Chapter Nine
Cian
I WATCH HER SLEEP, still hard inside her, held tight in her narrow sheath. A contentment unlike any I’ve ever known fills me. Me inside her. Her in my arms. Me protecting her. Her, strangely, nurturing a part of me I thought I’d lost to time and responsibility.
Mine, I say, drifting into the fog of empty dreams.
Not so empty. Cernunnos steps from the mist.
“My lord.” I bow my head, memory tickling. In Albios...
But before I can capture it, he says, “Be careful, son. You tread a dangerous path through a wicked grove. What you desire might also be your ruin. You will hear stories. Take heed.”
He snaps his fingers, and I wake with a start. Lights still blaze bright in the room. The water clock on the side table tells me I’ve slept no more than half of an hour, but I feel as refreshed as a buck gamboling in cool forests.
My unruly cock is still hard inside Ayala’s warm, wet body, perfectly sheathed. I don’t want to move and wake her. I don’t want to ruin this feeling.
I want to fuck her. But she’ll be sore.
Food. I’ll slip out of her and eat, substituting one satiation for another. And when did she last eat?
I pull from her too fast. My retreat creates a vacuum. The squelching sound as my seed rushes down her thighs makes me smile, and the smile becomes a laugh as she wrinkles her nose, still asleep, but waking.
Good. I’ll feed her before she drifts off again.
Well, I’m her king. I’m in charge of her care, her safety, and her well-being. Though it’s odd, I’ve never felt this level of protectiveness before. This need to provide.
Striding to the closet, I withdraw a black robe and belt it around my waist. Instead of calling down to the kitchens, I decide to travel there myself. And why not? It’s my palace, though this is the first time I’ve decided to visit.
Plus, I’ll be able to see where Ayala’s been working.
It seems hardly possible that I’ve lived in such close proximity to her without ever knowing of her existence, and yet, it must be so.
When I sent my magick through her, I saw her at the table, mixing dough.
I picked up images trailing back in time, and though I didn’t focus on any one in particular, I received the notion she’d worked for the old king as well.
I also picked up honesty and a surprising inner strength I never expected to find in one so weak. She intrigued me.
And I almost sent her to her death.
Pushing through the swinging door into the chef’s domain, I nod my head at the shocked faces of those who already toil before continuing on, cool stone beneath my bare feet, feeling my way. Scenting my way.
Honeysuckle. That’s her scent. By the time I smelled her, she’d been in the prison cell and smelled of refuse. Now, she’s wearing my scent, which gives me an unanticipated degree of bliss I don’t quite understand. It’s a bit like marking her.
The thought stills my feet before I brush it aside.
Stags mark their mates, not their plaissances. It’s enough to spend my seed inside her, steep her in my scent so it invades her pores, and dominate her with my lips and cock. It’s enough to make her crave me as I unreasonably crave her.
Anyway, once Hunter sees to the proclamation, all of Wylding will know Ayala’s mine. No need to consider a true marking. I’m not even certain I’m going to mark my future mate, whoever she might be. No need to make a production of a union.
I slide through another door into the baking kitchen.
A large wooden table holds a stack of metal trays.
The oak surface is paled by years of flour.
To the back is a long wall of ovens. Bags and barrels of flour, sugar, and other ingredients line shelves in the corner.
Low-level stags man the kindling fires. Vanilla, the headiest scent, overpowers all else.
Already, the space is sweltering hot, barely touched by the cool night air.
One by one, the stags drop to the floor in obeisance when they notice who’s invaded their domain. That’s the problem with the lower levels. They’re always wasting time bowing and kowtowing. I don’t need it. A simple head bob would do.
“Rise. I’m in search of cakes, mead, and... you there. Ayala Treadborn, do you know her?”
A skinny buck jumps to his feet, fear squinching his features. “I do, Your Majesty. Only a little.”
“Your name?”
“Sparger, Your Majesty.”
“Well, Sparger, what of all the offerings available does Ayala like best?”
He shoots a quick glance at a large round pastry wider than the span of my fingers, decorated with sweet cherries in the center. “Um, she favors fruit, Your Majesty.”
“Wonderful. A collection of some, please, and that cherry confection.”
He wrings his hands. “The thing is, Your Majesty, the tartes are destined for the Inn of the Barking Mad. The only flavor allowed in court is vanilla, as you know, Your Majesty, such being your decree.”
That stops me. I know of no such decree.
