Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
It’s almost as if he didn’t hear a word I said.
Keir fills my plate with all manner of bite-sized delicacies as we take our place at the banquet. He granted me a moment’s grace before he followed me from the folly, but there’s no escaping the heated look in his eyes.
This conversation is clearly not done.
Not even by half.
But I’ll play that game when it comes at me.
The enormous truncheon tables cover the lawn and groan beneath the weight of the food. Keir’s thigh presses against mine as he leans forward to slice more venison, and from the quirk of his lips he’s aware of it. A little shiver runs through me.
“You’re not tempting me,” I whisper in his ear as I sip my wine.
“Not even a little?”
“Not even an inch.”
“Liar,” he breathes, spearing some of the meat for me with his fork.
I stab his hand with my fork as he moves to put it on my plate, shooting him a sharp look. If he keeps this up, then everyone is going to wonder at his solicitousness. This is the kind of bullshit male fae get up to when they’re intending to claim a female.
A slow, dangerous smile curves over his lips and he simply dumps the meat on my plate, despite the white pressure marks my tines left behind.
I dare you, that smile says.
I tear my gaze away, taking out my anger upon my plate. I should never have admitted there’s a spark of something there for me. He’s going to be insufferable now.
“Keir,” calls a voice, startling me out of my misery. “Is this the lovely young woman you were telling me about the other night?”
The Lord of Mistmark appears, crisp in a dark blue coat with gleaming gold epaulets on his shoulders. A red cloak falls from one shoulder, the golden chain crossing his chest. His ever-present gloves are in place.
I nearly choke on a scallop.
Curse Keir. The last thing I need right now is distraction, and yet, clearly, I lost track of the mark.
“Merisel, my love,” Keir says, leaning back in his chair, his expression as genuinely warm as I’ve ever seen it, “allow me to introduce my friend, Alaric of Mistmark.”
Mistmark drags out a chair opposite us, and it’s only then that I realize Falion is on his heels like a well-trained dog.
Clad in a silvery-green tunic with patterns that shift in the light, he’s somehow ridiculously hard to notice.
Catching my eye, he arches a well-chiseled brown as if to demand to know what I’m looking at.
I am sitting at a table with my sister’s maybe-true-love, maybe-merely-a-conquest.
And his assassin.
Who is an unknown entity, considering I’m fairly certain he can Sift.
Somehow I manage to spit the half-chewed scallop into my napkin before I gag on it again.
“And this is my friend, Falion,” Mistmark says, noticing the edged looks we’re both sharing.
Sweeping his cloak back, Falion kicks out a chair and slides into it with effortless grace. I blink the second the cloak retreats. There’s some sort of magic in the fabric, I think. One that makes it difficult to look at him when he’s wearing it.
“Well-met,” Keir says. “Merisel and I were just discussing the hunt this afternoon.”
We were?
I need to get my head in the game for wordplay, before I give the entire game away.
Mistmark grimaces. “I heard there’s a white hart. I wonder if Malechus has had the creature imported in from the northern fens just for the occasion.”
“It’s exorbitant,” Keir replies, “so presumably, the answer is yes.”
It’s an auspicious sighting for the wedding. The White Hart is a messenger from the goddess; often a good omen. If you capture it and steal a lock of hair from its hide, it may grant you the answer to a question.
But it’s said that if a hunter manages to bring it down and eats its heart, then he—or she—will be able to see directly through the goddess’s mists, which will grant them the ability to divine the future itself.
“I heard rumor the ladies are actually invited to ride today,” I murmur. “I wasn’t sure if he was going to set us free from our embroidery for the afternoon.”
Mistmark shoots me a conspiratorial smile. “Don’t take it personally. Malechus is a little old-fashioned. Maybe he’s worried you’ll beat him to the mark.”
Falion makes a snorting noise under his breath, though his attention is riveted upon the platter of sweetmeats, dried figs and cheeses in front of him.
Did he just… snort? As if he found the idea inconceivable?
My stare grows a little more piercing.
“Careful,” Mistmark says in a stage whisper. “I think you just roused the ire of Keir’s bride.”
“I have a name.” It’s not entirely Mistmark’s fault my voice comes out cutting, but it does draw the attention of all three of them.
Lunging forward with my knife, I steal the fig Falion’s reaching for from the platter, and pop it in my mouth.
“‘Bride’ is such an antiquated term I have to confess I’m starting to wonder if there’s any difference between the three of you and Malechus. ”
Mistmark winces. “My apologies, my lady. That was ill-spoken of me. I meant no offense.”
