how comfortable she was with the amount of space she took up in a room, in a way that I never had been.
She had lost her home and nearly everyone in it, and she had built a new one here within a matter of days.
While I… couldn’t.
Even now, Draven’s rooms were bare of my existence.
If the worst happened in this war, there would be no sign that I had been here at all.
The books in the study were sent by the palace.
The clothes were chosen by Closet. The walls and curtains and chandeliers were as Winter-themed as ever, without a single trace of color.
There was something unspeakably… empty about the idea that Draven and I could both die and history would never know we had even shared a room.
“Is there something I can do for you, Your Majesty?” Mirelda asked, eyebrows furrowing.
I opened my mouth to ask her to turn up the fire, then closed it just as quickly.
Instead, I reached out to Draven.
Do you mind… if I make changes to the room?
Something like satisfaction trickled back to me.
The only thing I care about with our room is that you’re in it when I return, Morta Mea. Preferably without clothes on.
Desire coursed through me at the low growl I could feel in my soul, but I sent him back a laugh instead.
Then I’m starting with ramping up the fireplace.
He paused at that, no doubt picturing all the furs he would be heaping back on my side of the bed tonight just as he did every night they crept into his space.
If that’s the price I have to pay, he finally allowed.
He returned to his meeting, and I fixed my attention on Mirelda, dredging up the bravery I shouldn’t have needed for such a mild request. It felt too permanent for our lives, too obvious for an abomination who had lived the past decade in hiding.
But I knew if I left this palace without a trace of my existence, it would haunt me in every apprehension-filled moment until we inevitably found ourselves at war.
“Yes,” I told Mirelda in response to her question. “I know the timing is… not ideal, but I have a few things I’d like to procure for Draven’s—for our rooms. Like…” I thought for a moment, “an armchair, and pillows that aren’t white or navy.”
A slow smile spread across her cheeks. “I’ll see to it at once.”
It was the smallest of victories, an attempt at permanence in an existence that was feeling increasingly fleeting. And somewhere past my satisfaction, I couldn’t help the spider-like fingers of dread along my spine, reminding me that fate never let a challenge go unanswered.