Page 24
RIVEN
“Lettie signed the privacy agreement, correct?” I ask Arkyn the moment we’re far enough away from Gwyn’s suite that neither she nor her handmaiden will overhear us.
“Happily and heartily,” he replies, rolling his shoulders back. “Gods. I need a soak and at least three hours of sleep.” He kneads his neck. “Protecting your royal ass is hard work.”
I ignore his whining. “Did anyone else ask any questions? I’m sure the staff is spreading gossip about Gwyn like Wyldefire by now.”
“No—”
“Your Majesty,” a nasally voice calls out, and I have to physically stop myself from sighing.
Lord Devlin. The Covenant-Tongue. Worse, the male who spent years fucking the heartbreak out of my mother, and, by her command, now holds a court position I can’t strip from him unless he betrays the Crown.
Arkyn snickers beside me. “Seven minutes and counting.”
“What do you want, Lord Devlin?” I ask, impatience bleeding into my tone.
I’ve been away from the Fae Isles for days. I’m hungry and tired and in desperate need of a hot bath. I also need to see where the blight has worsened in my absence and to set a few new wards to shield Gwyn’s presence here.
I don’t have time to play politics with this weasel.
“There are rumors you’ve brought a witch through the palace doors,” he says, clearly affronted. “We have a whore door for a reason, Your Majesty. Surely—”
One moment, I’m beside Arkyn.
The next, I’m pinning Devlin against the wall, my forearm braced against his collarbone, my face inches from his.
“Mind your tongue when you speak about my guests,” I growl. “If Gwyn wants to use the front doors, she will. She can pull down her knickers and take a shit on the palace steps for all I care. As my guest, she has free rein to do whatever she damn well pleases in the Fae Isles.”
“But she’s a witch.”
“She’s a royal advisor.”
His nostrils flare. “You can slap a fancy title on her, but that doesn’t make her any less of a witch, King Riven. The—the council. Your mother—”
“My mother is dead, and I am your king.” I release him roughly, and he stumbles. “Put it to ink, Covenant-Tongue, and send word to the lords under my seal. If I hear so much as a whisper of hateful rhetoric about Gwyn, I’ll have the speaker thrown into the dungeons without their tongue, and their lands will be surrendered to the Crown.”
“We’re only looking out for you.”
“He has a sword catcher for that,” Arkyn drawls.
I flick my wrist at the lord. “You’re dismissed.”
The fine muscles in his jaw twitch, but he says nothing. He spares me one last withering look, as if that will change anything, and then bows and scurries off, his velvet robe billowing behind him in his haste. I watch as his figure grows smaller and smaller until he turns the corner down a different hallway.
How dare he question me?
He’s grown far too comfortable in his role, protected by his title as head of the council.
Ark’s laughter breaks the tense silence. “Shall I collect my coin now or later?”
“Just take it from the treasury,” I reply, shoving my hands into my trouser pockets. “I’ve got shit to do.”
The blight has spread.
It’s reached the palace gardens, dripping its ichor all over my mother’s rose bushes and curling around the trunks of trees older than me. The sight is sickening in more ways than one, unsettling me to my very core.
The glamour I applied to the Fae Isles as a whole has grown thin enough that anyone who knew to look would’ve been able to spot the truth. Thank the Viretree, I made it back just in time to re-strengthen it and hide the nasty truth a bit longer.