Falion’s arched brow holds entire shades of condescension. Clearly, he doesn’t share his friend’s smooth tongue—or intentions.
I stare back. And chew a little obnoxiously.
Delicious fig.
Falion smirks, and then slowly reaches out and chooses another.
“Is this some kind of territorial marking of assassins?” Keir muses in my mind. “Are the two of you going to start throwing knives in a moment? Or urinating on the ground? I’m not sure how this works.”
“Knives could be arranged,” say my eyes as I glance sideways.
But he merely laughs under his breath.
Keir’s arm stretches along the back of my chair. “It seems your appearance is a fortuitous one, indeed. You’ve spared me my lady’s ire for a few minutes.”
“This mood looks good on you,” Mistmark admits, his eyes darting between us. “I did wonder what sort of woman would catch your eye.”
“Only a challenging one.”
“The best,” Mistmark demurs.
I wonder if he’s thinking of Soraya? There’s no hint of emotional disturbance on his face. Mistmark wields a smile like a mask, I think.
“Forgive me.” I pour myself another goblet of wine.
“But how do the two of you know each other so well? I was under the impression Keir locked his court away from the world for several hundred years so he could twiddle his thumbs and write melancholy poetry. And yet, you seem to share a certain familial ease….”
They share a look.
“Keir is a collector of rare books,” Mistmark finally says.
“And I am the custodian of the Library of Arrenhahl. He might have been in self-imposed exile, my lady, but that didn’t mean he didn’t simply come and go from the world as he pleased.
He merely didn’t bother to announce his presence.
Every now and then I turn around in my library, and there he is with his feet kicked up on the sofa, and a glass of my good brandy in his hand. ”
“Bottle,” Keir corrects. “You have excellent taste in reading material and fine liquors.”
“Yes,” Mistmark says in some exasperation, “but most of my acquaintances ask first.”
He’d said he was friends with Mistmark—Alaric, he’d called him—but it’s the first time I think I’ve seen him treating another male as if they stood on even footing.
“It drives Falion mad,” Mistmark says to me. “My castle is meant to be impenetrable, and yet Keir keeps getting in. Falion’s tried every spell, every ward and alert system, and somehow he bypasses them all.”
I could tell them how he’s doing it, but I don’t think that would be wise.
I do, however, smirk at Falion.
And then I lace my fingers together. “Library of Arrenhahl? Is that not the repository of the Living Oracle? They say there are copies of every book ever written within its walls.”
“I could tell you,” Mistmark says in an apologetic tone, “but then I would have to kill you. I am its Guardian, after all.”
It’s tempting to point out how he is clearly failing if he can’t keep Keir out—and that gives me some insight as to why my prince…. I mean, why Keir, keeps stealing inside it.
Because he can.
“Interesting. Have you read every book within its walls?”
Mistmark smiles. “I’m not that old. Not like Keir.”
“But I’d imagine you’ve learned so many intriguing things. And you’re clearly an intelligent male.” I rest my arms on the table and lean forward. “Perhaps you can settle a bet between me and Keir?”
Keir’s hand comes to rest upon the back of my neck. “What are you doing?”
I don’t know how he’s in my head—please tell me he can only send private thoughts and not pluck them from my mind—but I ignore him.
“I’ll try, my lady.”
“Excellent.” My smile holds teeth. “You see, we were having a silly little argument about something and Keir thinks I’m wrong. Perhaps you can clear it up for me?”
“Zemira. You can’t ask him about the horn.” There’s tension in his touch. “We’re friends, but I’m not entirely certain I trust him.”
“I can only try,” Mistmark muses, noticing Keir’s strain and clearly mistaking it.
“When a fae male sends out a Summons for a truemate—a bride—he knows she’s out there,” I say, “because he’s been granted a vision by the goddess. Keir claims he could foretell my arrival by the constellations in the sky.”
Mistmark stiffens as though he realizes I’ve just pushed him out onto a frozen river and I’m about to throw him an anvil.
And Keir’s stare incinerates the side of my face as his head whips toward me.
Oh, you didn’t expect that question at all.
“Sometimes the goddess is so merciful, yes,” Mistmark says carefully.
Falion finally looks interested in something other than the figs.
“What if they get it wrong?” I ask, because I’m not above pushing Keir out onto that ice with an anvil too. “How can they tell if she’s truly the one?”
Both males wear an expression as if they heard cracks lancing through the ice beneath them.
Keir cuts in sharply. “I told you—”
“A male can tell by a single kiss.” I arch a brow at him. “Yes, I know what you told me while you were wooing me at the Court of Dreams.”