Chapter 29
Cethin
Was she searching for him tonight?
He tossed the thin stick of charcoal onto the worktable at the thought, watching it roll along the surface before going over the edge and dropping to the floor with a soft ping.
Sitting back in his chair, he rubbed at his eyes before shoving a hand through his hair.
Only then did he remember the slice on his arm wasn’t fully healed, and he’d now smeared blood all over the side of his face.
With a sigh, he stood, making his way to a basin he kept down here for this very reason.
Dipping a cloth in the water, he quickly wiped his face, then his arm, pressing the fabric to the cut.
As he applied pressure, he wandered over to the slate hanging on the wall.
Sconces and candelabras lit up this side of the room, allowing him to see.
Notes, symbols, and Marks written with chalk covered nearly every inch.
Studying the boards, he grabbed a piece of felt, erasing a few things before picking up a piece of chalk. Tossing the cloth aside, Cethin made a few notes based on what he’d learned tonight before swiping up the leather journal from the worktable and crossing to the other side of the room.
This side of his study beneath the castle was much darker, illuminated solely by the glowing embers in the white marble fireplace.
He’d been so absorbed in his work, he’d forgotten to keep the fire going tonight.
Directly in front of the fireplace was a low table littered with pieces of parchment, an unlit lantern, and a half-empty decanter of liquor with an empty glass beside it.
No one knew of this place. Staff didn’t clean it.
He’d spent years making sure the wards and glamours around it were sufficient before he’d started spending his nights down here decades ago.
Even then, it was for research and experiments.
He didn’t start sleeping down here most nights until this past year.
He dropped onto the high-back settee behind the table, pouring two fingers of liquor before settling back in his seat. With his healing arm stretched along the back of the settee, he sipped at the liquid, staring at the glowing embers and going over what he’d worked on tonight.
He’d finally figured out where he’d been going wrong with a Mark, and he felt confident in actually using it now.
It had never looked quite right before. He might be taking risks down here night after night messing around with blood magic, but even he wasn’t reckless enough to use the Marks until he was sure they were drawn correctly.
Intricate and in another language entirely, drawing one thing wrong altered the entire purpose of the Mark, let alone the cost. Because all magic had a cost. For the Fae, the cost was physical.
They needed more food and sleep to refuel their magic.
For Avonleyans, the cost was time since they could no longer drink the blood of the Fae without the risk of triggering a curse.
But Marks? Blood magic? The costs for those were far harder to navigate.
Some costs were simple, but sometimes the cost was steep and not known until it was too late.
Until regret was the bitter aftertaste.
Or until those left behind were forced to bear the burden of costs that lingered like ghosts and spirits.
Tybalt had told him of the newly murdered Fae found a few days ago, and it was then he’d realized how distracted he’d become with Kailia.
Which was why his thoughts constantly wandering back to her was irritating tonight.
More than that, he’d gone through all of this to have her help this kingdom—help protect the Fae—and she wasn’t even the godsdamn solution he’d thought she was.
He hurled his glass of liquor into the fireplace, flames exploding when alcohol met heat and glass shards flew outward.
He thought he’d done it. Thought he’d figured this all out when the ship had finally made it through the Wards.
But it had been months since a new ship had arrived.
There had been four in total, and for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why the Blood Marks he was invoking worked sometimes and not others.
He’d charted moon phases and star patterns, monitored seasons and the tides of the sea.
None of it seemed to matter, but of course it mattered.
Everything fucking mattered when it came to blood magic.
That was why it was forbidden except under very specific circumstances, and it was why his parents had refused to utilize it to fix the myriad of problems afflicting their kingdom.
He rubbed at his eyes again, the never-ending exhaustion taking hold.
Normally he could go days—weeks—without sleep as long as he wasn’t using his power much, but blood magic drained his physical energy far faster, requiring him to sleep more often.
The exhaustion also led to lowered defenses, especially around Kailia.
It was dangerous, and yet all he could think about right now was going to her.
