Though I would love nothing more than to laze around with Lore, he’s king of a divided nation, one that will need to be darned and reorganized, whose laws will need to be revised and whose wide range of people will need to find a new equilibrium. Yes, he’ll be able to delegate some tasks to his Siorkahd, but even his most formidable Crows cannot replace the figurehead that he represents.
He veers toward the giant hatch of the Market Tavern and floats us down. My breath catches at the sight of the candles dripping wax onto the communal tables and radiating a soft glow over the spread of food and flowers.
I’m guessing that the news of our successful mission preceded us.
Seemingly, my Crows are gossips . . .
I grin, my smile intensifying when I spot Lorcan’s mother standing arm-in-arm with Phoebus, heads craned toward us, faces bright beneath their charcoal makeup. Yes,their.Even Phoebus wears Crow stripes tonight.
My gaze wheels over the rest of the crowd until I spot Sybille leaning against her fair-haired beau, who’s deep in conversation with Gabriele, probably strategizing over their next tunnel explosion.
All three have brushed black over their eyes. Only Justus, who stands beside Bronwen, speaking in low tones, hasn’t adorned his face with charcoal. I wonder whether he abstains because he doesn’t feel like he’s earned them, or whether his face is bare because no one’s offered to paint some on him.
We’re last to land. My father and Imogen, and the rest of the Crows who’d accompanied us to Filiaserpens,already stand amongst their compatriots, stein in hand. The second my feet kiss the ground, Lore morphs.
A deep whimper emerges from Arin, who springs toward her son. When she reaches him, she brackets his face between her palms and drags his forehead down to hers. She murmurs words in Crow I don’t catch, but which I can only imagine are filled with love and relief, especially when I catch tears notching her stripes.
She tilts her son’s head lower to kiss a spot between his brows, and then she comes toward me and takes my face between her hands and presses our foreheads together. My heart tightens with yet another hefty dose of bliss that she considers me someone worthy of her affection. Yes, I’m her son’s mate, but that doesn’t make me admirable, only companionable.
“Tapath, Fallon.” After thanking me in Crow, she thanks me in Lucin. “Grazi,mo ínon.”
My bottom lip begins to quiver at being called her daughter. I never imagined that I, a girl liked by so few, could one day be loved by so many.
A hand slips around my waist and perches on my hip, not to tug me away, only to hold me. “Mádhi, would you do us the honor of inking my mate’s cheek?”
A squeak rises over the quiet conversations that have erupted around us. Grinning, I stare over Arin’s shoulder at Phoebus, who teeters on the edge of the crowd, hissing Sybille’s name while shifting back and forth on his suede loafers like a child on Yuletide.
When she hears him, she bustles over, “What?”
“Fallon’s getting her feather,” he whisper-shouts.
She whips her gray eyes my way. They’re so full of pride that I bite my lip, for I don’t feel my act merits pride. It’s momentous, that much is indisputable, but it’s also my birthright.
“I will get mallet and ink.” Arin’s voice is thick with emotion.
As she departs to gather her tattooing supplies, Phoebus and Sybille shuffle to my side and, after quick hugs, frame me like proud parents as a great many shifters move toward me to express their joy and gratitude that their king is whole.
“Though the bodysuit is a vast improvement on the all-brown getup,” Phoebus says out the corner of his mouth, “Syb and I brought some options over for you to change into when we heard you were on your way back.”
“You brought optionshere?”
“Yes. We laid them out in Reid’s room since Reid’s, you know”—Phoebus shrugs—“nothere.”
Sybille plucks strands of my salt-and-sand-hardened hair and inspects them, nose rumpled. “Let’s hope Reid’s not too much of a one-soap-fits-all type of man.”
“If he is, we’ll nick a cup of cooking oil from the dip stall.”
I finger the mass. “It’s that bad?”
Phoebus nods. “A scarecrow with dreads, only worse.”
Great.
Syb moves aside to make room for Lore. He presses his palm to the small of my back and murmurs, “Don’t listen to them. You’re the most exquisite woman in this room.”
I doubt Lore’s objective, but does it matter?
Arin fords through the loose net of shifters, clutching a leather pouch which she unrolls on the nearest table, on a space that my father has cleared of plates.
