Okay, that is a fair point. God, I’m lucky Rhydian hasn’t ordered my head to be chopped off. First, I made his wifey cry. Then I caused his wifey to leave him. Now this. I’ve done nothing but cause disasters since I set foot in Buckingham Palace. He has to want rid of me. I must be his least favourite person in the world.
“What does mother say?” asks Mabon.
Rhydian’s left eye twitches. “That it is our mess to fix.”
Nobody looks the least bit surprised. Wow, their mum and my mum would get on. Neither of them are going to win any parenting awards. Though, not caring if two of your children have a death-match, seems especially harsh.
Alright, it might not even be a death-match. I don’t know that, and I’m too scared to ask. Hopefully, I’m just being dramatic. But my point still stands. A caring mother would give a shit that her children were fighting.
“Perhaps it was Llywelyn behind the arrow attack? Since Ollie has been revealed to be able to sense attacks, it makes sense for anyone after Tristan to remove Ollie from the board,” Dyfri says calmly, as is reporting on staff turnover and not his brother’s life.
I stare at Dyfri as my mind whirls and tries to unpack everything he just said. It is alarming to think that Llywelyn’s challenge could be sinister and not simply genuine outrage. What if I was goaded and manipulated into insulting him, precisely so he could challenge Tristan? And then potentially get rid of me.
On the other hand, being reminded that I did actually save Tristan’s life and have done some good, feels bloody brilliant. I do have some redeeming qualities.
“Ollie, who gave you the dagger for your attempt on Tristan?” says Rhydian.
His words are like being doused with a bucket of cold water. Talk about raining on my parade. What a mood killer. I guess I have to admit that saving Tristan’s life only makes up for trying to take it myself. It really doesn’t give me any brownie points.
“Ollie?” asks Tristan.
I look at him. I can clearly see the emo boy in the alley. I can think of the words I want to say to describe him. But my tongue just won’t move. It is such a strange feeling.
Dyfri leans forward. “Was it Llywelyn?”
Mabon gasps.
Beside me, Tristan flinches as if struck.
Rhydian’s face is cold and expressionless, but his stare is boring into me.
What? A minute ago, the theory was Llywelyn was trying to take me out. Now it has jumped to suspecting I’m actually in cahoots with the wank-stain?
Oh no, no, no. This can’t be happening. They can’t think I’m working with Llywelyn. Tristan can’t believe I’m a rat, or a mole, or whatever the fucking term is. Llywelynis a complete slimeball. I’d never work with someone like that.
But this stupid spell is sealing my lips. Seems I can’t say who it is not. Which makes sense, otherwise they could just sit here with a long list of names, asking if it was them, and it would clearly be the one I couldn’t answer.
I stare imploringly at Tristan. He has to know the truth. Surely he can feel it in his bones? I’m a fuckup, but I’d never purposefully betray him. I didn’t try to assassinate him so I could worm my way into his bed.
Tristan flashes me a quick smile and gives my hand a squeeze. Thank fuck for that. I could cry with relief. The intensity of it is overwhelming. I think I am actually trembling. Shitting hell, apparently, Tristan thinking well of me is deeply important to my sense of well-being. How inconvenient.
“The geas is strong,” says Dyfri, startling me from my thoughts. “The nisny is nothing more than a pawn.”
Oh my god. Dyfri is standing up for me? I thought he hated me? This is wonderful.
“He is not intelligent enough for anything else,” he adds.
The little motherfucker. I start to glare daggers at him, but then I quickly remember that I never, ever want to be poisoned ever again, so I scowl furiously down at the table instead.
The conversation continues without me while I focus on getting my temper under control. Poisoning threats aside, Dyfri is right, so there is no need to be pissed off at what he said. I really don’t have a devious, calculating mind. When I play chess, all I can do is focus on one move at a time. Planning several moves ahead is completely beyond me.
I am a nasty, violent, selfish asshole. But a straightforward one. If you piss me off, I attack. I don’t plan a complicated revenge.
I suck in a deep breath. Yeah, if you piss me off, I throw water on your face and cause a whole fucking shit ton of drama because I’m incapable of thinking ahead.
It is time I grew up.
Chapter thirty-two