Seeing if he could get her to touch him like she had that day in the bathing chamber.
How he’d savored that touch like a neglected pup.
Affection wasn’t something he was used to.
Yes, he fucked. Had partners in his bed.
Shared intimate touches. But affection was something else entirely.
His mother hadn’t been particularly affectionate, and his father, while more attentive than his mother, was still the king.
Not that he didn’t try. They’d spent quality time together when schedules allowed, but that was rare, making those quiet moments on the water or at the country estate that much more sacred.
He wasn’t na?ve enough to think Kailia’s touches were out of affection either.
He was a curiosity to her as much as she was to him.
Except she was becoming something more. Something that had started out as a means to an end, even if it was coupled with intrigue.
And sure, maybe a bit of lust because that was nature.
But that curiosity had turned into obsession, and now it was…
Something he couldn’t dwell on.
He had work to do and a kingdom to protect, no matter the cost. So he pushed off the settee and went back to work. Dragging a knife along his flesh once more, he dipped his finger in his blood and began to draw.
“Your grace,” Zayan gritted out.
Cethin slid his gaze to him, completely unaware of what he’d said but picking up on his frustration. “Yes?”
Zayan set down the quill he was using, sighing and rubbing dramatically at his temples. “If I may speak boldly, this is becoming a problem.”
“What is?” Cethin asked, looking down at the parchment before him. At the long list of items Zayan wanted to cover today.
“Things that used to take us an hour to discuss are now taking a full day,” he answered. “Ever since—”
He cut himself off, pressing his lips into a thin line, but Cethin didn’t need him to finish the thought.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Zayan,” he said, too exhausted to care that his darkness was a shimmering mist around his drumming fingers on the tabletop. “But were you not one of the main advocates for me taking a wife?”
“I was,” Zayan replied.
“Was it not assumed that when I took a partner, my attention would become divided in some respects? Or was I to take one, bed her, and leave her to her own devices while hopefully growing a babe, all in an effort to satisfy the Advisory Council?”
The male’s eyes went wide at the bluntness. “Of course not, your grace.”
“Then I’m going to need you to be more specific about what the problem is. I’m not in the mood to dance around topics. Speak your concerns plainly or get over them,” he snapped, the darkness in his soul a writhing thing that was becoming too intense. Too restless. Too chaotic.
“She’s not Fae,” Zayan blurted, immediately dropping his eyes to the papers spread out before him.
Cethin blinked because that was the fucking problem?
“That did not clear up the issue,” Cethin said too calmly, using every bit of his remaining energy to keep his power in check.
Zayan took a deep breath while clearly gathering his courage.
When he met Cethin’s gaze once more, there was a renewed resolve and hardness in the male’s dark eyes.
“We all thought you would choose a Fae as your partner,” Zayan said, his words steadier.
“It is the custom of Avonleya, and it is why it was suggested you seek a partner at the Esbat Festival when all the Fae were gathered. Instead, you chose something else, more Fae are turning up dead, and the people are talking.”
“My mother wasn’t Fae,” Cethin countered.
“Yes, but she had proven herself long before Tethys took her as his wife. This female—”
“She has a fucking name, but you can call her ‘her Majesty,’” Cethin interjected with a steely command.
“No one knows anything about her. They see her every once in a while out with Razik, but never with you. Rumors are growing, and restlessness is being sown. Even the Elder Clans are unhappy,” Zayan continued, growing far too bold as he continued his rant.
“What do the Elder Clans have to do with this?”
“Rumors eventually become truths if never proven false, your Majesty,” the Hand said with a sad smile. “There are rumors she has repeatedly harmed you, and then there are rumors the Elder Clans attacked her. The people see it as a sign from the Fates.”
Cethin swallowed his huff of disbelief. He had given and given and given to this kingdom.
It was his highest priority and where all his loyalty lay.
He’d proven himself time and time again, and still it wasn’t enough.
For his mother. His father. For Zayan or Tybalt.
For the council, the clans, the people. For her.