Page 50 of Upon the Riven Throne

The creature whirled, baring its teeth and releasing a ragged snarl. Nisha flipped a sword forward, seemingly from thin air, and waggled it toward the beast. “It might not kill you, but it will certainly hurt.”

Magic rose from the earth, stronger than Mireille had ever felt, shaking the entire platform and warming her to the core. “It might not kill you,” Alder said. “But I am still Prince of Rivenwilde, and I will.”

The creature’s shadowy, malformed muzzle twitched, but it did not attack. Mireille wondered precisely how torturous being torn apart by fae magic was, given how even Maeve reacted to threat of it.

She tore her gaze away long enough to peer into the crowd, lit by flickering torchlight. The voice had come from the marshal of Westrende.

The marshal gave a little wave of acknowledgement. “You said he must marry a princess of Westrende.”

“Yes,” Mireille started. “He doesn’t know.”

“Ah,” said the marshal.

Mireille turned to face her prince. “I hope you can forgive me. It was the only way we could think to keep me safe. You see, at first, we did not understand why a fae queen would be so set on ruining our kingdom, why she cared so much about the heir of a castle by the sea.”

The creature gave a snarly little huff of air. Its skin was shifting into something like the bark of a hawthorn tree.

“The assault was relentless, and it cost—” Mireille swallowed hard. “It cost so much. When it became clear that her true target was me, Thomas and the others began an investigation. It seemed the queen had attacked neighboring kingdoms in recent years, all with one thing in common. But we had no way to defeat her. Clear was that she would not stop, even when Norcliffe was destroyed. So, we had to come. We had to find answers. We had to hope.” She gave him her most earnest gaze. “My mother was not born in Norcliffe. She was from Westrende. A distant line, yes, but, well, there has been no one closer to throne for ages, given the misfortunes that have befallen nearly everyone of a royal line.”

Alder’s expression was one of true shock and, inexplicably, his gaze found the Westrende officials in the crowd.

“It’s true,” the marshal said. “You know they make officials study all the lineage and trade agreements. Perhaps I not as much as the magistrate here, but between us, we do have to have a thorough grasp of the law.” The dark-haired man beside her stared on and the marshal said, “So that is your answer. The fae have kept a king from coming to power since long before Mireille’s mother left for Norcliffe. She is the last Westrende princess, now that the others have been married off.”

The prince stood in silence. The other humans present, representatives of Nordhelle and friends of the marshal, gave him a little wave.

The marshal crossed her arms, a bit smug that the prince hadn’t sorted it all out. “Well, who’s the clever one now?”

The blond-haired man beside the marshal tipped his chin toward the queen. “That’s why she doesn’t want you to go through with it. The wall will come down. The Rive will heal. She won’t merely be the queen of nothing. You’ll be the king of…” He gestured vaguely. “Everything.”

The prince stared at the man, then the marshal, clearly in shock, but his hand did not loosen from around Mireille. His voice dripped with distrust. “And Westrende would allow that? You would cede its lands to me?”

The marshal’s stance shifted, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword. “No.” A breath came out of Alder, as if he had known it was too good to be true, but the marshal’s gaze fell on Mireille. “We would cede it to her.”

Thomas had clearly been able to get Mireille’s message to Westrende—the favor she’d asked of him before—and though she had hoped their council would vote to support the union, and grant the marshal and magistrate leave to negotiate on their behalf, given that the Rive would fall regardless, it was in their best interest to have an ally in the fae and their new queen.

A noise came from Alder, seemingly rusty and disused, and Mireille glanced back to find that it was laughter. He had lifted his face to the canopy of sweet blossoms, letting the surprised, buoyant sound free. The crumbled pillars shook into dust as moonlight slid into the opening of the canopy, lighting the broken dais in a silvery blue glow.

Then his face turned down toward Mireille, still alight with a joy she could not truly believe, and he swung her around, arms locking her to him, and kissed her, long and deep. Beneath them, Rivenwilde sang, its magic humming through the earth and into every blossom and tree.

When the kiss finally broke, leaving Mireille breathless and wondering, the truth of their situation finally started to sink in. They were free. There were no more bargains, no more curses. Only her, and Alder, and safety for all their people.

On the dais behind them, Maeve had shifted back to her previous form, gown torn, crown askew. She was on her knees, no longer a queen, as the officiant had finished his declaration and the vows had been sealed with a kiss. Behind her, dagger in one hand, Noal reached forward and removed the woven crown with such satisfaction that Mireille had a sort of dastardly desire to watch him do it again.

The corner of his lips twitched, and he tossed the crown. Alder caught it with one hand, giving it a long, silent glance, before returning his gaze to Mireille. “Highness,” he whispered, then placed the circle gently on her head, and leaned forward to kiss her again.

EPILOGUE

The prince had not agreed to allow the Westrende marshal and magistrate into the palace until Mireille threatened to offer both all the hospitality she might as queen of Rivenwilde. Because it was true, now that the curse was broken, the lands would be restored and Alder would be raised to his rightful place as king. He was the one who had married her after all, she reminded him.

Certainly, he could not have thought that she might suddenly grow meek.

The pair from Nordhelle, however, Alder treated with much greater courtesy and respect, which was to say, likely as much as he could offer a human—excluding Mireille, of course.

As her friends observed the interior of the palace awestricken, Mireille realized it had begun to feel comfortable and familiar to her. She briefly squeezed Thomas’s hand, who had, of course, immediately forgiven her, even if he did seem slightly baffled and overwhelmed by the entire ordeal. Thomas had never been fond of ordeals.

They settled into a large sitting room, Alder, Mireille and her allies from Westrende and Nordhelle, who happened, happily, to be just as well-titled as she and legally able to negotiate on behalf of their kingdoms, plus Thomas, and Nisha. Noal and Kin stood to the side of the room, proprietary in their duties to their soon-to-be king and queen.

Mireille would need to write a letter to her father. The first of so, so many letters and documents to come.

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