Page 152 of Atop the Faerie Throne
“It’s your mating ceremony,” Uther says, and I suppose, as a medium, it’s understandable that he’s the most put together of our group right now. “There will be a time to mourn, but it’s not today.”
No. It isn’t.
At the reminder, I pull myself up and offer them all a shaky grin. “I suppose we should get going.”
“Or we can always help you flee.” Dare offers me a trademark grin. “I could stick them all to the altar to give us a head start, if you want to torment them a little.”
Shaking my head, I laugh. “No. I want this.”
My Guard is my everything, and just the thought of them standing around the altar in the Temple makes butterflies take wing in my gut.
With that thought firmly in my mind, I take my first step towards where Wraith waits in front of the line of horses, then pause.
Those black mares have skeletal paint over their fur. Are they…?
“Your dullahan predicted that there would be a lot of spirits around,” Bram says, coming up behind me as he straightens the clothes that Florian brought for him. “He pulled some strings.”
And now my youngest brother can ride with us, when no normal horse would carry a spirit. My head spins a little as I realise that my Guard knew that my brothers were planning this.
I send a pulse of love down the bond to him as I mount Wraith, and I am rewarded with the same smugness that I’ve come to know so well.
My barghest isn’t really one for waiting, something he proves when he tries to start towards the Temple without my brothers. I rein him in slightly, petting his neck, as I try to ignore the necklace of ear-roses that he’s wearing.
Lore still hasn’t gotten over the disappointment of severed tits, and now he’s going through a phase of experimenting with other body parts.
The palace staff line the route, alongside what must be most of the knights of Elfhame. The gates to the inner city are open,and all kinds of fae have gathered to fill every available space, waving and calling out words that blend together into a raucous cheer.
“I think the people are happy to see a royal mating ceremony,” Dare says slyly.
“Whatever gave you that impression?” Florian mutters. “At least Jaromir’s knights are doing their jobs.”
“You said you trusted him to be knight commander,” I remind him.
“That was before I realised some of the Fomorians were going to demand to join the ranks. They’re fucking awful soldiers. Good warriors, but zero respect for authority.”
Chuckling, because Jaro has said the exact same thing after collapsing into bed at the end of a hard day, I wave at the crowd. The mass of people has only grown thicker now that the shadow of the Temple looms over us, and their cheers deafen me as I turn my attention to the collection of females by the steps.
“Are you ready?” Kitarni asks, helping me down from Wraith’s back with a smile.
The season is almost completely over, but there are still a handful of blossoms stubbornly clinging to her hair as she waves my brothers past us and into the Temple.
“Please, this is the Fifth Nicnevin,” Maeve says, leaning into my side as I extend the magic, making Bram solid to cover her and my other grandmothers as well. “She’s slain tunnel wyrms and single-handedly charmed Elatha into stripping naked and jumping into his poorly made portal.”
My cheeks flame red, as they always do at some of the more outlandish tales the bards have started spreading. For a people who can’t lie, the fae certainly have found some miraculous ways to embellish the truth.
“You look beautiful, dear heart,” Titania says, nudging Maeve out of the way and hugging me as well. “Now, you remember the words?”
“Like you won’t be mouthing them to her if she forgets,” Mab interrupts, offering me a rare one-armed hug as well. “Come on. They’re waiting for you. The Fomorian even managed to trick the redcap into brushing his hair.”
The three of them offer me one last hug each, then head for the narrow gap between the doors, beyond which my mates wait impatiently for my arrival.
Prae rolls her grey eyes, stepping forward to hand me my bouquet of pastel pink and violet roses that match my dress. “I should not be surprised that my cousin and that psychopath get along so well, but somehow…”
We exchange a knowing look, and my eyes dart up to the iridescent drake gold crown on her head. It’s delicate but lethal, the spiked design reminding me of blades.
It’s the second such crown made from Balor’s medallion. The original was bigger, but as soon as she found out Caed survived, Prae ordered it melted down and the metal split in two.
The other half is wrapped around my Fomorian’s bicep in a band shaped like a tunnel wyrm biting its tail, just beneath the flame-etched one I gave him for surviving Beltaine.
