I tilt my head to look over at the hourglass. It is not even half spent.
Fuck.
Chapter six
I’m in a frigging throne room. An actual real life throne room. A giant room with a throne in it. Nothing in my life feels remotely real anymore. It is all far too surreal. Like a twisted fever dream, or a nightmare.
Why else would I be staring up at a terrifying man who is sitting on a throne that puts the one from Game of Thrones to shame? A man with moonlight pale hair, antlers, and an extremely disdainful expression.
I’m on my knees and I’m so glad that I didn’t resist when Tristan pushed me down. I may be reckless sometimes, but I’m not completely stupid. I don’t even mind that the floor is cold and extremely hard and that my knees are already protesting.
Beside me, Tristan bows deeply. “Greetings, Brother.”
Another brother? Is this one the king or something? Bowing to your sibling has to be jarring. Especially when the throne room is empty apart from the three of us. Are all fey sticklers for formality, or is this king guy a tosser who insists on it?
“Where is Jamie?” asks Tristan, in Fey.
The asshole on the throne frowns. “Not here to save you.”
I stop my wince just in time. I’m not supposed to be able to understand a word. So I can’t react. All I can do is glare at him belligerently and feign ignorance. Even though the thought that anyone needs saving right now is deeply unsettling.
“Where did he get the dagger from?” demands the pale-haired fey.
Clearly, he doesn’t like to mess around and prefers to get straight down to business. I really hope Tristan knows how to handle his brother.
That last thought echoes around my head. Shit. Please don’t tell me that I’m rooting for my captor now, because that is all kinds of twisted.
“I’m waiting until he settles in before I question him,” says Tristan almost sweetly.
Motherfucker. See? I knew rooting for him was a bad idea. He is not on my side at all. He is merely biding his time and attempting to lure me into a false sense of security. Well, he can go fuck himself because I’m not saying jackshit. I am not a snitch.
Throne guy says nothing. His disapproval fills the room until I feel as if I am choking on it. He is looking down at me like I’m a particularly gross bit of scum that he had the misfortune of stepping in.
Tristan squirms. “Rhydian, I didn’t want to kill him, so I had to claim him. There was no other option.”
Oh damn. That hurts far more than it should. So what if he didn’t really want me, and is just too soft to execute someone? It still works in my favour. I get to live, and now he is stuck with me, which serves him right. It is nothing to get upset about.
Suddenly, Rhydian speaks directly to me, in English.
“Where did you get the dagger from?”
As if I am going to tell him. Fat chance. Never going to happen. He can dream on.
I gather a nice juicy glob of saliva and spit it on the floor. It lands near the bottom of the dais. Not close enough to his boots to be suicidal, but close enough to make my point.
He raises one eyebrow, but otherwise seems completely unruffled. His attention turns back to his brother, dismissing me as a waste of time.
“Did you spare him because he is a nisny, or because you wished to bed him?”
What the hell is a nisny? But that’s fine. I’m not supposed to be able to understand any of that sentence, since he switched back to Fey. I need to keep glaring blankly and paying attention. Hopefully, I will figure out what a nisny is by context soon enough.
Tristan shrugs, “Both,” he admits easily.
Once again, I want to wince, but I don’t. I keep it together while a long suffering look flashes in Rhydian’s eyes. Yeah, having a man-whore of a brother must be a pain in the ass when you are trying to be all kingly and shit.
“I think he is a vessel!” blurts Tristan suddenly.
A vessel? Another word I don’t fully understand. Perhaps the Fey language is not as close to Welsh as I thought.
