We kneel as one in common bow.”
He sweeps one disgusted look over us and then says, “My duty is done.”
King Precatore waves an indolent hand, and his half-cousin is striding through the tent, forcing a way through the gathered souls within, and gone out the flap before Precatore’s taken another sip of mulled wine. For a moment, before the tent flap falls shut, I see the dark fae leap into the sky on those mayfly wings and I grip my sword pommel tightly.
“I’m sure even your mortal minds can understand who the Golden Prince is. Or do you need that part deciphered?” Precatore raises a mocking brow.
“You’ll wed one of us?” my king seems shocked. I know I am. The fae do not marry mortals. They see us as disposable.
“Indeed, I shall,” Precatore says. “For I want this curse broken, too.”
“Curse?” I hear the word being whispered on our side of the ring and I’m as confused as anyone. What curse does he mean? We know of none.
Precatore stands, flourishing his cape. I realize with a start that he’s won the game of merels while we weren’t looking.
“Know this,” he says with a sneer. “My armies will not stop fighting yours until my bride is brought, the vows are spoken, the curse lifted, and my people freed. Not for a moment. Not for a breath. If you want peace, bring me a bride and bring her here quickly.”
He strides out of the tent, his people following him, and I catch the edges of horns and hooves and tails as fear and fury bubble in me. I bind them down yet again, forcing them from my mind.
We are all too stunned to say a word. Lips are parted, tongues licking dry lips, hands twitching for the hilts of weapons, and I see that desperate look in every gaze I meet. That look that is like seeing a man whose very bones are aflame.
The king stares blankly at his merels board where white has dominated. The rest of us whisper the words in everyone’s mind.
What curse?
3
HALDUR OAKENSEN
“Can we trust this prophecy?” Lord Beecher asks after a long moment. We all look at him and he sighs. “What if we find a girl who fits this description? We tear her from the arms of her family and deliver her to the fae. Then what happens? The war just ends? Can we trust this fae king to do as he says?”
The question hangs in the air, snuffing out hope where it had flickered just moments before.
“What choice do we have?” my king asks. “They came to us on our lands. They would only have war from the very beginning. They claim some kind of curse is upon us all. Do any of you know of a curse? Have your people defiled tombs? Have you scorned otherworldly beings?”
We look at him helplessly. If anyone has done those things, they are long dead. There’s not a glimmer of understanding in any eye I meet, just confusion and fear.
He sighs.
“If we do not try to offer them the bride they request, then we watch the remainder of our people whittled down until there are none left but the oldest and the youngest. We are almost there already. Will we send children to face these monsters? Will we surrender and leave those under our protection to face what other kingdoms have seen done at the hands of the fae?”
“Who would give a daughter to them, though?” Lord Beecher asks with a shiver.
Around me, feet shuffle and gazes turn down. No one wants to offer a daughter.
“My child is already sold for peace,” the king says heavily. But I expect he’s relieved. She’s married to a human man. Whether she chose him or not, it’s a better fate than this.
“It’s not a matter of volunteers,” Sir Weaven says eventually. He’s young. Not even twenty and five. He has no daughters or sisters. For him, this is merely a puzzle to be solved. “It’s a matter of finding this girl.She who nearly usurped the place, Of her with greater royal grace.Who is that? Was there some noble girl who nearly usurped your daughter? Was there ever a question of that?”
The king is shaking his head, but he looks troubled.
“Can we trust the bastard?” another voice asks. Sir Gherhin. One of the few still in his prime. “The half-cousin the king presented to us? There was no love lost there.”
“Bastard,” Old Huldric mutters. But he isn’t cursing. He’s thoughtful. His old lips tremble when he speaks, purple and blotchy in the cold. One of his eyes is milk-white and blind as a moonless night. “Usurping. Hmm.”
“You have a thought, old friend?” my king asks, his eyes burning with intensity. If we have only one chance of peace, he will root it out and force it to fit.
I understand.
