I’m still pondering that, still black of mood and energy, when we enter the tent and the boy scurries aside. The last to arrive, I take a quiet place behind the other knights and lords. We stand in a half-circle to one side behind the seat of our king. It’s cold enough that my feet and fingers hurt, but no one shuffles or stamps to keep warm.
The king drinks something steaming and sets it on a low table where he plays merels opposite a golden-crowned fae holding a naked sword on his knees. It has too many gems. If they’ve balanced it for the gems, then the moment one is dislodged the sword will be ungainly. I wouldn’t want a sword like that. Simple is better.
The fae king looks up from his game. If he’s as good-looking as the vassal said, then I don’t see it, but it’s hard to tell with men. Even fae men. So, though I comprehend no loveliness in his face, what I see worries me enough. I see triumph. I see victory. I see disdain for us children of ash and dust.
And I’m surprised to see that behind him, in the other faces of the fae, there are glimmers of fear.
My eyes narrow. Fear? The arrogance I expected. The hints of contempt were almost a certainty. But fear? I am rarely surprised by what I see in the faces of men or fae. But I am startled now.
My king is speaking. He’s the age my father would have been, had he lived. They were friends, I think, of a sort. He’s young for forty, his hair still dark. The grim lines on his face not deep enough to age him.
“And so, you consulted this woman soothsayer, King Precatore of Iceheim?”
“I consulted one who knows her well,” the golden king says with a sly smile. But the fae always look sly when they smile. It means nothing. He sprawls back in his camp chair, arms thrown wide, legs open and falling outward – at ease. Or so he would have us believe. “And I brought him to you so that you may hear his words from his own lips.”
He moves his piece lightning fast. Why they play at all makes no sense to me. If it’s to show their skill, well, they’ve been playing with men for two years. They’ve shown enough. Our land bleeds with their skill.
“And you claim it is a way to bring peace between our people,” the king says, and I can’t bite back my gasp. It’s hidden by all the other sounds of surprise around me. Spines stiffen. Fists whiten.
Peace.
We can barely hear the word in this time, no less speak it. We want it with a lust more powerful than any other.
“If you want accord,” my king says, “just stop the attacks. Stop them today and we all go home in peace.”
“It’s not so simple.” King Precatore seems to take up even more space in his seat – to loom even though he’s closer to the floor than all of us. He’s a grand being – majestic and dominant. A king among kings. Something I keep tight inside wants to bow. I’d rather chew through my own leg than allow that.
“Tell me why,” my king’s voice is like a whip. His hand twitches like he longs to scrub his beard with it but is holding back. I’ve seen his daughter do the same.
Princess Cela is alike to her father in every way and just as disdainful of Castle Tor and its whelps as any other court lady – or rather she was. I’ve not seen her since she was fourteen summers and shipped off as bride to the King of Calernon in that ill-considered treaty that dragged us into this war in the first place. I watch the king carefully for any hint of her other tell, a one-shouldered shrug she used to give when she was losing and bluffing.
“I will not tell you why,” this Precatore says coldly, though still, he smiles. This time, he lifts the goblet set before him and swirls it, filling the tent with the smell of mulled wine. My mouth waters. How long has it been since I tasted wine? “But I will let you hear the prophecy, and you can decide. Tell him, VIvar,” he said, motioning to a fae behind him who is his opposite in every way.
Where Precatore is golden and decorative, muscled like a statue of a god, his armor gilt on the edges and gleaming, this man is dark, shadowed, and dressed plainly. He shrugs irritably and iridescent wings flicker behind his back. It bothers me that they can fly. Bothers me enough that I hate the winged ones the most.
“Who is this?” my king asks, moving his piece with care.
“My uncle’s bastard. VIvar,” the Iceheim king says, setting his piece down with a loudclickon the word bastard. “Useful still, though not necessary. I have heirs from my first wife and backups from the second.”
“Your adulation, as always, warms my heart, Precatore,” the bastard prince of the fae says. He makes my mouth dry and not just because of the advantage those wings give. This fae is dangerous. “But let us not tarry. I’m eager to be rid of this place. It stinks of mortal blood and ambition.”
“My favorite things,” Precatore says, eyes guarded, as he sips his wine.
And there’s the shrug my king has been trying to hide. He’s worried. We’re losing. If I was a cursing man, I’d be cursing now.
“Listen then, mortals and Court of Iceheim,” this VIvar says precisely, like a scribe doing a burdensome duty to a strict measure. “If you want peace, listen to the words of the seer.”
He closes his eyes to quote the words as if being careful not to get a single one wrong.
“The Golden Prince a bride must take,
A mortal crowned for amity’s sake.
She who nearly usurped the place,
Of her with greater royal grace.
Thus bloodshed ends in solemn vow,
