Chapter 22
Maddox
Idon’t wear a golden gown to the dinner party. I wear blood red. Fern helps with my hair and makeup, achieving classic Veronica Lake waves, a winged eye, and red lips. The only hints of gold are the pointed ear cuffs studded with rubies.
Tonight is the night.
The king will be drinking. I will be drinking.
Everyone’s inhibitions will be lowered. People will be gathering and laughing, keeping the guards distracted as I convince the king to whisk me away to his rooms like I convinced him to take me to that hidden balcony at the masquerade. Getting him alone is the key.
My gown is a vault of weapons hidden beneath a lovely drapery—a crimson bodysuit with a sweetheart neckline and Castor’s gift strapped low on my hips, hidden by a full skirt that buttons at the waist. I holster my golden dagger and throwing axe, then tie on a silk pouch filled with a vial of insulin, a syringe, a meter, a lancet, and test strips.
My blood sugar is sitting at a comfortable 120, something a feast is sure to change.
Juggling testing my blood sugar and dosing for dinner will be a challenge all on its own.
Not much longer, I assure myself.
When I arrive at the citadel after a stomach-churning samara flight—because fuck running between districts in this gown—I find Tamarind waiting for me just inside the gates, standing like he has a rather large branch shoved up his ass.
“You left the king’s side?” I say by way of greeting. “I am stunned. What if he needs to use the toilet and has no one there to assist him?”
For once, he actually speaks, venom coating his words like a candy apple. “No golden gown tonight? How will the king recognize you? He can only see in shades of gold, you know.”
“Wow. Where has this snark been hiding?”
He ignores my question, waving for me to follow him down the gilded road leading around the throne room and into the palace front doors. Inquisitive dryads and arborfae watch as we walk by, a cloak of whispers billowing behind us.
Before we reach the doors, Tamarind takes my arm, pausing me. “You would do well to remember that the prince will be in attendance. King Castor told you what he’s like. How he…enjoys the company of mortal women.”
“Yes, I am well aware. But I’ve also heard the king himself enjoys the company of mortal women.”
Tamarind’s brow creases. “He doesn’t—well, not in that way.”
“In what way does he enjoy their company, then?”
“In a…respectful…proper way.”
“Is that why he’s come to visit me every day?” His increasing discomfort fuels my words. “Because he is trying to be respectful and proper toward the mortal he thinks tried to kill him? Or perhaps because he’s learning my weaknesses so he can get me where he wants me?”
“You’re mortal,” he says through his teeth. “A dryad king needn’t learn your weaknesses to get you where he wants you.”
“Why would he visit me every day, then? Why bother? Surely a king has more to worry about than a young mortal woman working in a dryad sex house.”
Every inch of him is tense. Loose black locs frame his narrow face, tinged with fury. His left hand grips the hilt of the scythe sheathed at his waist. “Perhaps he sees something in you,” he remarks, dangerously quiet. “Something that intrigues him.”
I tilt my head. “You’re not jealous, are you, Tam?”
His jaw clenches like he’s biting down on words he shouldn’t speak. “It’s time you joined the rest of the guests. Just be wary of the prince. He’s been known to say whatever it takes to get what he wants.”
“Don’t worry.” I pat Tamarind’s shoulder. He stiffens, and I laugh, pulling my hand away. “I can always smell a liar.”
His hooded copper eyes spark like struck flint. “Can you?”
A pair of servants leads our group of about twenty guests into a grand sitting room just outside of the dining hall.
Everything here is massive and unbending, emanating the same aggressive masculinity that my old gym in Arborfell did.
Aureate pillars shoot to a ceiling held by rigid beams of russet wood hung with golden chandeliers.
Solid oak chairs and iron love seats clearly meant for looking at but not sitting on are arranged in right angles around tables holding gilded bowls filled with perfectly ripe fruit no one eats.
I pick up a golden apple, expecting it to be heavy, but it feels like any ordinary apple you’d find in a mortal grocery store. I’ve heard tales of fairy fruit, but I thought that was just misinterpreted lore like so many human accounts are. Perhaps I know less about the fae than I thought.
Tamarind departs, moving to stand along the wall with the other guards, an onyx buoy in an ocean of gold.
I’m not sure if it’s because I’m mortal or an honorary Magesté orchid, but it feels as though the attention of other guests is disproportionately fixed on me.
