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Screams erupt again, of assent and dissent, from both sides, but I’m staring at Valdred speechlessly.
He really thinks that? I can't quite make myself believe it. The fact that he might truly be on my side shocks me to the core.
“The only claim the brat has to the throne is blood,” says a small, gruff creature, earning several nods. “Morrigan had six children, all of them unsuited to the office. They broke this world, once. What makes you think she’s any better than any of them?”
“All I’m saying is she ought to be given a chance to try,” Valdred retorts. "She's young. We can counsel her. Guide her. That doesn't eclipse the fact that she's our rightful queen."
More screams.
“So much noise,” Ryther drawls, and silence reigns again, although he didn’t demand it. He didn't even bother to raise his voice. “And all useless. Whether the girl lives or dies isn’t your decision. It’s mine, and I’ve made it. Unless any one of you wishes to contest my choices again, let's move on. We’re here because we still need a regent."
I could be wrong, but I swear his eyes find mine, despite the distance, the crowd, the sounds.
"She is a child," he says, like he wasn't spanking me and coming against my clit just last night. "She needs training in diplomacy, history, magic, and too many other subjects to name. And in the meantime, as we have for the last thousand years, one of us will rule.”
"Would she agree to a regency?"
“Yes, how do you suppose we’d rule, with Morrigan’s girl alive?” someone demands. “It’s ludicrous. She could bark orders negating anything the regent decides on!”
“And why should she be under your protection? A high queen ought to favor no court.” I don’t see the speaker, but I hear the anger in his voice. “You’d shape her mind like you did to my own boy, wouldn’t you? Make her slave to the wild.”
"For how long, Crow? A hundred years?"
It's clear he's seen as the voice to listen to here. No one dares to clap or boo, heeding his words.
"She's four and twenty, Merlok. One year away from becoming of age. I say the regent can rule for that year, and should she pass her own rites, we'll crown her next year."
"A year to learn everything about Ilvaris? That's preposterous!" a tall woman seethes.
I note that she, too, bears bruises; but where Ryther looks like he might have gone boxing, she's in a state that suggest she had a round against a feral lions, claw marks running along most of her exposed skin.
Valdred steps forward. "Crow said a year until she can pass the rites. If she can go through all three trials, who are you to keep Morrigan's daughter from her rightful place?"
"I am the blood ofSibil, queen of night. My line has ruled the northern peaks since before Morrigan was ever born.And he's no Crow. This abomination is a trick of Morrigan's, just like that thing you call her daughter. Both of them would have died a thousand years ago if the gods had their say."
The sheer loathing in her tirade takes me aback. There's much to unpack here, but I swallow back my questions for later, knowing Caenan will be pissed if I bring attention to myself.
Who's Sibil?
What's a Crow? I've heard Ryther referred as such at least twice, but she's got her panties in a bunch over it. And abomination? Thing?
That girl is pissed.Then again, I might be too, if I looked like I'd been worked over by an angry army of giant cats.
"Why, yes, duchess," Ryther drawls with his signature smirk. "Why don't you tell us what ought to have happened some eight hundred years before you were even a seed in your old man's balls?"
Chuckles follow his jibe, only serving to infuriate her further. Her pale eyes turn bright with rage, almost red in the light, even at this distance.
"Centuries may have passed, but we still know of you. You're nothing but a reject. You should have died."
"Yes, join the many lords who are quite put out that I didn't conveniently perish when I was a child. So much easier to toss children off mountains than it is to take them on once they've grown a spine, is it not?"
I honestly think she's about to take a swing at him. But a man by her side whispers urgently into her ear, holding her wrists.
Ignoring the commotion, Ryther redirects the conversation. "Now, where were we before family drama? Yes. The regency. The rites have always come in three: one for courage, one for wisdom, and of course, one for luck."
"Luck?" I let out without meaning to.
I get courage and wisdom but what has luck to do with ruling?
