Llywelyn shrugs. “The human mages disembowelled the would-be assassin and apologised.”
I shake my head in weary resignation. It is only fitting that human mages are as fucked up as the fey. They do carry their blood, after all.
It doesn’t make me any happier about this. The healers said Llywelyn could get out of bed. But I’d prefer it if he at least restedin his rooms for a few more days. I sigh and cross my arms over my chest.
“I have to go out,” insists Llywelyn. “I need to show my face, even though no one will acknowledge they can see me. I have to show I’ve recovered from the attack. To quell rumours.” He takes a sharp breath. “And to show I’m not cowed by the rumours Prys is spreading.”
He is right. I know he is. I have to stop whining.
Llywelyn finishes with his sleeve. He checks his reflection in the mirror, smooths the silks over his hips and then turns to go.
I step after him. Trailing in his footsteps.
“You don’t have to come?” he offers softly, over his shoulder.
“Like hell are you going alone!” I growl.
We reach the doors of our rooms. Llywelyn picks up my leash from the side table and I stand still while he attaches it to my collar.
He manifests his antlers, and then we stride out into the hallways of Buckingham Palace. I keep the prescribed three paces behind him. Hunching my shoulders a little. Ethan, the namaste dude, has mostly settled in. He knows his place, and he doesn’t mind it. He is cock-drunk for Prince Llywelyn.
We enter the throne room. All the princes, save Selwyn, are here. All looking magnificent and regal.
Llywelyn takes his place, standing on a low dais near to the throne. The last of the brothers. The prince furthest from Rhydian. I frown. This has to be intentional?
Even Dyfri, youngest son, rhocyn and half unseelie, is standing closer to the throne. I’m going to have to question Llywelyn on the significance of it later. I really hope it is not Rhydian sending a message because he knows something.
I file it away in my mind as something to deal with later, and I turn my attention to watching the room fill with fey nobles. A riot of colours and silks. Wings and hooves. Beings that not so very long ago, I believed only existed infairytales.
My oh my, has my world changed. My gaze is drawn to Llywelyn. Some changes are wonderful. I have to admit that.
I force myself to look away. To pay attention to the crowd. But I’m not really seeing them. I’m thinking about Llywelyn. And how he has stolen my heart.
I’m almost grateful to the would-be assassin. I’m not sure if I would have faced the truth without being confronted with losing Llywelyn. My misunderstood, sorely misused, secretly sweet boy.
My heart thumps. Strong enough that I want to lift my hand and rub my chest. It’s okay, I whisper silently to my heart. We are going to keep him safe. We are going to give him the life he deserves.
Suddenly, trumpets blare and the fey court line up, creating an aisle all the way from the double doors to the throne.
The doors open, and Selwyn strides in, holding the hand of his intended. The boy looks good in fey robes. They are white, like a bride. Or a virgin sacrifice.
The human keeps his head down, hiding his face with his unusual snow-white hair. Despite his clear terror, he walks gracefully. More of a glide than a walk. He has clearly been training for this for a long time. Poor kid.
Selwyn leads him right up to the foot of the dais. The boy sweeps into an elegant curtsey. My eyebrows rise, then I remember. Pets, rhocyn, and consorts, all curtsey. It’s nothing to do with gender. It’s a form of genuflection that I have mostly escaped because my master is a resyn. I’m just as much a ghost as he is. Nobody acknowledges me, so I don’t need to curtsey to them.
Rhydian regally raises his hand, and utters some arcane proclamation that my translator cannot cope with. That’s fine. The gist is clear enough. Welcome, I accept you, you are now one of us. Or something along those lines.
The trumpets blare again, and the gathered crowd moves like the sea. Ripples of brightly coloured silk. Servants rush in with trays of drinks. Harp music begins to play and everything seamlessly flows into something akin to a cocktail party.
People standing in groups. Mingling. Chatting.
I blink. That’s it? No more ceremony? I know that wasn’t the wedding, merely the poor boy being presented. Even so, I expected more pomp. I never will get the hang of the fey.
Llywelyn steps off the shallow dais, grabs a drink from a passing server, and finds a quiet corner to stand in. I follow so closely behind that my leash nearly droops onto the floor.
I force myself to stand facing the crowd instead of watching Llywelyn. I wonder how long he needs to stay. I can already tell that he is itching to leave.
I watch the fey laughing, talking, smiling. Ignoring Llywelyn utterly. He might as well be a shadow on the wall or an item of furniture. My fists clench.
