Llywelyn gives me a belligerent glare, but he starts talking.
“Mabon is too flighty and air-headed. An image he has carefully cultivated. Tristan is charming and popular.”
I let an expectant silence fall.
Llywelyn huffs. “I’m next in line after Tristan. He is the one in the way. People wouldn’t skip over me for Selwyn, he is too secretive and unknown. Nobody would ever choose Dyfri, he is half-unseelie and a rhocyn.”
His golden eyes fix on me. “Tristan needed to go. If I didn’t do it, your people would.”
A shiver races down my spine. He is not wrong. I can only assume that if Tristan was ever approached with a deal to put him on the throne, he declined. Or my superiors assessed him and decided he wasn’t suitable. Whatever the process, the Agency has decided on Llywelyn as their puppet prince.
Which means Tristan has to go.
“You are prepared to murder your own brother to get what you want?” I ask.
I’m not judging, I’m assessing. I need to verify how far he is willing to go. Can Llywelyn openly take his brother off the board, or is an unfortunate accident needed?
Golden eyes grow impossibly large. “No!” He coughs sharply and starts again. “I mean, that is dramatic and unnecessary. Banishment would be just as effective. It was what I was aiming for, to get rid of him before your people did something more drastic.”
His shoulders droop, and he drops my gaze to look dejectedly down at the floor. No doubt thinking about his failure and how his brother is very much still in the firing line.
My heart pounds and twists. Oh god. I can’t take this. Llywelyn is too sweet for this world. He was made to knit stuffies, bake cakes and take cock. But he is forced to be a prince in a deadly fey court. Trying to win a game he is nowhere near ruthless enough for.
He wanted to keep Dyfri safe. He wanted to stop Tristan from being killed. Hell, he wants to be crown prince because he thinks Rhydian hates it. And because he wants to be loved.
My stomach contorts into a tight, painful knot. I want to keep Llywelyn safe. More than anything. But I don’t know if I can.
Chapter twenty-two
I’ve lost Llywelyn again. The way his sprawling rooms connect is disordered to my mind, and he can walk as quietly as a cat. This combination means he can wander off and I have no idea where he is. It is deeply unsettling.
Not the least because I’m not entirely sure if it is my mistrust of him that puts me on edge like this, or if my unease is fuelled by my concern for him. I have a horrible feeling that it is probably a discordant joining of the two.
And knowing Llywelyn, both considerations could simultaneously be in action. He could be invoking a plan of devilry that will backfire on him spectacularly. It is a habit of his.
Grinding my teeth, I abandon my growing murder board and set off to look for him. I’ll just check that he isn’t up to no good and then I will get back to work.
I find him in one of his dressing rooms, sitting at a mahogany dresser that is topped with a large oval mirror. Llywelyn’s elbows are on the surface of the dresser, his head is down and he is clutching his golden hair.
I spy a silver hairbrush and a bottle of sweet smelling oil. Despite being scrunched up in his hands, his hair is gleaming.
“What’s wrong?” I ask softly.
“It’s not growing,” he answers with so much despondency in his voice I swear I can see it darkening the air.
I step towards him. “I’m sure it is.”
A meaningless lie. I’ve not been here long enough to say. And I have no idea how much time fey hair usually takes to grow. Butthis strange need to comfort him is strong. Stronger than can be sated with a bland lie. I want to help, logically, practically. In any way that is meaningful.
My mind flicks through images of fey nobles. They all have fancy braids, but it also appears to be important to show how long your hair is. Tendrils are left to fall free and most people seem to have waist long hair. Dyfri certainly does and the length of his is not hidden by braids and updos.
My gaze runs over Llywelyn’s golden hair. It is uneven, with the longest bits falling to his sharp jawline. Waist length is going to take a while.
“How long does it need to be?” I ask.
Llywelyn sighs. “Long enough to braid, shoulder length at least.”
That’s not so bad. Certainly not as bad as needing to be waist length.
