“We’ve been over this,” Aerin groans. “You,” she points at Emrys, “can’t come because if he sees you too closely, in either form, there is a chance he won’t ever let you leave Zeneith.” Aerin looks across the room to Malice. “And you can’t come because it will look like an insult from Valtara.”
Neither male looks convinced.
“He can’t keep me captive; that honor lays only with my father,” Aerin grumbles. “If he holds me for longer than the dinner, you,” she looks at Malice, “will contact Bruin, who will inform my father, who will demand my freedom. But…” Aerin drags out the word, standing. “That isn’t going to happen, because I’m not going to give Vitus Hale any reason to want to keep me.”
A knock at the outer door of the suite indicates one of the Royal Guards is here to collect her.
“I will see you both at dinner,” Aerin adds. She tucks her knife into the heel of her shoe and leaves the two males brooding.
At the outer door an ice Fae dressed in the blue uniform of the Zeneith Royal Guard waits for her. He nods respectfully. “Princess Tolvare, the King is ready for you.”
Aerin gives him a look somewhere between boredom and annoyance. She gestures down the hall. “Well, lead the way,” she demands. The guard only nods, proceeding down the hall with his back ramrod straight and arms held behind him. A second guard falls in step at her heels.
They wind first deeper into the Royal Village and thendeeper,lower until Aerin is certain they are under ground or inside the mountain that the Zeneith Royal Village is adjoined to. The air becomes colder around her and Aerin’s skin pebbles.
“Where, exactly, are we having this meeting?” Aerin snarks. They don’t answer.
The hallway is lit with dim sconces high up on the wall. The walls themselves are no longer polished white and blue marble, but rather old stone. Finally, they come upon a set of massive double doors, engraved with images that have faded with time. Before the doors stands a white-haired Fae dressed in fine clothing, a stark contrast to the rudimentary space.
Vitus Hale looks too much like his sons. Despite being a couple hundred years old, the King looks only a few years older than his eldest. He has the same almost-white hair as Khortland, though his is perfectly quaffed in a way Khortland’s rarely is. He also gave Khortland his dark eyes, though, Khortland’s can give off a sense of warmth, a window into a soul that isn’t hardened. Vitus’s eyes give away nothing.
“Princess Tolvare, I heard you were wandering around my Village,” Vitus says, giving her an appraising look. The dress she wears is suitable for a Royal dinner, not so much for wandering the dark, stone hallways.
Aerin takes a breath to steady herself, pushing away the nerves.
“Your city has been very welcoming,” she replies, bowing her head in acknowledgement of the King.
“I’m sure it has, that and one of my sons, certainly.” Vitus waves his hands trying to pull the name forward. His age seems to be wearing on him, not quite able to recall which son is Aerin’s Paramyr.
“Khortland,” Aerin supplies, suspicious of the Fae’s motives.
Faux-relief washes over his features, “Yes exactly. I have far too many sons, my dear,” Vitus says. “Now come.” He holds out his arm for Aerin to take. “I asked you down here for a reason.”
Aerin hesitantly steps forward, looping her hand through his waiting arm, Vitus places his other hand atop it.
“Where exactly is ‘down here’?” Aerin asks. Vitus turns them to face the now open double doors. Aerin swallows, recognizing the place immediately.
“These, my dear, are my dungeons.”
The double doors open to the dark.
48
EMRYS
Pacing the length of the main room of their suite for the umpteenth time since Aerin left, Emrys stews on the fact that they still have forty-five minutes until they can feasibly head to the dining room, and an hour and a half until they can start raising alarm about Aerin’s whereabouts. Emrys already feels like he is about to come out of his skin.
“Would you stop?” Malice groans from his chair by the fireplace.
“This feels wrong,” Emrys says, his gut churning.
Malice rubs his face, bicep bulging. Emrys stops his pacing midstride, heading the other way, only to whip back around to face the Dragon-Fae once more.
“Doesn’t this feel wrong?” he demands.
Malice levels a look at him. “First of all, I would know if something were wrong, and so would you.” Malice rubs his side. “Second, Aerin is right. The King could very well be looking for a reason to keep one of us here, expecting us to react to his absurd demands. We will not play right into his hands. We aren’t that stupid,” Malice grumbles. Then he looks to Emrys again, his blue eyes deadly. “And third, if that bastard tries to keep her fromus, the Dragon inside me will have no reservations about ripping this Royal Village to shreds in order to find her.”
Emrys knows about the Dragon, in an abstract sort of way. Neither Malice nor Aerin has come out and said it, but he’d inferred as much, especially after their night together. Emrys makes some noise of approval before going back to pacing.
