Page 50 of Winter Queen
He nods. “Good idea. I’ll let the others know. They’re all prepared, by the way. Just let them know when you think is a good time for them to leave. We should make sure that they’re seen first though, just in case there are spies.”
“Yes, definitely. Where are they?”
“Right behind you,” Storm’s deep voice says. I turn and there they are, my other three Guardians, standing behind me, their arms crossed protectively.
“Please, can you look a little less intimidating?” I ask him, although I kind of like the stern look on him. “You’re supposed to mingle with the crowds and be friendly, not look like you’re about to rip off heads.”
“I hate mingling,” Arc complains. “People cannae understand my accent.”
“Stop the excuses. Your accent is charming. Use it on the ladies.”
It hurts a little to say that. I don’t want him talking to other women. I want him all for myself. But this is politics, and important. If he can charm a female Guardian to divulge secrets about her God to him, then it’s worth the pangs of jealousy in my chest.
“What we really need to know is who is willing to support us when the worst happens. Who will stand against us. And who won’t get involved at all. Then we need to know about their forces. How strong are their armies? How strong is their magic? Will they be assets or not worth our trouble?”
They already know all that but I’m repeating it for my own sake as well. If I’m going to suffer in a dress amongst posh and dramatic Gods, then it needs to have a good reason.
“Spoken like a true monarch,” Crispin whispers approvingly. “Now eat something, you don’t want to look like you’re scheming.”
I look down at the plate that’s appeared before me. It has some of my favourite dishes on it, both from the Realm and from Earth. I’m too nervous to eat much, but I get Crispin’s reasoning. I need to pretend to enjoy this, even though I could think of a thousand places I’d rather be.
While my father is rotting in the Morrigan’s dungeon, I’m throwing a ball. How pathetic.
I nibble on a piece of Yorkshire pudding – it’s delicious – and watch the Gods and Goddesses below. Some are completely focussed on their food, shovelling it into their mouths, others are talking to each other, while others still are fondling their Guardians. I turn away in embarrassment. It’s a different world for sure.
This kind of hedonism really isn’t for me. I wish Beira was here with me to take away some of the pressure, but she’s in bed, sleeping. Crispin checked on her just before he came here and told me that there’s been no change in her condition. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.
Someone is approaching the dais, a very blond, no, very golden God. His hair is like pure shimmery gold, as is his skin, and his robes. I’ve never seen anyone so radiant. His face looks strangely chiselled, without any smooth lines at all.
When he’s reached my table, he lifts his head, showing me his amber eyes. There are golden swirls in them, beautiful and hypnotising.
“Apollo,” Crispin whispers into my ear.
My eyes widen. Finally, a God I’ve heard of. He’s as stunning as I would have expected. I think back to the Apollo statues I’ve seen on Earth. There, he usually wears a laurel crown, but not here. Yet another human invention, or does he only wear that for special occasions?
He gives me a short bow, more of a nod of his head rather than a full genuflect.
“My lady, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
I get up, not wanting to have to look up to him.
“The pleasure is mine. You’re famous, even on Earth. I grew up with stories about you, so I’ll be interested to see how many of them are real.”
I was intending to flatter him, but the last sentence came out a little wrong. Like I’m doubting the stories about him. Which I am, but he doesn’t need to know that. I’m disillusioned about all the legends I heard on Earth. Only a tiny percentage of them are true, and more often than not, the Gods are the opposite of what I thought they’d be.
Apollo chuckles. “I always enjoy hearing stories about me. I have several Guardians based on Earth to supply me with the latest rumours. There aren’t as many of them now as there were two thousand years ago, of course, but they’re still rather entertaining.”
He gives me a wide smile and I decide that he might be a good person… ehm, God… to get to know.
“I’ll go mingle,” Crispin says quietly and gets up, leaving his place empty for Apollo to take.
The God doesn’t wait for me to invite him to sit down next to me. A strong scent of vanilla and elderflowers fills my nose when he takes his place. It’s an alluring smell and I instinctively lean closer to him.
“Thanks for coming,” I tell him, my mind going blank once again. “Did you have to travel far?”
He laughs as if I made the joke of the century.
“Are you seriously making small talk with the God of Poetry?”
