Page 90 of Heir to His Court

My father looked at him. “I'm curious, Prince, and perhaps I am not as conversant with High Fae customs as I thought, being merely mortal.” Baba smiled, his human accent thickening, and I tensed. “You call my daughter Princess. . .but you are not wed. How is it that she is your Princess then?”

The courtiers abandoned the pretense of not listening. I downgraded my estimation of their dignity several notches.

Raniel smiled, cool and indulgent. “You may not be conversant with the more esoteric customs of the High Fae Court, Lord Étienne, but nonetheless you have been a competent Regent to your House and you are Aerinne's father, so I will answer.” He paused. “She is Princess of Everenne because she is my bonded. A wife, my Lord, may be divorced according to the laws of a territory. A bonded can be set aside only through death.” He tactfully skirted reference to Muriel.

Of course the courtiers listened. In the center of this triangle stood the ghosts of a dead wife, a dead son, a dead mother. . .and all at each other’s hands. Well—Babahad killed no one.

Still, it was so typical of a High Fae Court I wanted to laugh—the variety of laughter that might have the White twitching for weapons.

“I see,” my father said. “So she is your Princessandyour concubine. Thank you for the clarification.”

I didn’t close my eyes at the smooth, biting edge to my father's voice as he widened his smile, white teeth glittering, dark eyes a little too innocent. They crinkled as he emanated jovial warmth.

It was all horseshit, of course. My human Muslim father cared absolutely nothing about Fae bonding. He wanted his daughter lawfully wed if she was going to publicly take a lover—especially knowing how Fae males treated their bonded lovers.

“Baba,” I began, but Raniel lifted a hand.

“No, Princess, allow his artful challenge.” His eyes had paled from the insult of the word concubine—which was why Baba had used it rather than consort, with its more dignified connotation—but his voice remained calm. “Some forbearance is due, but only some, Lord Étienne.” A long pause as Raniel regarded my father. “If your daughter consents to a marriage—”

They ignored my loud snort.

“—then if it please your House, we will wed according to the laws of Everenne and Ninephe.”

“Not Avallonne?” I couldn't help interjecting.

“Ah. Your presence in my bed and my word that you are solely mine would be, in Isle parlance, wedding enough.” He smiled, pleasant and cutting. “Well. . .after the first handful of challenges were answered with death. There would be at least one or two—a brother or cousin, perhaps. An old lover who objected to a claim. I rather approve of the custom.”

“You would,” I muttered, understanding the subtle warning he offered my House. “Why sign a legal document when a few decapitations will do?”

“Indeed, my heart. You understand.”

“Nyawira?”

Resigned, I looked at my father. I was Fae enough to care absolutely nothing about a wedding. I belonged to Raniel in a way that only death could truly part. I would rule at his side—he could not lie about that—publicly acknowledged to hold a part of his power, which I was forced to begin accepting would serve my own goals.

I wanted to refuse a wedding out of the remaining vestiges of my spite, but I owed my father for his years of selfless stewardship and if marrying would ease some of his discomfort, I would.

But I must be myself. “I can give no answer until Faronne has reviewed the contract.” That would buy time. Contracts in the Fae Courts could take years.

Baba nodded, approval in his gaze. “Of course.”

“Lord Baroun will meet with you at your pleasure,” Raniel said. “Princess?”

I waved a hand. “Baba can represent me; I don't need to be present until it's time to sign something.” It was for the best. My attention would only wander, but Baba would be ruthless on my behalf—he was our diplomat and administrator, after all. “Oh, and my aunts should review it as well.” For a feminine perspective.

“It will be done as you ask, Lady Faronne,” my father said, his shoulders relaxing.

Humans and their chastity cultures.

“Wine,” I called, beckoning a server. “Keep my glass full.”

* * *

“Do we need to check you for knives?” Baroun asked as we took seats at the table.

“You can make the attempt,” I said. “House Faronne is always good for the evening's entertainment.”

Meaning any of us would be happy to start a brawl if Montague came near me with the intent to perform a pat down.

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