Not for long. She was to be a lady again.
“Now, there is the matter of the venue,” Cléa said. “The Zenith has offered the highest tier for our use, which is a great honor, but…” She didn’t finish the thought. Hanna had noticed that she never mentioned aloud Rikard’s inability to fly. She acted as though her son were perfectly whole, and Hannalinde followed her lead, carefully avoiding the topic.
“I am sorry to request this,” she began delicately, realizing this was her tangle to unpick as Rikard’s future bride. She had toinvent a way for him to save face, even with his own family. “It may test the limits of propriety for your kind, but would it be possible to hold our mating ceremony on the ground? I think it will be quite difficult for the human guests to traverse the many ladders to the top of the Tower. I can’t imagine all the ladies in their gowns making the journey, let alone the queen. I fear they will all decline our invitation.”
Cléa’s relief was palpable. “That does seem more practical if we’re going to host so many humans. Any high-tier snobbery should vanish if the king and queen attend.” Still, she looked worried.
“Perhaps the plaza on the north side of the Tower? We could solicit the owners of surrounding buildings to volunteer their rooftops for roosting, so those who don’t wish to touch the ground can avoid it. The plaza is large enough that any humans who like can gather to witness the ceremony. They’re sure to be curious, and I think it will be good for the Nadir’s office if it’s known that he’s taking a human mate, don’t you? Of course, we’ll set aside some raised seating for the king and his retinue.”
Cléa’s wide mouth opened, then closed. She looked at Hannalinde with fresh assessment and frank admiration. “My son chose well. I had my doubts at first, when he said you were human. And a Lamont, of all families. But I understand why he picked you now. You will be quite at home here.”
She reached across the table and laid her hand over Hannalinde’s, patting it with approval as she purred. It was such a warm, maternal gesture that Hanna’s heart swelled until she thought it might burst. She might not be gaining a true husband, but she had a feeling she was gaining a true family.
She covered Cléa’s hand with her free one. “I have long lacked for a mother. I am very pleased to soon call you mine.”
They worked until the eastern sky paled, and Cléa’s movements slowed and stiffened, the stone of daysleepthreatening. She gathered her notes and fabric samples and retreated to her nesting chamber, leaving Hannalinde to collect her keeper from the hall and descend the long ladders of the Tower, pondering how her life had changed so swiftly.
She was doing this. She was marrying a gargoyle. She was moving into the Tower, the fortress of the species that had tormented her. She was planning a wedding with his mother, just like she would if her groom-to-be were a wool merchant from Meravenna. In not-so-many months, she’d birth a half-gargoyle child.
Strangely, she felt something she hadn’t felt in nearly a decade.
She felt like herself.
Chapter 8
Rikard
“Another bottle!” Lucan called to the barkeep. They’d already drained three between the four of them, but what was one more? Rikard didn’t argue.
Tonight was his. His friends, his favorite tavern, his last evening as an unmated gargoyle. Tomorrow night, he’d stand on a platform in the Tower’s courtyard and take a human woman as his mate in front of every creature of consequence in Solvantis.
The bottle arrived, and Lucan refilled Rikard’s cup and then everyone else’s.
Bastien raised his glass. “To the female who finally felled our friend. May she bear you strong hatchlings and let you visit the tavern whenever you please.”
Lucan guffawed and raised his own, spilling some down his arm. “To the golden pussy herself. She must possess rare skills to have kept your attention after all the harlots you’ve hired. Tell me she has friends!”
“You’ll stay far away from herandher friends,” Rikard warned, laughing.To Hanna,he thought and tossed his mead back. It was fine and fiery, the perfect drink for tonight.
Drogan pushed his cup away. “I’ve had enough,” he said to Lucan’s questioning glance. He’d been quiet through the first few rounds, but now the silent pressure was coming to a head.
Rikard had been waiting for it. He’d known what was coming since the moths carried the news.
“A human,” Drogan said churlishly after a few tense minutes.
“Yes.”
“You, who bled for them. Who was broken fighting their war. Who was crushed to rubble because a human lord sold our movements to the goblins. Now you’d raise one up and give her your name.” His eyes lifted, and the hatred in them was an old, familiar thing. But tonight it was aimed at Rikard, and that stung.
On a typical night, he would let Drogan’s diatribe roll off his back. But tonight was supposed to be a celebration, for once!
“She did not break me, so why should I punish her? For that matter, why should I punish myself by discarding her? You may not have noticed, but gargoyle females aren’t exactly lining up to mate with a flightless pile of rubble. I’m not so principled that I’ll deny myself a companion for the rest of my life just because I can’t fly. Why can’t you put your grudge aside and be happy for me for one night, old friend?”
“How can I be happy, when Valric will never have a mate or fly again because of your filthy humans!” Drogan growled.
His humans?“They’re notmine.”
“Are they not? Who do they run to with every little quibble? Who dries their tears and pats them on the head?”
