“I’m not tired yet.” I wave them away. “Besides, I have questions.” Drystan rolls his eyes, but I don’t let him put me off. “Why is Aiyana… the way she is? And why does she leave an axe in her throne?”
I understand that Lore’s madness is an inherent part of him, and an accepted trait of his species. But Aiyana is high fae.
“Aiyana is old,” Drystan grouches. “Older than all the other royals—except perhaps Cressida. With extreme age often comes instability.”
“It’s not just that.” Bree hesitates. “She despises mating. Forbids anyone with a mate from serving her directly. Any fae seeking to join her harem is required to forswear taking a mate for as long as they serve her.”
“Who would agree to that?” I ask, brows furrowing.
Drystan shrugs. “Plenty of fae seek their mates for centuries with nothing to show for it. Many eventually give up. Some don’t want a mate—or any relationship beyond sex. Aiyana pampers them well. They want for nothing, and for many, that’s a fair trade.”
“And Aiyana herself was betrayed by her mate.” Bree’s fingers twist in my hair, teasing out a tangle. “Or so the story goes, anyway. It happened two thousand years ago. Not many fae were there to witness it. Even fewer are still alive now.”
“What did he do?” I have a sick feeling that I know, but I need to hear it confirmed.
“She,” Bree corrects. “Aiyana’s mate was female. Kaia Alstone was the warrior queen of a minor court in the Summer Court—not unlike Lore’s Court of Blades.”
“Except my court is better.” Lore yawns, then blinks directly in front of Jaro with a strike that would’ve sent the shifter flying had he not dodged at the last second.
“Damn it, redcap! I’m training.”
“You’re wasting time with novice exercises instead of resting and snuggling our mate,” Lore corrects, blinking onto Jaro’s shoulders and grabbing his hair. “Giddyup!”
“Aiyana’s mate tried to kill her.” Bree tunes out their fighting as Drystan strides over to diffuse it. “Different versions of the story exist. In some, Kaia was tricked into believing Aiyana was about to attack the Summer Court and chose to protect her family. In others, it was a lovers’ tiff that went too far… No one knows for sure.
“Either way, the stories all agree on what happened during the confrontation. Kaia attempted to take Aiyana’s head with her fabled greataxe, and Aiyana barely escaped with her life. A week of interrogation did nothing to force Kaia to confess her motivations or show remorse, and Aiyana was forced to sentence her mate to death.”
“Wow.” Shivering, I look over to where Drystan is now standing between Jaro and Lore, all three of their shoulders heaving.
I can’t imagine what I would feel if one of them tried to kill me without even telling me why. Is it any wonder the spring queen is a little bit crazy?
“We would never,” Bree whispers, reading my mind again. “All of us would rather chop off our own hands than touch you in anger, dragonfly.”
“I know,” I whisper. “But I feel so sorry for Aiyana. And I suppose, if she truly cared for Jaro’s father, him leaving her for his mate must have hurt.”
“True, but it’s been centuries, and for the last two hundred, Neila has been Aiyana’s favourite. At this point, Jaro breaking the banishment has bruised her pride, nothing more.”
“Perhaps he shouldn’t have come with us,” I mutter.
“It wouldn’t have made a difference,” Bree murmurs. “Aiyana would simply have found a different excuse. Besides, with only Lore and Drystan to look after you during your fever, there’s a good chance it would’ve been rougher than it already was.”
True.
“Do you think Aiyana might’ve reacted better if I’d come alone?”
“It doesn’t matter if she would,” Drystan grumbles. “There will never be a day when I let you walk intoanyof the courts without backup. You’d be safer walking into a camp full of Fomorians.”
Jaro’s brows raise, then he shrugs. “Actually, that’s probably true.”
Well, that does little to boost my confidence.
Twenty-Four
Rhoswyn
The dress Kitarni helped me choose is stiff and severe—a sharp contrast to the floaty airy gowns I’ve been wearing all week. The dark, embroidered fabric sends a message of disapproval, something which is echoed on my High Priestess’s face as we sit together in the royal barge, on our way to the arena.
The rain, which has been nearly unceasing for the past few days, has given way to patchy clouds that catch the first flickering rays of the sun in a spectacular blaze on the horizon, but I can’t appreciate the beauty.
