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Just like I kept the words to myself. The words that would change everything between us.
There had been too much change, too much upheaval. She was stronger now than I’d ever seen her, but I wasn’t foolish enough to think that dark precipice had disappeared from her mind entirely. Fear was an insidious foe. If I pushed too hard, too fast…
I shoved those thoughts out of my mind, focusing on the feel of my weapons instead. Even in her apartments, safe as we could be, I wore them. It still felt like danger could spring up at any time.
Maybe that feeling would fade. But it might take months. Decades, even.
Cyara glanced around the room, looking for something to put in order. She was straightening pillows on the sofa when Parys strolled in.
“If you’re planning another dangerous conquest, count me out,” he said, swiping a plum from a dish filled with fruit on the side table.
Lyrena laughed softly from just inside the door. Gwen’s face was regal and impassive, as always.
“Not a conquest, precisely, but not necessarily less dangerous, either,” Veyka said truthfully, her smile easing into seriousness. She lifted her arm and gestured to the round table. “Please, everyone, be seated.”
They all stared back at her in silence.
No doubt, the priestess’s words of prophecy sounded in their minds, as they did in mine:a table of destiny.
When no one moved, Veyka rolled her eyes and walked to the nearest chair, folding herself gracefully into it. She flicked her gaze to me, expectant. I did exactly as I’d told her I would—as I would always do. I took my place at her side.
The others followed slowly, Parys coming first. He left the half-eaten plum on the side table.
Gwen and Lyrena sat side by side, the former’s face determinedly blank. This was her father’s table. She’d meant to sit at it as a queen. But there was no resentment in the set of her mouth.
Cyara was the last to come. She lingered behind the high-backed chair, her fingers floating over the curved top. “Veyka, I am not sure—”
“Sit, Cyara. You have as much of a place here as anyone else.” A queen’s order.
The handmaiden sat.
“What is this?” Cyara asked immediately, wings flaring.
Veyka straightened her shoulders. She’d prepared herself carefully. A simple three-strand braid, a dove gray gown, and a singular golden circlet around her head. Reserved, for once.
“This is our new royal council. Though we’ve decided to toss out that name and all the treachery that goes along with it. I’ve decided on the Knights of the Round Table,” she said steadily, before flicking a mocking gaze in my direction. “Arran, wisely, agreed.”
I let her see me fingering the head of my axe. “Agreeing and deciding not to argue with you are not the same thing.”
“You liked the name.”
“I agreed that abolishing the royal council was a wise idea.”
“I am not a knight,” Cyara interjected, her voice several octaves higher than usual.
Veyka shrugged casually, though I knew it was contrived. “Neither is Parys.”
“I am not a warrior,” she insisted.
“I don’t need another warrior. I have these three,” Veyka motioned to me, Lyrena, and Gwen. “Iam a warrior. What I need is a steady, wise advisor. I needyou.”
Cyara wanted to argue more, but Parys cut her off.
“Five shall be with you at Mabon,” he mused, quoting the priestess’s prophecy. “Does this mean you intend to fulfill the other parts of her prophecy as well?”
“I don’t believe in prophecies,” Veyka said sharply. “The priestess is power hungry and clever. Everything she says or does has a motive, and not one that is in the best interests of Annwyn. The witch told me as much.”
A collective inhale.
