Page 19 of Atop the Faerie Throne
I look down at my lap, adjusting the loose robe to cover my bare thigh. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. I’ve wanted this for so long, and we’re doing it today.”
It’s been a week since Caed woke up, and while I recognise the logic in allowing him to recover from the nathair’s bite and preparing for war, it still feels like too long.
I want to be mated to them. I want my brother out of Elatha’s clutches. He’s been a prisoner for two weeks, and I’ve seen what that’s like.
Mating them is the final step in my insane plan. After this, all that’s left to do is unleash Caed and wait for his orders to compel him to take me again.
The dryad pauses, straightening her robes as she shoots me a knowing smile. “Good. I’d hoped you’d find your confidence while I was gone. Now, do you know what the ritual entails?”
She lowers herself to her knees, so that she’s on the opposite side of the low table in front of me, then begins to mix the sacred oils in a marble bowl.
I take a deep breath. “Yes. Though I wish I could wear clothes.”
It’s fractionally warmer inside the temple, but not by much. The thin robe I’m wearing isn’t helping, and even that will be taken from me soon.
Aside from Drystan’s necklace and Lore’s cap on my head, I’ll be completely nude for the ceremony. The tradition symbolises coming together without barriers or artifice. It also means that my mates will be able to choose exactly where they want to mark me. My fingers trace over the juncture between my neck and shoulder, remembering Jaro’s promise.
What will his mark look like? Butterflies erupt in my stomach all over again picturing it.
“It’s not for long,” Kitarni says, still focused on mixing the ingredients.
“I just hope the minor royals don’t complain that they weren’t invited.”
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want any of them here for this, but I’d rather not start another war.
“Some nobles will grumble, but this is far from unheard of.” The dryad puts down one bottle, then selects another. “Many mates complete the bond in the heat of the moment and then come to the temple for Danu’s blessing.”
“Jaro seemed the most upset that I might be missing out on a big ceremony.”
“Of course,” Kitarni says, adding herbs to the bowl next. “His wolf probably wants the entire realm to witness his claim.” She pauses, cocking her head to the side thoughtfully. “Not unlike redcaps, I suppose. Though, their public claiming is slightly more extreme.”
My mouth turns dry, and my lower belly clenches at the thought of Lore’s idea of a public claiming, but I say nothing. My nerves are high enough as it is without trying to pin down my feelings about that.
At least, the heavy, herbal scent of the incense does take the edge off.
An attendant knocks at the door, and Kitarni abandons her task to answer it. I can’t pay attention to their murmured conversation, because I’m too busy watching the scented oils and herbs swirl in the bowl before me.
Kitarni returns a second later, smiling. “They’re ready for you, but they can wait. Your dust, if you please?”
I nod, reaching back to my wings and collecting the violet sparkles in the palm of my hand before letting them fall lazily into the bowl.
Kitarni closes her eyes, holding her hands over the mixture as she whispers a blessing. When that’s done, she takes a small fat brush from beside it and carries both around to my side of the table.
“Lie down,” she instructs. “And remove your robe.”
Somewhere in the temple, the chimes seem to ring a little louder, adding to the incense and the sense of ritual, of purpose, which underlies everything.
My robe flutters to the ground, leaving me exposed, and I lie back, allowing the Dryad to crouch by my feet.
“Goddess bless your feet, that you may walk her sacred path together with your mates,” she begins, swiping the brush over the soles of my feet in a ticklish stroke that wiggles from my heels to my toes.
The brush dances across my shins, retreating to gather more oil before painting spirals over my kneecaps. The mixture seems to heat wherever it lands as Kitarni swirls patterns up my legs.
“Goddess bless your womb, that together you may share the mysteries of life and pleasure.”
She swirls and dips it against my navel, tracing a path up my belly and over both breasts.
“Goddess bless your heart, that you may treasure your bonds above all else.” Another swish across my sternum, the brush heading for my collarbone and down one arm, then the next. The bristles trace lulling circles over my open palms. “Goddess bless your hands, that they may hold your mates with care.”
