Page 67 of The Prince from a Cruel Summer
My father passes him a rowan blade. The ceremonial weapon is made out of our court’s special iron and silver alloy and rowan wood. This blade could finish off any Faerie-born creature in one strike and kill even the most powerful king.
If we were to only nick ourselves on the sharp edge, it would poison any of us to death, and I instinctively recoil from it, trying to smooth out my reaction with an awkward stretch. Only a few daggers of the sort exist, and we only use them in special circumstances.
Considering the damage they can do, I believe they should be melted down and destroyed, but no monarch would willingly obliterate its own murder-all weapon. Not without the certainty that his allies would do the same. Since only the most talented blacksmiths of Summer can forge new ones, they are also extremely valuable.
Ethan passes the lethal blade to his son. “Finish it off, Ezra.”
My best friend looks perfectly at ease and doesn’t even flinch away from the deadly blade as he picks it up and bends down to slice the beast’s throat, but I know him well-enough to spot the tick of his jaw. Ezra despises his father and would have given anything for him not to win the hunt.
Devi clips a short, breathless curse behind me. “The whole thing was rigged. That branch didn’t fall by accident,” she whispers only to my benefit, and I keep a straight face, considering the possibility.
My father is the only one who could have made that branch fall from such a distance, and I don’t see why he would have robbed me from the win. The summer solstice celebration brings along a flock of royal visitors. Me winning the hunt would have made for a great story at dinner tonight.
Thorald Storm rubs down his tensed mouth to hide a sneer, the Storm King barely able to mask his disdain for us Light Fae. “Well, some of us have to hurry back to prepare for the ritual.”
My father grumbles under his breath. He’s not part of thesome of uswho have to get ready. The seven Faerie monarchs are expected to reunite in Eterna’s throne room tonight to perform a mysterious ritual, but that doesn’t include their spouses. Even my father isn’t allowed to know the details of what goes on in that octagonal room after the doors close. Being a king consort is hard on his ego, because no matter how much he likes to pretend otherwise, my mother is the true head of the family.
“Ezra, I leave you in charge of my trophy,” Ethan orders.
Ezra gives his father a tight nod. “Yes, Sir.”
I can hardly recognize my goofy roommate, his serious pout, stiff spine, and overall gloomy attitude a total contrast to his usual self, but that’s always the case when his father is around.
The crowd disperses, and Ezra begins skinning the dead deer. Its meat will be smoked and salted for the palace healers, its hooves used for ointments, and only the antlers will be surrendered to the winner.
My father leans closer. “The Winter King could barely walk all the way up here, did you notice?”
“At least he came. Oberon Eros didn’t even bother to try.”
“Yes. And didn’t you think Ferdinand Nocturna looked quite winded after the hike? That certainly doesn’t bode well for Morheim.”
The mention of Zeke’s father sours what’s left of my good mood. “When are you ever optimistic about Morheim?”
With a wry grin, my father motions for us to walk through the mirror the servants brought along. We leave a bloody, quiet Ezra to his disagreeable task, and return to Eterna through the sceawere. We enter directly through our private apartments, the glittering runes drawn around the mirror preventing anyone but us from entering.
The adrenaline ebbs out of my blood as my father serves us both a glass of cider to take the edge off our unfruitful hunt.
“After this morning, who do you think should marry Willow?” my father muses. “Given that only Spring, Winter, and Shadow should see a new monarch in this century?”
I go through the list of influential men we spoke to this morning that have a good shot at being king. The game my father is playing is similar to a game of chess, if the pieces moved at an incredibly slow pace. Decades could pass before any of the current kings and queens die. “There’s Maddox Storm. He did well today.”
“An interesting choice. His father is still in his prime, but Maddox is the heir apparent. Only, he’s already betrothed.” He purses his lips. “Is Ezekiel still living up to his underwhelming potential?”
“Worse.”
“That settles it. The old Winter King will die before his new wife, so he’s out of the running, too.”
I can’t believe he even considered the Winter crown for Willow, given the old king’s reputation. Thankfully, my sister was too young to be presented at the last Yule pageant.
I take a deep breath, ready to broach a difficult subject. “Now, don’t get mad. But what would happen if Willow was allowed to marry into the Spring Court?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Violet Eros is Oberon’s obvious successor.”
“I’m just saying—” I have no idea if Devi likes girls, but I’ve heard rumors, and she’ll be queen for sure. Willow would certainly be interested in the idea of marrying her. Fascinated in fact.
“Violet can do whatever she wants in her spare time, but she has to marry a man, Aidan. Well-born children are the pillar of any reign.”
He’s acting as though it’s never been done. Sure, it’s been centuries, but I’m not entirely insane to suggest it. The Spring Court once had two queens—they’re more open to such matters than we are.
