Page 13 of Fae Exile

Her “suspicion,” it turned out, aligned conveniently with her current level of annoyance toward any given aristos. She singled out several minor scales and scalesses, a pair of lords and ladies, whose only crime seemed to be their constant wheedling and pandering. They all wanted something from the queen, and she only concerned herself with whatshewanted.

She’d studied the viscount and viscountess of Encarantos the longest, her face carefully composed into a balanced mixture of grief and disapproval. The viscount and viscountess were Eliana’s parents, and though she was one of the women lined up to compete in the Nuptialis Probatio, the queen had made them stand before her until a small wet patch bloomed across the groin area of the man’s britches as if he were doing everything he could to keep from fully loosing his bladder. She’d finally dismissed them all with a grunt of disgust that didn’t reveal whether or not she was finished with her implied accusations.

She’d asked them all only a single question: “Did you kill the great Prince Saturn, my dear beloved son?” Beyond that, she hadn’t interrogated them, nor had she ordered anyone else to do it—though both Ivar and Braque had looked plenty eager to grill them for answers, perhaps literally.

Court life and its attendant duties usually began late in the day with an extended meal that took place in the early afternoon to accommodate the all-night revelry the queen so openly encouraged. But today, a long-legged, gangly fae, who appeared as agile as if he were graced with wings, panted as he slid to a stop beside the training ring beyond the gardens where Hiroshi, Ryder, West, and I sparred during the morning hours. Since I’d sent my mate into the Wilds, I’d needed an outlet to release my frustration, torment, and endless worries—Would I ever see her again? Had she fully healed? Had I sent enough fae to keep her safe in the savagery that was the Sorumbra?

My muscles were sore from all the additional time wielding blades, but I was grateful for it. Beyond the need for the distraction, I had to remain strong and sharp. The queen was more dangerous than ever.

“Yes, what is it?” Ryder asked of the messenger, sweeping his pale hair from where it stuck to his face.

Before the man could even answer, Hiroshi slipped his sword in its sheath and reached for his shirt, which hung over the wooden railing of the ring.

“Her Majesty the Queen Talisa Zafira Tatiana of Embermere demands your immediate presence.”

“Why?” West asked, also pulling his shirt over his head. There’d be no time to wash up or change out of our sweaty clothing.

The messenger breathed more deeply, intentionally slowing down the marked rise and fall of his chest. “I wasn’t instructed to say. Just...” His gaze darted to either side of them, as if the queen herself might appear to scold him for any deviation from her orders. “Just hurry.”

“There’s no one listening here, man,” I said as I climbed the fence to stand next to him. “Tell us what’s going on so we don’t head in unprepared.”

Again, the messenger glanced around us, but this time he nodded. “Yeah, all right.” His brows rose. “You sure no one can hear us?”

“Fully,” West answered, though I wouldn’t have been able to share that level of assurance, not after Elowyn could actually see eyeballs and ears floating around that we couldn’t.

The messenger blew out a long exhale and ran a slim forearm across his forehead, as sweaty as ours. “After yesterday in the throne room, Lord Yorgen and Lady Idra of Magiarantos tried to run for it in the middle of the night.”

They’d been a married pair the queen had singled out.

“Oh no,” Hiroshi said.

The messenger pursed his lips and nodded. “Yep. It didn’t end well for them. You’ll see for yourselves in the throne room. And if you value your own heads, I’d recommend you run there. She didn’t expect anyone to be this far away from their rooms. The nobles were supposed to still be sleeping.”

Ryder palmed the slender man on the back. “Thanks, man. We owe you one.”

“Anytime,” he answered, but surely only partially meant it.

Around here, it was every man for himself.

And then the man was off, sprinting back in the direction of the palace.

My friends and I delayed just long enough to exchange a loaded look. Whatever we’d be walking in on, it’d be as dangerous as any battlefield. We took off too, following the messenger.

It was the fastest route to the queen.

When my fellow drakes and I entered the throne room, we were nearly the last to arrive. The nobles present had obviously taken shortcuts in their haste. Gone were the towering hairdos and vividly painted faces. The Dowager Countess Dayana wore a bodice and skirt of unbleached linen so plain they were likely intended as undergarments beneath one of her usual fancy dresses. And the Dowager Countess Jolanda appeared to be wearing a satin and lace nightdress, her vibrant copper hair quickly woven into a single braid along her back.

I could easily guess at the frantic debate they’d all endured: should they hurry and appear as they were lest their delayenrage the queen, or should they take the time to dress with the decorum she required in her court and risk ... enraging the queen?

I met stares with my second cousin, Tula, on the other side of the large room, as the guys and I filed behind a row of others. Her hair was a frizzy halo around her head, indicating she’d slept in the unkempt braid that hung against her back, but her eyes were surprisingly determined despite her otherwise matching frazzled appearance. They seemed to say,You have to do something about her. She can’t be allowed to continue with her tyrannical rule.

Or perhaps those were just my thoughts ... and that was before my attention skimmed past the hundreds of standing nobles to the unfortunate Yorgen and Idra—or the parts of them the queen chose to display anyhow.

Once more, just as when I’d been forced to stab Elowyn in this very room, only one throne sat atop the dais at the front. The queen alone had taken the usual time to prepare herself before coming. In a dress of brilliant, scarlet velvet, with a neckline that plunged to her waist, revealing stretches of smooth, pale skin, the queen sat tall and rigid.

Angry.

Her fingers gripped the armrests of her throne until her knuckles whitened, making the matching scarlet of her nails seem all the brighter. Her lips were a crimson so deep and rich she’d opted not to wear jewels of any sort beyond a delicate white-gold crown. Her long dark hair, straight, shiny, and loose, served to further accentuate the milkiness of her skin and the red that was surely intended to remind everyone so much of blood—and how the queen dealt in it.

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