Chapter 40
Maddox
Decked in an obsidian gown with a skirt that looks like fog turned solid, I follow Queen Amanita to the Sylveris Solstice.
News of Durian’s death has spread through the kingdom.
There is a mixture of low chatter, tears, and worry mixed with nervous whispers about Castor becoming the Redwood King.
If they only knew how cruel their former king was.
No one seems to recognize me as I enter the citadel. Then again, why would they? My ears are pointed, and a pair of fucking foot-tall antlers have sprouted from my cranium. I’m unrecognizable to even myself.
When I take a citadel corner too sharply, the outermost prong on my right antler knocks hard into a low-hanging branch. “Ow. Motherf—”
Drosera cackles beside me. “There was a branch there.”
A muttered curse leaves my mouth as we wind our way to the throne room. Fashionably late, of course. Atlas offers me a commiserating smile, but I ignore it. I’m not in the mood to be commiserated with.
Tense silence greets us in the throne room.
Yesterday’s raucous revelry has been replaced by a somber air.
Dryads dabbing at their eyes. Arborfae openly weeping.
I want to scream at them all. Durian was a manipulative, evil, murderous tyrant—and yet they mourn him.
Because they weren’t paying attention. Because they saw what they wanted to see.
The whole room is filled with shrouds of black. I almost feel bad for Castor.
Almost.
My gaze seeks him out. Something unwelcome stirs in my core. He’s not yours now, I remind myself. He never was. Dressed in a bloodred doublet and charcoal breeches, Castor stands before the Sovereign Throne, his face an emotionless mask—as if he’s finally learned how to lock down.
Three druids encircle him and begin what almost sounds like a Gregorian chant, speaking a language I don’t recognize.
Their deep voices permeate the silence, rising up the column of the Sovereign Tree and reverberating off the wooden walls.
I can feel their words in my bones. Abruptly, they stop, and the one standing in front of Castor places a crown of black thorns on his head before descending the dais with the other two.
Without speaking, Castor sinks onto the Sovereign Throne. A beat passes. Then a thousand crimson flowers bloom up the high back and travel all the way to the ceiling. Like the tree has been sliced from stem to stern, hemorrhaging red flora in the place of blood.
And just like that, Castor is the Redwood King, the other half of a pair of Sylveris rulers.
An odd sensation flutters in my chest. If I were to examine my feelings toward the new king, I would say they were something akin to pride and affection. But I’m currently ignoring any and all feelings other than numbness.
Amanita doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to join him on the dais. As the queen is approached by a pale-skinned man with platinum hair, steel-colored eyes, and a pair of dark antlers shot through with silver, my attention is pulled away from the king.
“Ah, Wolfram,” Amanita says with a clear hint of distaste in her tone. “Still here, I see.”
“Of course. The drama is positively delicious this year, isn’t it?” he drawls, holding up a glass of deep red wine.
A silvery black tattoo veins along his forearm and peeks out just above his cover. Every single one of his fingers wears an iron ring.
Ah, of course. The Iron King.
His clothing is rather mortal-looking, like he’s just an eccentric businessman and not a fae royal, down to his pointed snakeskin boots, which look like he bought them from Tecovas. When I glance back up, I find his assessing gaze on me.
“And who is this?” he asks. “She looks rather familiar, doesn’t she?”
Wonder if he was one of the partygoers who witnessed the humiliating series of events ending in a shattered vial of tree poison and my subsequent capture.
A sharp-nailed hand wraps around my shoulder. I resist the urge to shrug out from beneath the queen’s grasp. “This is my newest lady-in-waiting.”
I meet the man’s steely eyes but say nothing. “Interesting,” he says, white-blond eyebrow arching.
Curtsy, Amanita’s voice commands in my head.
Without thinking, I slide my right leg behind my left, knees bending slightly as I dip my head forward. My teeth grind.
“Was she with you last night?” the man continues, eyes dragging down me. “I would have remembered hair that color, I’m certain.”
“No,” Amanita retorts tightly. “She was elsewhere.”
“Well, I do hope you bring her to the Iron Court. For the Games, perhaps. What fun we would have with her there.”
My teeth clench at this pair of rulers talking about me like I’m not right fucking here.
“Perhaps. If you’ll excuse me, Wolfram. I must join our new Redwood King.”
I start to follow her, but hear the word Stay, and my feet plant beside the sugarberry tarts, ceasing to move. I try to kick forward but merely sway as if I’m stuck in cement.
This fucking bitch. I swear I am going to ram her with my antlers. They must be good for something other than knocking into tree branches.
Drosera and Atlas trail the queen, leaving me alone by the tower of tarts.
The golden light of a nearby lantern makes the sugar crystals atop the pastries shine like glitter.
My mind returns to the last time I stood in this very spot, seeking a remedy to my low blood sugar.
The night my tart was stolen by the same man who sits upon the Sovereign Throne now. My mistaken king.
Everything has changed since that night. If I’d known then what I know now…would I still follow Castor up those spiral stairs?
I take a tart in my hand, bringing it to my lips.
The smell of buttery pastry, sharp tang of sour berries, and almost-burnt scent of caramelized sugar wafts up in an intoxicating wave. Yesterday, I would have needed at least three units of insulin to cover this tart. Even then, it probably would have raised my blood sugar to obscene heights.
Glancing up, I note Queen Amanita’s amused smirk cast back at me, reveling in her new pet Sinclair. Every single ounce of hatred in my blood boils for her. If only I had Castor’s rotting power or Durian’s choking vines. I would end her right here and now.
My fist closes on the tart in my hand, but instead of crumbling to bits, it turns sharp and hard.
An inexplicable heat pulses in my veins, pooling in my palm like cupped fire.
Frowning, I slowly uncurl my fingers to reveal a tart made of obsidian, the sugar sprinkled on top now sparkling black crystals that shimmer in the golden lights. A slow grin unfurls.
This will do.