Chapter 22
Hannalinde
“The moths are saying you’ve set her aside,” Cléa announced over dinner one night. “The upper tiers are all talking about it.”
Hannalinde’s knife paused mid-buttering, but Rikard continued to strip his rabbit haunch as though he hadn’t heard.
“Set her aside for whom?” Roul asked, topping off his tankard with a frothy pour of ale.
“A mistress. A human mistress. The Zenith’s wife sent me a note. She said her moths are saying the Nadir keeps his wife locked in the eyrie because he’s taken up with another human.” Cléa leaned forward, adding to Carlijn, “I can only assume they mean you!”
Carlijn, who had been demolishing a plate of roasted turnips, choked on a laugh.
She pressed her napkin to her mouth, ringlets shaking as she gestured at Rikard with her fork.
“They’ll be disappointed to learn that you’d rather do paperwork than drink with friends. I couldn’t seduce you if I tried.”
Cléa frowned at her, and Carlijn ducked her head. “Not that I would.”
Rikard looked so annoyed by the topic of conversation that Hannalinde had to bite her lip to quell her own giggle. He stabbed his meat, muttering, “No one takes the moths seriously.”
“Maybe not,” Cléa said, waving a claw. “But they do love to repeat their stories, and right now the story is that my son’s wife hasn’t been seen in a month. I’ve received condolences for my poor daughter-in-law’s humiliation.”
“I’m not worried about it,” Hannalinde said mildly, not wanting to cause trouble. “Let them think what they want.”
Cléa ignored her, speaking directly to her son. “Take Hannalinde out for an evening. Let the Tower see her, see that she’s well and that you haven’t stuffed her in a cupboard. Let them see how her belly has grown. That’s all it will take to kill a rumor.”
Rikard pushed his plate away. “Are you feeling well enough to go out?” he asked Hannalinde.
“Of course she does,” Cléa clucked. “Aalis says she’s thriving.”
Rikard looked at Hannalinde. The question in his scarred face was for her.
She bit her lip. Physically, she could do it.
Her body was ungainly but still able. It was her mind having trouble, knowing that her hunter was still out there.
His presence in her head was quiet lately, though.
Whether because of her mental exercises with Rikard or her true mate’s disinterest, she did not know.
She nodded. “I can do it, if you are with me.”
“There’s a feast at the palace in three nights,” Rikard said. “The fae delegation brought a gift for the city, so the Nadir’s attendance is expected. It will be quite long and dull, but I expect the food will be good, as we’ll be seated at the high table.”
She’d expected to be sidelined at a sky ball, not feasted at the king’s table in full view of the nobles who had dropped her like a rotten apple after her father’s conviction. What would they think, seeing her up there in a place of honor, her belly full of a gargoyle’s child?
She hoped they choked on it. A smile curved her lips, and she gave her husband a nod. “I’ll need a new dress.”
Cléa snapped her teeth with satisfaction. “I’ll send for the dressmaker tonight.”
On the night of the feast, Cléa fussed with Hannalinde’s sash, tying it first under her belly and then over it.
When she’d arranged it to her satisfaction, she stood back to admire the leaf-green gown, frosted with silver and gold embroidery by Hanna’s own needle.
“Stunning. I insist that you let Roul fly you down. You’ll destroy the silk if you sweat on the ladders. ”
“I agree,” Rikard said coolly, although she could tell it displeased him that he could not carry her himself. She acquiesced, and they met at the bottom of the Tower, where the keepers had arranged a carriage to take them to the palace quarter.
Rikard seemed uncomfortable on the ride, leaning forward so his wings did not bump against the sides of the compartment as they made their way through the cobbled streets.
When the whole conveyance leaned as they took a corner at speed, he gripped the rail above his head so tightly that his fingers paled.
“Your first time in a carriage?” she guessed. When he gave a miserable nod, she reached for his free hand, giving it a squeeze. “It’s never completely comfortable, but it’s not so bad once you get used to it. There are worse things in the world.”
He answered with a crooked smile. “Is that how you feel about marrying me?”
