Page 23 of A Bride for the Winter King
Sara quickly slips the list of Spring seeds back inside her planner. “Yes. All done.”
My oldest advisor turns to me. “How did you manage to keep track of them all?”
“I didn’t,” I answer.
His raucous laugh creeps under my skin, and I fight off the urge to roll my eyes. He doesn’t think I’m serious.
Paul’s part of the old guard. When I became king, I kept him around to ensure a smooth transition from my predecessor’s reign and out of friendship for his daughter, but he actually loves to host these pointless games. His obsession for the sanctity of the pageant has begun to rub off on Sara, which irks my nerves more with each passing year.
He catches his breath, even more red-faced than when he entered. “Ha, Elio. One day, when you’re old and gray like me, you’ll miss the way these beautiful, young women look at you.”
I’m already old, but youth sticks to Fae kings longer than happiness. Paul is almost three hundred years old, and way past his prime, so I’m still a child in his mind. He’s relied on his cleverness and immense knowledge to keep his job. His magic is as tepid as magic comes, and I bet my predecessor chose him for his mediocrity, paranoid as he was that someone would steal his crown.
Now that I possess the Winter crown and understand all the indelible heartache that comes with it, I’d gladly give it away, but that’s not possible.
“I don’t think I could miss any of this,” I breathe, looking straight ahead to dodge their reactions.
“The kingdom needs this, Elio.Weneed this,” Paul says.
My teeth grit together at the futile reminder. “I know.”
Paul Snow is a shrewd politician. Without his love for the Yule pageant, his exhaustive knowledge of history, and the immense respect he’s earned through his centuries of service to the crown, I would have to hunt a woman down and force her to marry me each year.
Me and myendless string of dead wiveshave made it hard for my soldiers to quell the sparks of rebellion that have been spreading year after year around Wintermere. Enough sparks make a flame and a strong flame brings war.
Sara clears her throat and motions for Paul to lead the way to the balcony. “It’s time to shepherd the brides into the ballroom. We’ll announce the names of the losers first, but you better go and change before we enter. I put your clothes in the study.”
“I’ll see you in there.” Pretending not to notice the worried curve of Sara’s mouth, I speed toward the stairs leading down to the ballroom and the adjoining study. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, in dire need of some mind-erasing, numbness-inducing Nether cider.
Paul’s thunderous voice reaches my ears as he steps out on the balcony, “Fantastic news! The results are in.”
I skip the stairs two at a time to distance myself from the cold, miserable pressure in my gut, but alas, I carry it with me.
The Yule pageant is an age-old tradition. It keeps me from becoming a fairytale monster in the eyes of my subjects and reels in the discontented High Fae who might back a formal challenge.
Everyone loves a bittersweet exhibition of chaos, beauty, and greed, and the life-and-death stakes have only amplified the grim fascination viewers cater for my nuptials.
Sara and Paul’s antics make the queen-selection process appear transparent and exciting, when it’s nothing more than a sacrifice. The large rewards we offer keep the women coming,but I’m the one who has to endure the wedding night. The one who sees the fear in their eyes when death comes for them.
Keeping the kingdom safe and thriving makes all this morbid showmanship worth the hassle. In theory.
Chapter 10
Dancing with Ghosts
LORI
The Winter ballroom is four times as big as the Shadow Court’s banquet hall. Tall, checkered windows open to the gardens, and the frosted glass panes give the whole room a dramatic flair. Crystal chandeliers twinkle about our heads, and a dizzying spark of wonder steals my breath as my eyes latch onto the vaulted ceiling.
By the spindle… The fall of the Mist King.
After the Mist Wars—deadly, decades-long wars that had reduced the Fae population by half—each of the first kingdoms commissioned a mural to commemorate their victory over the scourge of the Islantide.
Sheets of precious metals have been chiseled, carved, etched, or burnished to create an incredibly detailed mosaic. My jaw hangs open, my eyes bulging from the effort to take it all in, but I could spend an entire week in this room and only grasp at a fraction of what the artist immortalized here.
While the Winter King made us revel in the wait for his royal behind, Byron instructed us to trade in the cheap plastic masks for masquerade ones, and the accessory soothes my nerves, itsweight similar to the one I use to travel through the sceawere. Lost in the beauty of the mural, I graze the mask’s feathery edge with trembling fingers and hold on to my hood, the thick fur threatening to slide down. My neck reprimands me for the strain, but it’s just so monumental…
The mural ebbs at the edges, no trim framing the mosaic so the story can continue to be written as it unfolds.History’s never finished, my father used to say.
