King Rhys looked across the assemblage with a mild, content smile on his face, like this was exactly the way the world ought to be. The false Queen looked at me, and only me, and her eyes burned with hatred. She’d destroy me, if she could, and nothing I or anyone else could say was going to make her stop wanting my head on a platter.
On the plus side, I could probably make her want it more, if I was willing to really work. It’s always nice to have goals.
The King’s smile broadened when he saw me standing there in my Court finery. He didn’t say anything. He just sank down onto his own seat. The false Queen sat a few seconds later, gracefully settling herself beside him. Then, and only then, did the rest of the nobles retake their seats, doing it with an ease that told me this was the normal way of things around here. The servants began circulating faster, getting food onto empty plates and pouring liquid into empty glasses.
I was at the end of our bench, putting Tybalt between me and the nobility of Silences. I was grateful for that, and still trying to regain my equilibrium, when a familiar smell assaulted my nostrils. I reeled, barely grabbing the table in time to keep myself from falling off the bench. Tybalt’s hand clamped down on my leg, adding additional stability, even as it served as a warning of a sort. He was telling me not to react.
He could have skipped it. I was so shocked by what was happening that I couldn’t have reacted if I’d wanted to—not beyond slowly turning my head and staring at the man on the other side of Tybalt, who was picking up a crystal mimosa flute filled with dark purple, almost black juice. He sniffed it appreciatively before taking a long sip and extending it back out toward the changeling server, who dutifully topped off the glass from the pitcher she was holding. She wasn’t wearing a mask over her mouth and nose, and her eyes were filled with a clutching, clawing need.
I understood how she felt. For changelings, just the smell of goblin fruit was enough to awaken an undying hunger that would gnaw at our bones until it was fulfilled. Even with Tybalt between me and the man who held the glass, it was all I could do to stop myself from reaching over and snatching it out of his hand, claiming it as my own. For the girl holding the pitcher, the temptation must have been unbearable.
Pulling my eyes away from the flute of goblin fruit juice, I forced myself to study the servant. She was thin, yes, but not so thin that I suspected her of starving herself. She’d been able to resist temptation, at least so far. I didn’t dare try to breathe in her heritage with the goblin fruit so close. Going by the shape of her chin and the dark green color of her pupils, I guessed she was half Hamadryad, which might explain her resistance. Hamadryads were always better at avoiding poisons than the rest of us.
But the entire kitchen couldn’t be staffed by Hamadryads, and there was no way a King who would make his serving girls pour goblin fruit would send a pureblood into the servants’ quarters to make juice. My shock and anger hardened into a lump that nearly choked me. I swung my head around to the king. I’m not sure what I expected to see there.
I certainly didn’t expect to find the former Queen smirking at me, a triumphant expression on her thin, pale face. She had been watching me the whole time.
The serving girl with the goblin fruit moved on, replaced by other servants, with less dangerous offerings. It would have been an insult to refuse to eat, and so I allowed one of them to place a slice of quiche and a pile of potatoes on my plate—the simplest things on offer, even if the quiche was studded with flecks of rosemary and marbled with veins of rich white cheese, even if the potatoes had been cooked in what smelled like lamb fat and garlic. My own glass was filled with orange juice, pale and bright and obviously untainted by goblin fruit. I sprinkled a pinch of Walther’s powder over the plate, and added another to my glass, before handing the vial to Tybalt.
The old Queen was watching me like a hawk this entire time. As soon as the vial left my hand, she pounced, demanding, “Is the food not refined enough to your liking, Sir Daye? Shall we have the chefs whipped for disappointing you?”
“Far from it,” I said, raising my head. My voice was calm, but my eyes screamed hatred at the woman on the dais, the woman who had nearly destroyed me so many times. She just wouldn’t stop. “I grew up in the mortal world, you see, and so my palette is less refined than it might be. A little bit of salt goes a long way toward keeping me from completely embarrassing myself. My alchemist mixes it for me personally.” Which meant I was admitting the “salt” was a protection against poisoning, and daring Rhys to say anything about it.
He didn’t. “What of your companion, the King?” King Rhys’ tone was milder than the old Queen’s; he was still amused by what he saw as my useless antics, while she recognized me for the threat I had become. I had to give her that, at least: maybe it had taken me having her deposed, but at least she’d learned to be afraid of me. “He seems bent on adding the same seasoning to his food. It’s difficult not to view this as an insult to my kitchens—unless you’d prefer it be viewed as a failure on their part.”
“I simply tailor my tastes to the tastes of my betrothed, because I have to eat her cooking,” said Tybalt, tone mild and faintly resigned, like being forced to let me feed him was the worst of all possible fates. Some of the surrounding nobles chuckled.
I punched him lightly in the arm, doing my best to look offended, when all I really felt was relief that he’d followed my lead. More of the nobles laughed, more openly now. Even Rhys smiled, although the expression remained calculating enough to make my stomach churn.
“The course of true love never did run smooth,” he said. “I shall have to prepare a special banquet just for you, that we might sit together as Kings and speak of kingly things without the needs of our domestic lives intruding upon our statures.”
Then, just in case that didn’t make his point clearly enough, he turned, took the old Queen’s hand, and pressed a kiss just above her knuckles.
Bile rose in my stomach, followed quickly by cold, chilling rage. This was all a ploy, a play they were performing with themselves cast in the leading roles. The unfairly dethroned Queen goes to her beloved, the ruler of a neighboring kingdom, who was unable to be with her because it would have been a conflict of interests. Now he was willing to sacrifice his happiness all over again, for the sake of putting her back in her rightful place. It was an elegant, epic love story, worthy of any stage, and that didn’t change the fact that the whole thing was bullshit. They were trying to sell a fairy tale. I wasn’t buying.
“Please, eat,” said Rhys, releasing the false Queen’s hand. “There will be time enough for politics later, when you’re ready.”
Nice. He was putting the weakness back on us, implying that our journey from the Mists had left us too exhausted to start doing what we’d come here for. In some ways, he was right. Having more time to learn the lay of the land could only help, and it wasn’t like we had any real secrets—with the false Queen beside him, he could learn basically everything about us without trying. She knew May was a pureblood in changeling’s clothes; she knew Tybalt would die before he’d hurt me again. About the only thing she didn’t know was that Quentin was Crown Prince of the Westlands, and that wasn’t something I was going to bring up for any reason. He needed to be protected from people like her, and the so-called King of Silences.
The quiche was excellent, sweet and creamy, with just a hint of peppery zing. I barely tasted it as I shoveled food mechanically into my mouth, watching the dais all the while.