They glance my way, faces lighting with repressed glee as they turn to whisper to one another behind cupped hands.
I’m certainly the most mundane of the lot.
No horns or antlers or tree bark skin to speak of.
I’m approached by a water nymph with webbed fingers whose bluish skin glistens like a dolphin’s.
Her eyes are the spherical shape of an amphibian’s, and while one remains on me, the other flicks to the left and right, taking in the rest of the room.
When she speaks, her voice makes an odd gurgling sound.
“Have you tried the auric wine, Maddox?” she asks me. “Divine. Like nectar of the tree gods.”
Before I can say I haven’t or ask how she knows my name, she is pulled away by a dryad whose antlers are coated in thick yellow moss and who begins loudly complimenting her pearl necklace.
Taking a goblet of auric wine from a passing server, I stroll along the perimeter of the room, pretending to admire paintings adorning the walls.
Judging from their crowns and regal postures, these are portraits of all the previous kings.
All kings, no queens. Gods forbid they catch their husbands cheating and burn down another forest.
When I reach the second to last portrait, I am unable to continue forward.
A slow-forming knot gathers around my stomach as I take in the deep brown skin, black irises, and cheerful grin of the former king.
Cyperus Sempervirens. His eyes were kind.
Warm. I wonder if my father ever had the chance to look into them.
I wonder if his actions would have been different if he had.
But my dad’s pact ended in his death. Who’s to say mine won’t end that way too?
Was my wording clever enough? Did I seal all the cracks in the deal the Myrtle Queen could attempt to slip through?
Will the Redwood Court find out what I did and haunt me for the rest of my days?
Even if I kill Castor, there’s still one Sempervirens left.
Who will the Myrtle Queen task with killing Durian once he’s the last one standing?
Castor’s story about Elswyth and Rowan and their doomed love story replays in my mind.
Dozens of dryads lost their lives; their blackened heartwood skeletons still stand to this day, as a reminder of the chaotic temperament of the Myrtle Queens.
Shaking my head to clear it of unwanted thoughts, I move on to the final portrait in line…King Castor.
It seems much newer than the others. Brighter and untouched by dust.
I take in his image with a slow sigh. Chestnut hair, slightly tousled, like he didn’t even bother combing it before sitting for this portrait, charred black horns curling back like a devil’s, brown skin much lighter than the former king’s, and that jaw.
It’s almost rude how sharp it is. But, behind his subtle smirk, there’s a haunted look in his deep-set eyes, something that’s missing from all the other kings.
The bonfire of hatred I felt for him a week ago has dimmed with each day. Which means I need to kill him tonight, before it burns out completely.
“Handsome, isn’t he?”
I nearly spill my wine. The cursed prince steps into my periphery. The memory of his hand on mine, pressing against the axe he knew I was hiding, rises to the surface of my skin in the form of a blush.
“Uh—”
Soft harp music suddenly builds, joined by violins and horns. The chattering in the room evaporates. Durian turns to face the pair of tall doors, where the guards are now forming parallel lines, a wide smile unrolling across his face.
The doors swing open and in strolls King Castor with six attendants trailing after him.
Tonight, he wears a tightly fitted white-and-gold ensemble complete with a straight cape that falls to the ground and a vest encrusted in half-gilded diamonds. His hair is styled, arranged so perfectly that not even the strongest gust of wind could displace it.
In fact, it’s too perfect. I prefer how it usually is, disheveled and unkempt like it’s just been tousled by a lover’s hand. More than once my fingers have twitched to touch it, to gauge the softness of it.
The king parades through the center of the guards like an A-list celebrity on the red carpet feigning being bashful, a flush rising from his neck to his cheeks. He seeks me out. When he notes Durian standing beside me, any trace of softness in his expression turns to stone.
Coming to a stop, he folds his hands before him, clearing his throat to address the room.
His words sound rehearsed and stiff, like he’s unused to speaking to such a large group.
“Welcome, my friends, to my home. As you all know, the Sylveris Solstice will take place at the upcoming full moon. My brother”—he waves a bejeweled hand in Durian’s direction—“and I are truly pleased to have you join us in enjoying some of the most decadent wine and food our kingdom has to offer. So, er”—he clears his throat awkwardly—“enjoy the food tonight. I hope you will, I mean. Enjoy the food. It’s very good. ”