Chapter Twenty-Six
Pikquarrys
I place two horn stands on my dining table and fill them with chilled cider, trying and failing to dispel the anxious pit in my stomach before Princess Loreleivnna returns.
The sky envoys departed yesterday morning. The final week of the Lunaplume Harvest Festival is coming to an end, with the Lunaplume Ball looming around the corner.
The third week is a time for sowing seeds.
Many saplings are conceived this time of year.
Vyrion grows anxious for me to annul my engagement with his daughter, eager for her to choose a first mate in the remaining hours of the festival.
Like a coward, I’ve avoided him, making excuses whenever he corners me, heaving sighs of relief when it seems the spiritvines haven’t revealed my betrayal yet.
Even the comforting smell of roasting parsnips and butternut squash cannot dispel my worries.
Time is running out. I fear what Vyrion will do when he discovers I have no plans to release his daughter’s hand.
I won the joust, so the council will give him no room to deny my claim, but his friendship may be lost to me forever.
Worse, his relationship with Loreleivnna will be strained, though I know he loves her too much to disown her.
Transferring the meat to the pot of veggies, I pause to admire the perfectly roasted bird.
Princess Loreleivnna had made such an expression of longing when I’d mentioned the types of meals I enjoy while traveling, I had no choice but to surprise her with this dish made from the last crested noxwing from my hunt on the way into Svitaeryl.
A racket at the front door pulls my attention, and I drop the roasted bird on its veggie bed instead of nestling it gently. I scowl and vow to spank the brat for being so rough on the old iris doorknob my father forged, but my heart drops when I hear the voice at the door.
“Pikquarrys, if you value your life within these walls, Ancients favor you, face me now else you’ll lose it.”
Plucked fucking roses. I’m as good as fertilizer.
I rip off my apron and drape it over the chair I’d set for Princess Loreleivnna. King Vyrion mutters unintelligibly.
“Keep your wits,” I shout, buying myself time to glance around for any remnants of his daughter’s presence. There’s nothing in the living space, but I know her flower crown supplies litter my stable-suite.
“My wits have well and truly drifted in the wind, Brother.” The wince barely washes from my features before King Vyrion blows into my cottage like a violent squall.
Shit. No time to tidy up now. He stands at the threshold carved for a centaur, and yet, his presence fills the frame, my dearest friend nowhere to be seen.
“When did you see them last?” I shrug, casually trying to put distance between myself and the incriminating baskets of colorful flowers and assorted critter bones in my sleeping quarters. “Don’t blame me for your old age.”
My attempt at humor mishits like a hammer against an anvil. The King pins me with storms in his eyes, so similar to Princess Loreleivnna’s but lacking any compassion.
“The cloud-snake and his party are gone. The week of celebration withers past.” King Vyrion strides inside, commanding the space like it’s his throne room and not my lodgings. “State your intentions with my daughter.”
“Vyrion,” I placate, raising my hands as I prance in place. “I only want—”
The flower knob on my front door squeaks again. Pluck me! I’ve awaited her arrival for hours, but there could not be a more inopportune moment.
“Do not trim words with me, Pikquarrys,” King Vyrion booms. “Do you intend to honor our arrangement?”
“Yes!” I reply, too quickly. My hind hoof collides with the swinging stable-suite door. I barely catch myself before tripping further back into the room, and I realize he’s driven me into a predicament that none of us will live through unscathed.
“What arrangement?” Princess Loreleivnna’s wounded voice is like metal shavings to the heart. The door clicks shut behind her, and I avert my gaze.
King Vyrion’s eyes widen for a split second, then dart around the room.
He takes note of the table set for two, the elf-sized chair, and the elaborate crested noxwing dinner.
His molten gaze glides past me, over my shoulder, at the damning evidence visible through the crack in the stable-suite doors, until finally landing on me, silent and cutting.
“The arrangement was to denounce my claim to your hand.” As I speak, I hold King Vyrion’s gaze, the weight of it stacking heavy bar stocks in my chest. “Freeing you to make your own choice in matters of the heart.”
An ever-so-slight change in his features tells me he doesn’t appreciate my play on his very clear instructions to annul my victory.
“Father,” Princess Loreleivnna’s tone is as commanding as the man in front of me. “I’ve made my choice.”
My gaze snaps to hers. The burgundy ring around her pupils swirls with an emotion so deep, my freshly healed ribs feel they may collapse again.
“I choose Pikr.”