According to The Mabinogion, the Goreu who was Custennin’s son had traveled with King Arthur and his knights, eventually returning to his home and killing the giant, his uncle. He was a hero—unless I’d gotten the story wrong, because the Goreu in this room didn’t look at all like a hero.
When the unheroic fae arrived at Margaret’s side of the table, she reached out and grasped his wrist. As soon as she touched it, a thin red line began drawing itself across the plain silver of Goreu’s bracelet. It began slowly, then, as Goreu breathed in quick pants, moved more and more quickly, drawing glyphs that became part of more complex patterns until the bracelet was nearly solid red.
Margaret sat back in her chair, took the bracelet off her wrist and caught the other as it fell off Goreu. She tossed both of them to Zee.
It broke the effect of the light glamour we’d all been wearing. Goreu scrambled backward off the table, half falling in his effort to get away—not from Margaret, but from Zee. The middle-aged woman dropped her file, and the Widow Queen froze.
Uncle Mike smiled—and so did Beauclaire. Nemane kept her relaxed pose, but then she’d known who was in the room the whole time.
I glanced over at Zee, who had his happy face on again. It was just . . . wrong to see a happy face on Zee.
“Hello, Goreu,” Zee said. “Interesting to see you once more. I’m sure we’ll meet under different circumstances. I’m looking forward to it.” He looked at the Widow Queen. “But not as much as I’m looking forward to some other meetings. You look more pale than you did the last time I saw you, Neuth,” he said. He looked at the middle-aged woman, who was frozen in her seat, and his smile grew brighter. He said nothing at all to her.
The Widow Queen, I knew, hadn’t been one of the fae who’d tortured Zee. I thought that Goreu was in the clear, too—though they were not allies. Goreu was afraid of Zee, but there hadn’t been any particular maliciousness in Zee’s voice when he addressed him. The middle-aged-looking woman was a dead fae walking.
“We came to provide protection to Margaret and her guard, who were traveling through our territory,” said my husband, breaking into Zee’s moment with a conversational tone. “We thought we’d use this opportunity to express our sadness at the death of the troll yesterday. Please do not send fae who put the citizens of our home at risk. We do not enjoy killing for the sake of killing.”
Adam’s sense of timing is superb. The Gray Lords, even the ones who had nothing to fear from Zee, were so caught up in that drama they had trouble shifting gears to Adam. Their distraction let Adam hold the floor.
“We’d also like to inform you that we are unimpressed with threats. Some of your people”—he looked over the fae at the table, except for the Widow Queen—“composed a letter and put it on the door of my ex-wife’s home. Please see to it that it doesn’t happen again.” He took in a breath, and when he continued, it was in a very soft voice. “We do not want a war with you. But we will not stand by and see our friends captured and tortured. We will not allow you to harm those under our protection. You should know that the fire-touched boy is ours. We will go to war if you force us to it. And if we go to war, it will not stay localized, it will not stay between your people and ours, because our human citizens will fight beside us.”
Zee tossed the bracelets up in the air and caught them, one in each hand, and closed his fists. Air left my lungs, driven by the magic he called. His hands glowed with a white light that was so bright I had to turn my face away. I fought to breathe, fought to stay on my feet—and it was gone.
Zee dropped two blackened chunks of metal on the table. “Those,” he said, “were an abomination.”
“How is it,” murmured Beauclaire, “that you are not on our Council? That you are not a Gray Lord?”
“No one asked me,” said Zee.
“Join us,” said Nemane.
Zee smiled at the Gray Lord who sat on the far side of the Widow Queen, the one in the salmon-colored suit. She swallowed noisily.
“Not today,” Zee said, his voice a purr of menace. “I have a few scores to settle, and I take too much pleasure in the planning to hurry. I’m swamped.”
“‘I’ve got my country’s five hundredth anniversary to plan, my wedding to arrange, my wife to murder, and Guilder to frame for it,’” I murmured very quietly. I wasn’t sure that Zee was quoting the movie, but he sounded so much like Prince Humperdinck, I couldn’t help myself. Either Adam was the only one who heard me, or no one else appreciated The Princess Bride.
“So,” said Margaret, pushing herself back from the table. “You have my answer.” This time she let Thomas help her to her feet and hand her the crutches. “Not that it hasn’t been interesting. But you’ll understand that if you want to discuss anything with me, you’ll have to do it long-distance.”
She made good time out of the room, and we followed her. As soon as I shut the conference-room door, Thomas picked Margaret up in his arms. I took the crutches—as the least able fighter, I could most easily be spared to carry things. And the crutches would make pretty good weapons if I needed them.
The bride and her entourage were gone when we got back to the lobby. One of the hotel people saw us get out of the elevator and, upon seeing Margaret in Thomas’s arms, hurried over.
“Is there anything I can do?” he asked.
“No,” Margaret said with a charming smile. “Thomas was either worried that I’ve tired myself out, or just wanted to get out to the car sometime in the next hour or so.” Her tone told him not to take her seriously, and he smiled appreciatively before he got a good look at Thomas’s unamused face.
“Don’t mind him,” Margaret said. “He worries too much.”
“We have a wheelchair,” the young man offered.
“Thank you,” said Thomas, bowing a little despite his burden, though he kept walking in the direction of the exit. “This is not the first time I’ve carried her out to the car. She pushes herself too hard, even though I’ve explained that when she does that, she only slows down the healing process.”
The hotel employee looked worried.
“I should recover fully,” Margaret told him. “Given time. It’s just a lot of boring therapy between now and then. Tonight I really am fine, just a little tired.”
He escorted us out to the front entrance, offered to drive the car up, and when his help was refused, held the door open for us to leave.
We’d gotten halfway across the dark parking lot when Adam murmured, “Someone is watching us. I can feel it on the back of my neck.”
I bent down to tie my shoe and took the opportunity to scan the parking lot behind us. “The nice guy who escorted us out is still watching us. Is that it?”
“She affects a lot of people that way,” said Thomas, as Margaret waved at our observer over his shoulder.
“It’s the tragedy,” said Margaret cheerfully. “Some people can’t stop themselves from wanting to help. It’s a compulsion.” The man waved hesitantly back and left the doorway for the depths of the hotel, presumably to do his job.
“That’s not it,” said Adam in a low voice. “Let’s get to the cars.”
“I don’t scent anyone,” I said after finishing with my shoe. “But I’m with you. There’s someone.”
“They’re around,” agreed Thomas.
Margaret leaned her head against him. “This would be a perfect time for an ambush,” she said, sounding delighted. “Maybe there’s a troll or ogre around.”
“How about a witch?” asked a woman’s voice.
As soon as she spoke, I saw her, a young, muscular woman wearing a summer dress with brown army boots, walking beside Margaret and Thomas as if she’d been beside us all along.