Page 44 of Court of Bone and Amethyst

“We are to simply take your word for it that this girl is the Queen of Valaron?” the king says, his skin flustering even further. “A convenient story, considering that the king is dead!”

Zyren’s face turns so dark, his eyes so deadly, for a moment I don’t know what he’s going to do. His fingers twitch at his side, and I can feel the slow spin of his shadows pressing against me.

“You seem to forget that I am a guardian, and a guardian’s word is unbreakable and unquestionable. The man watching from behind the throne knows me well. He can vouch for my identity and my honor, if you will not take my word for it.”

Silence falls, and then slow footsteps are heard. From behind the throne, a man appears. It is instantly clear that he is also a guardian. He has the same stern countenance as Zyren. And something in the way they carry themselves, the energy about them. How Zyren knew he was back there, I don’t know.

“Rivald?” the Queen asks the guardian, arching a brow.

“I know this man,” Rivald says. “We are of the same Order. His word is bond.”

The two guardians meet gazes, and I notice Rivald’s eyes are a deep shade of pewter also. He has dark skin and air, and arms like tree trunks. He towers over the king and queen like a giant.

“Well,” the queen says, looking me up and down. “I suppose there’s only one clear next step.”

“And what is that?” Zyren asks, tone wary.

“A celebration, of course.” She smiles, though it does not reach her eyes. “We must hold a ball fit for the queen of our realm.”

“That’s kind, but not necessary,” Zyren says. “We have more pressing matters at hand, which we wish to discuss.”

The northern queen turns her gaze to mine again, those violet eyes flickering. “Does your guardian always speak for you, my queen?”

I meet her gaze unflinchingly, and choose my words intentionally, a promise of cooperation. “He does not, Queen of the North.”

“Good,” she says. “If you wish to make allies, the lords and ladies of the north will no doubt want to meet their queen. We do not often get visitors from Selaye.”

I nod. “We would be delighted to accept your hospitality. I look forward to meeting your court.”

“Wonderful. We will begin preparations at once.”

Next to me, Zyren’s jaw rolls, but I ignore him.

“Now,” the queen says, “I’ll have the baron show you to your rooms. Please refresh yourselves, and we will see you at dinner this evening.”

“We are grateful.” I dip my head, and she returns the gesture.

We turn, and the baron approaches from the side of the dais, his countenance as icy as before. “Right this way.”

I don’t dare meet Zyren’s gaze as we stride from the throne room. We’ve managed not to get ejected out into the snowy wasteland, but I far from trust these northerners.

They’re our last hope, but I have the distinct feeling that we’re walking a treacherous knife’s edge indeed.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Zyren

The baron leadsus to the upper east wing of the castle, which he tells us is reserved for visiting guests, and leaves us with several servants to show us to our rooms. I glare as he says his farewells and fails, quite intentionally, to give Sarielle the proper bow of respect before striding away.

I don’t trust him or anyone else in this palace.

It’s been fifty years at least since I came to this place, and the lord and lady who presided over the castle were honorable fae. The Court of Memory had always stayed out of the conflicts throughout the rest of Valaron, not even having a courtier in Selaye, but they were loyal, nonetheless. The so-called king and queen who rule now must have taken the throne by force. Sarielle isn’t wrong—news travels slow, both coming and going from this dark, desolate stretch of Valaron. And, in this case, I imagine the news was intentionally kept quiet.

One of the servants shows Owyn and Merla to adjoining rooms, then farther down the hall leads Sarielle to a huge suite at the end. Her eyes go wide when she steps inside. The floors arepolished stone, an enormous sleigh bed of dark wood on one side of the room, piled high with wool blankets and trimmed furs. A crackling fireplace sits opposite, warmth permeating the space. White fur rugs dot the floor. On the far wall, several windows reveal the ice-blue sky.

“Your room is here, guardian,” the servant says, showing me to a small adjoining room, clearly used for nannies or handmaids.

I nod in thanks, but as soon as he’s gone, I go through the door back into Sarielle’s room. She is looking out the window across the snowy courtyard, chewing her lip in obvious consternation. I shut the door behind us, not quietly, and she whirls around.

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