Page 82 of Amidst the Insidious Courts
Unfortunately, he’s not content to be dismissed. He moves to stand on the far side of Aiyana’s throne, looks over again, and then turns rigid when his eyes land on my Guard.
“Nicnevin, surely it would be better if the under fae were outside the royal box.”
I look up in disbelief as Danu’s ire prickles at the edges of my awareness. Bree is obviously a púca, and calling him ‘under fae’ simply adds extra insult to the suggestion that he’s not worthy to stand in the royal box.
“Bree is my Guard.” My tone broaches no further discussion.
He isn’t listening. “Of course, the high priestess is expected to be by your side.” He delivers the words with incredible magnanimity. “But it would give the other under fae ideas above their station if he were to remain.”
Bree is already moving, ready to depart without protest. My arm snaps out, stopping him in his tracks.
My stomach churns as I level my best death glare at the priest. “Leave.”
How dare he?
His genial smile creases into a frown. “Pardon, your—”
“I would rather have a hundred under fae in this box with me than suffer your presence a second longer. Leave.”
Mervyn looks to Aiyana, as if she might save him from being dismissed, but the queen simply shrugs, red lips curling into a smile as she ignores the aghast cleric and focuses back on the dusty pit below.
“Ah, look, the trial is about to start.”
Her comment snaps my head around in time to see the dancers giving their final bow. The sweet and sensual pipe music gives way to the sombre beat of a lone drum as they flit from the arena in a flurry of soft fabric and smiles. The crowd, who were muttering amongst themselves, grow quiet at the promise of the blood they came for.
Drystan has gripped Mervyn’s upper arm and is in the process of escorting him bodily from the box, but I can’t hear the priest’s protests over the pounding of my heart as Jaro takes his first strides out onto the sand. His armour gleams in the pale rays of the morning sun, every inch of him a seelie knight.
His confidence is an easy thing, a cloak borne of decades of training that fits him so perfectly.
Jaro is a warrior. He knows what he’s doing. He’s immortal.
My churning gut settles, then erupts into butterflies as he reaches the centre of the arena and bows before me, his eyes flicking wolf amber for a fraction of a second.
Aiyana stands from her throne, approaching the edge of the box with measured steps. “Are you ready to face your trial, Sir Jaromir?”
He nods, untucking his helm from under his arm and sliding on in a single practised move. Across the arena, one of the many gates groans as it’s winched open, and the crowd leans forward, craning their necks to catch sight of who—or what—Aiyana has chosen to face my Guard.
That drumbeat echoes ominously, and anticipation digs its claws into my chest.
No one expects the two figures that emerge.
They’re children—twin boys no older than twelve summers—dressed in simple, neat clothes, and completely defenceless. They stare around the arena with wide, hesitant eyes as they walk across the sand towards Jaro. Someone has lovingly braided their hair into neat warrior braids, and their rangy limbs move with the awkwardness that comes with adolescent growth spurts.
What is Aiyana playing at?
Twenty-Five
Jaromir
At first, I think it’s a trick. There are beasts in Faerie who take the appearance of helpless and vulnerable fae to lure their prey to them before striking. The closer they come, the more I tense, ready for the inevitable attack.
It doesn’t happen.
When they’re finally close enough for my wolf to pick out their scents over the hundreds of others surrounding us, I grimace.
Fae.
There are very few things powerful enough to fool a shifter’s nose. Which means Aiyana really has put two children on a battlefield in some sick and twisted ploy to force my surrender.
