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You couldn’t torture a dead man. Kaysar had tried.
His only solace came from making the rest of the family wish they were dead.
“You will show me the end and anything else I should see.” He leaned back and tapped a claw against the arm of the throne. Poisonvine venom leaked from the punctures.
Contact with the smallest drop paralyzed most fae for minutes and weakened them for weeks. With prolonged exposure, Kaysar had developed an immunity—and a bone-deep adoration.
“There is always more you should see,” Eye muttered, “but you only ever acknowledge what you wish to acknowledge.”
“And I’m right to do so. Now show me what I demand and nothing more.”
Eye shook her head, disappointed in him, then projected another image into his mind. In a flash, he saw a bloody Jareth on his knees, his head bowed as he sobbed.
Prince Jareth, dejected enough to squeeze out a few tears? Kaysar must witness this.
The royal seer anchored her hands on her hips. “Why don’t you kill King Hador and Prince Jareth and be done with your hatred once and for all?”
Foolish girl. “You don’t part with the things you love. You hold them close and never let go.” His hatred was his oldest and dearest friend. His closest family. If he lost it the way he’d lost Viori, he’d have nothing.
Eye gave him a pitying look, then motioned to the tattoo on his bicep. A snake curled into a figure eight, eating its own tail, with a sword running through its center. His kingdom’s symbol, meaning “eternal war.” “Why does your desire for vengeance matter more than my dream of peace? I tire of war, King Kaysar. All of your people tire of war. Do you even care?”
“What a ridiculous question. Of course I don’t care. My people have shelter, food and protection, a slight to them a slight to me. I demand only what I’m owed in return.”
“You believe you’re owed blind obedience.”
“No. I believe I’m owed obedience and truth.” If anyone lied to him, they immediately lost the privilege of breathing.
She tossed her hands up. “You make it impossible for your people to find happiness.”
Wrong. “Happiness is the only thing I’ve left up to them. If they go without, they can only blame themselves.” He tilted his head, intensifying his study of the oracle. “Have you decided my terms are unacceptable, Eye? If so, you are more than welcome to leave my lands. I’ll even allow you to do so with your head attached.”
To reach another kingdom, she must travel through the Forest of Many Names. A jot difficult to do, considering Kaysar had relocated centaurs, ogres and trolls into the wilds however long ago. For anyone not bearing his protection—his seal or the Frostline name—moving from kingdom to kingdom came with a high likelihood of failure.
“I have no desire to leave you,” she said, then heaved a familiar sigh. “Don’t you crave love, accolades, and respect?”
“No,” he replied, and he meant it. Highborn and lowborn alike often accused him of being cruel and heartless, obsessed and maddened. Why change? He liked himself this way.
Her shoulders sagged, as if she’d failed him. “If you don’t let go of your vengeance, you won’t grab hold of your future and your mate, the only person able to give you what you so desperately crave. And it isn’t vengeance, I promise you.”
What he so desperately craved. To return to the forest as a twelve-year-old boy, with his sister’s hand clasped in his. “I have no mate, I want no mate, and I crave only vengeance.” His single form of satisfaction. Why require a specific bedmate? A lover was a lover, one the same as another; they simply wore different faces. The least important feature.
In desperation, Eye burst out, “You could have a woman. You could have more than loneliness and pain.”
Lonely? Him? “I’m beginning to question your sanity, Eye.”
“If you continue on this path, you will condemn yourself to an eternity of misery,” she stated, sympathy in her dark gaze. “You will lose everything that matters to you.”
“I have already lost everything that matters,” he grated. “Now I merely repay.”
“But—”
“Enough of this.” Temper verging on dangerous, he leaped to his feet. “The Frostlines planted seeds of hate in the rich soil of my heart. For twelve months, the king and his brother watered those seeds, ensuring they sprouted and grew roots. Yet here you stand, daring to complain to the tree for producing its harvest? How dare you? The Frostlines will eat the fruit of their labors, that I swear to you.”
“Kaysar—”
“You’d best mind your tongue, Eye, before I add it to my collection.” Yes, he displayed severed tongues in jars, on special shelves in his bedroom. He displayed other organs, too. What made a better trophy than a literal piece of his foes?
