“Dramatic bitch,” Maeve mutters. “Don’t worry about the last thing. It’s just her court motto, not a threat.”
Great. Do all the courts have mottos that sound like threats?
I grimace, waving Lore out of the way of the next, and final, ambassador.
“Nicnevin.” The winter fae male bows, then looks over my shoulder at Drystan. “Lad.”
I study him, frowning. “You’re not Lord Olvin.” I was told to expect a bald high fae with a penchant for long-winded and dry recollections of his own battle prowess two eras prior, but the male in front of me has long dark locks and a slightly manic glint to his angular eyes.
“Prince Ashton,” he offers. “Brother of my esteemed King Cedwyn, who wanted a first-hand account of your coronation and the whereabouts of our bastard lordling.”
I frown, but Drystan is there, putting himself between me and Ashton, hand resting on his sword.
“You would do well to remember your language in front of your Nicnevin,” Drystan grinds out. “Offer her your allegiance, then leave.”
Prince Ashton. The one who cut off Drystan’s hand.That’swhy the name is familiar.
Hissing, I jerk to my feet, placing my free hand on Drystan’s shoulder. My Guard stiffens, but he lets me move him to one side without much effort.
“You took my Guard’s hand,” I whisper angrily, meeting the dark eyes of the male in front of me. “And yet your king—yourbrother—sent you here, anyway?”
“Perhaps he thought you’d appreciate my charming personality,” Ashton deadpans.
I’d have to be very stupid not to see this for the test that it is. Cedwyn must have heard about the mess I made in Siabetha when Bree was harmed, and the fae I executed when they cornered him. Surely, any sensible person would consider sending Ashton here a death sentence.
The only issue is, I have no idea why I’m being tested. Is the Winter King trying to get me to display my powers? Or is he testing my restraint? Maybe he simply dislikes his brother…
Eero was playing games with the sign, though his ambassador was clearly not in on it. This new plot is making my head hurt. Amidst it all, some primal instinct is calling for the blood of any who would hurt my Guard. Raging against the sane part of me that knows killing a prince is not just bad form, but probably cause for civil war.
Killing might be out,an insidious part of my mind whispers,but maiming? Surely that’s just fair play.
Maeve moves close against my back, sensing my intention, and places her hand on my shoulder.
“Give me your hand,” I say, surprised at the cold calmness in my voice.
I’m on the edge of a knife, but my hand is steady as I hold it out for his.
Ashton goes very still, but does as I ask.
The instant his palm meets mine, I grasp his fingers.
“The next time you harm my mate,” I promise. “Danu will not let me be so lenient.”
Without giving him a chance to draw away, I draw on the Goddess’s power and Maeve’s at the same time.
Then I clench my fist. Hard.
To his credit, Ashton makes no sound as my grip shatters every bone in his hand. He doesn’t even look away until I release him and let go of my connection to Danu. The rest of the ball is still going on, oblivious to the drama that’s unfolding around me. My gut clenches at the realisation that I’ve done it again—hurt someone using powers I don’t understand—but it’s a dull horror, made bearable by the knowledge that what I did was nothing in comparison to the pain Drystan suffered.
Still…
“There are healers who will tend that for you,” I comment, offering my hand out once more.
Drystan is giving me alook, but I brush it off as Ashton bends stiffly and kisses my knuckles.
I’m not sure, but I could swear that he mutters, “you should’ve just killed me,” as he turns away, cradling his hand.
Forty-Four