Oh, her heart. As if she were gripping life by the rail. Quite the opposite, in fact. She felt quite coddled. “No. I think being your wife is more like flying than like a carriage ride.”
When they exited the carriage in the palace courtyard, banks of candles and silk banners in the king’s silver-and-stars insignia lined the path into the feast hall.
They were shown to seats next to the Zenith and his mate, who greeted them warmly.
Hannalinde was even provided a cushion by a very solicitous footman.
Her skin buzzed with excitement as she watched the nobles fill in their seats at the long tables below.
She spotted many faces she knew, although it was clear most didn’t immediately recognize her.
They squinted at her, trying to determine the identity of the lone human at the gargoyle high table.
She had to suppress a smile when a ripple of recognition moved through the crowd.
Then the royalty arrived, and the rumors were forgotten. King Errol and Queen Liselot entered first, flanked by their human and gargoyle guards, Bastien among them. It made her smile to know Rikard’s kind, stoic friend at this distance. It made her realize she considered him a friend, too.
The king had always been a stout man, but in the ten years since she’d been at court, he’d grown stouter, and when he drew close, she noticed his red beard was now threaded with white.
He stood at his seat at the center of the dais.
Queen Liselot took her place as well, leaving a space for the fae king between them.
Even at this close distance, she looked much the same as she had as a younger woman, though perhaps her hips were a bit wider and her black hair, plaited down her back, a bit longer.
The gargoyles at the high table took their cue from the humans and stood, so she did as well, waiting for their guests from the north.
It felt like the air left the room when the fae delegation entered the feast hall.
Hannalinde had never seen a full fae in person before. Though certainly fae blood ran in the veins of some Solvantians, their slight sparkle in the moonlight and the descriptions in storybooks had not prepared her for the physical reality.
The fae king’s beauty was the kind that made the eye ache.
Clothed in silk so fine it was almost transparent, he was taller than most in the room, with long, white hair and delicately pointed ears.
The transparent membranes of his wings scattered tiny rainbows over the stone floors.
He moved through the feast hall with a retinue of fae courtiers and a half-dozen of his daughters, whose beauty matched his own.
The human nobles seemed dazed by their visitors from the north, staring with open mouths and starry eyes as the fae approached the human king and queen. But Hanna noticed the gargoyles lining the walls looked grim and on guard.
“They don’t like him,” she murmured.
“They certainly don’t trust him,” Rikard agreed in a low voice. “The fae don’t operate by force, or not as we understand it. They prefer persuasion, which makes them harder to guard against. You can see a goblin army coming. You can’t see fae machinations.”
At that moment, as though he heard them, the fae king caught Hannalinde’s eye and winked.
Then he bowed to the king, the motion so fluid it made Errol’s return bow look like he was bending to retrieve a fumbled coin.
Two of the fae courtiers stepped forward, lifting something in a moss-lined silver bucket that made Hannalinde’s breath catch.
It was a tree. Not a sapling, but a tree in miniature, with a canopy of silver-green leaves that moved in the gentle breeze from the feast hall’s open doors. It was beautiful and so clearly magical that she had no doubt it would spring into a full-size tree as soon as it was planted in the ground.
“From our forest to your city, may it thrive as our peoples thrive, connecting us forever,” the fae king proclaimed in a voice as pretty as his face. It rang unnaturally from the rafters, some kind of magic.
She could not catch the reply of King Errol, but it was clear he received the gift graciously.
The humans and fae applauded. The gargoyles did not.
Hannalinde glanced questioningly at Rikard.
For so long, the gargoyles had prohibited any kind of planting in the soil of Solvantis because they feared the infiltration of the fae king’s magic.
Apparently, they still disapproved, even though it was legal now.
“It will be a foothold,” Rikard said in her ear, voice pitched beneath the applause.