He takes my look of puzzlement incorrectly. “There’s a contract with the Inn of the Barking Mad, as you likely know. Collects a pretty coin for the palace coffers, too. Roffey Hornbeam drew it—er, well, before, um... you know.” The buck bows low again after swallowing.
“Before I killed him. How long ago?”
“The contract with the inn? At least three years now. Before he started courting the duke’s daughter. Long time.”
Odd, how ardent he is in assuring me the contract’s been in play for a while. “I want a copy of the contract delivered to the Earl of MacAvern along with a copy of the decree of vanilla. And I’m commandeering these tartlets.” I grab three small pastries.
“Those have cinnamon in them.” He jumps with the warning.
“Is there a reason I shouldn’t wish cinnamon?”
“Er...” He goes back to wringing his hands. “Only, you don’t like spices other than vanilla, do you?”
“Are these destined for the Inn of the Barking Mad as well?”
A fine flush of red covers his sweaty skin. “The Inn of the Whooping Crane, actually.”
Seems my kitchens are doing a brisk business.
I wonder if any of the proceeds are making their way into the palace coffers.
“Send the earl all contracts with establishments outside the palace.” I start to turn but rotate back, catching an odd expression on the boy’s face.
I can’t quite name it, but it smacks of relief and guilt.
“Is there aught else, Your Majesty?”
Yes. A feeling.
I could pull magick and read through him, but he’d feel me do it and wonder why. No, best to let him think I’ve nothing on my mind but fucking my new plaissance.
And in truth, there’s very little on my mind other than that.
“Yes. Send all contracts with any outside entity from the savory kitchen as well. By morning.”
He bows low. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
After crossing back into the savory kitchen, I collect a variety of berries, nuts, peaches, and plums, along with a trencher of rabbit stew, before making my way back towards my rooms.
“Meat?” Hunter asks, approaching from the front entrance just as I mount the stairs. “You had meat for supper. It isn’t like you to indulge twice in one day.”
“It’s for Ayala. She’s nothing but skin and bones after a week’s starvation.” But even as I explain, I wonder why I feel obliged to do so.
His nose twitches as he approaches. “You’ve fucked her. Now you’re bringing her a meal? With your own two hands?”
“And legs, since I can’t fly.”
His eyes narrow upon me. “What is this?” he hisses after raking my form. “What does this mean?”
I shrug. “I made her my plaissance. It’s my duty to care for her, not to mention that she’s a citizen of my kingdom and therefore owed my care in the general.”
“In the general being the operative words. Here, give me that. If anyone sees you, they’re going to think she’s bewitched you.” He pauses after grabbing the tray from my hands. “Has she bewitched you?”
“I don’t believe so.” Probably not, anyway. I don’t sense enough magick in her to manage a spell.
He glances towards the window. “It’s first light in an hour. I’ve just come from bed, ready to embark on our journey to Mayhaven. You are still planning to question the monks tomorrow?”
Turning on my heel, I march up the stairs, leaving him to negotiate the heavy gold platter.
But part of me is stone: I’d forgotten our plans to roust an assassin, or assassins.
In my lust and pleasure with Ayala, I forgot we needed to question the monks about the juniper and why Murdoch insisted the berries were poison.
What in the name of Cernunnos is the matter with me?
I’m tired, that’s all. Too little sleep after being comatose, visits from the god himself in my dreams, and an overwhelming fear that I’m missing something important in the string of inexplicability are forcing me off-kilter. That’s all.
But I stop before I push through into my chambers. “Did you know there’s an edict against any spices except vanilla being used in goods for the palace?”
“Salt and pepper, too. You signed it, didn’t you?”
“No. At least, I don’t believe I did.”
His face is a study of confusion. “Well then, who did?”
“Not you? I thought the plain food was because so many eat the same things, and we were being conscientious.”
“No. That’s just dumb. I mean, growing up, you favored plain foods, and your mother was always worried about your allergies.”
Stranger and stranger. “But I’ve eaten other spices. At other courts. On military maneuvers. Tavern food. I’ve never succumbed. I’m beginning to wonder if I have allergies at all.”
“Well, the monks told your mother that you did. The monks must also be responsible for the edict. What about all those regulations you signed when you took the throne? As I recall, there were hundreds of pages. Easy to miss or forget one.”
The monks. Again. They’ve kept me safe—if, indeed, I needed the keeping—only to lie about my poisoning? It all makes no sense. But then, so much of what the religious men do in the service of the Great God is impenetrable.
There’s something here. I just can’t name it. Yet.