“A tree from their forest, planted inside our walls, could create a channel for fae influence through its roots. The Zenith will have words with the king before they put it in the ground, I imagine. In the meantime, we smile and pretend we think it’s a gift and not a weapon. ”
Hannalinde nodded, understanding completely. This was court as she remembered: a world in which a gift was not a gift. It could be a message, a payment, or a manipulation, but it was never truly a gift.
The feast was as long and as delicious as Rikard had promised.
Hannalinde enjoyed the parade of courses until her stomach filled, chatting occasionally with the Zenith’s mate who sat on her left.
Rikard spoke very little, only when approached by others and only confined to topics related to his role.
She quickly learned that her husband preferred to stay out of Tower politics.
That was good to know. She would adopt the same mindset as his mate.
They were midway through the thirteenth course when Queen Liselot, who’d been visiting with the fae princesses, paused at their part of the table on her way back to her seat.
“Your wedding was beautiful.”
Flustered, Hannalinde stood so she could curtsy. The motion was automatic, drilled by years of court training: you always curtsied for the queen. “Thank you, your Majesty.”
The queen smiled. “It’s lovely to see you at court again.”
Hanna bent her head in acknowledgement. There was too much to say about that.
Liselot’s gaze moved to her belly, direct and unapologetic. “You’re further along than the gossip suggested. How much longer until the babe is born?”
Hannalinde chuckled, touching her belly lightly. “I wish I knew. The midwife says the child has its own schedule. Weeks or less, I expect.”
The queen nodded. “Has it been trying for you, carrying a gargoyle’s child?”
Hannalinde paused, weighing how much honesty the moment could bear. The queen seemed genuinely interested, but the Zenith and his mate were listening closely, as was her husband. She had to tread carefully if she wanted to please them all.
“No more than it is for any woman carrying a child.”
The queen gave her a knowing look. “Certainly, your case is unusual.”
“Unusual but not unheard of. The hardest part is the Tower,” she admitted. “The ladders weren’t built for humans, and certainly not for pregnant ones.”
“Ladders?”
“Our eyrie is on the seventh tier.”
Frowning, the queen glanced at Rikard. She took in his ruined wings, and understanding flooded her expression. “It’s outrageous to expect you to climb that distance every day in your condition. You are trapped.”
In her peripheral vision, she felt the Zenith stiffen. She had tread too close to criticism and was endangering her husband’s reputation. “It’s not too bad. Most days I stay in the eyrie, anyway. My husband provides what I need, and when he cannot, I rely on the keepers.”
“Why do you not reside in Lamont House?” the queen asked.
Hannalinde’s heart stopped. After a moment of shock, it sputtered to life again. “All assets and titles were stripped after my father’s treason, Your Majesty.”
“Has it been sitting empty all this time?” Liselot sounded shocked. “What a waste. It will be yours again. I won’t have a pregnant woman falling to her death in the Tower when there is a perfectly good home languishing in the palace quarter.”
Hannalinde’s throat convulsed. “Thank you,” she managed. “I did not think the Lamont name would ever be restored.”
“The house will be restored to you, not to the Lamont name but to the wife of the Nadir and to your descendants thereafter.” The queen folded her hands, the gesture as final as a seal pressed into wax.
“I trust you would prefer to live at ground level. At least until the child is born,” she added, her glance taking in the gargoyle company.
“Until the child is born,” Hanna repeated. Was she dreaming? She pinched the back of her arm and felt the sting.
Lamont House was hers. The pale stone townhouse with its carved lintels and choking vines. The garden that she’d never seen bloom. The marble floors she’d slid across in her stocking feet as a girl. The balcony where her mother watched the sun set. All of it was hers again.
She dropped into another deep curtsy. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I don’t have words to describe what this means to me.”
“Very good,” the queen said kindly. “I’ll have someone bring you the keys tomorrow.”
Liselot moved on, and Hannalinde sat down. She was suddenly aware of the noisy hall and the thirteenth course congealing on her plate. She pressed her hand to her belly, where the baby was kicking with restless energy.
“Did you hear all that?” she asked Rikard, still in disbelief. “I have my house again.”
Rikard’s hand, enormous and warm, found hers. “You have your house.”