Page 1 of The Beast King's Bride

1

ASH

Behind the steep mountains that bord the kingdom of Kyrene, on the centermost of the seven hills of its capital, inside King Pryam’s palace, through the grand portcullis, the great halls, the plush rooms and the royal chambers, down the dim stairs that led to the cellars and kitchens, on a filthy bench… there I sit, peeling turnips and carrots for a soup.

My name is Elayne Isabel de Calesterna and I’m the daughter of the king’s youngest daughter, Milena, and a merchant lord, Claudius.

At least according to some stories.

Royal blood runs through my veins. I could have been named a princess, stand in line to inherit the throne one day. But things don’t always happen the way you expect. And it’s the other stories that caused my mother to fall sick and die when I was just a babe in the cradle.

Stories. I throw the peeled turnip into the bowl and pick another. I hate stories. They have too much power over our lives.

“Ash, are you done with them veggies?” the cook shouts from the kitchen next door where she’s been ordering about two maids and cursing their whole progeny since way before drawn. It’s the reason I sat outside, in the hallway, away from her sharp tongue and even sharper stick. “Or should I come tan your hide?”

“Almost done!” I shout back. “Be right there.”

“You’d better!”

My name is Elayne but they call me Ash. Some say it’s because I spend my life sitting in the ashes of the kitchen hearth. Some say it’s because of the pale gray of my eyes, a sure sign that I’m a changeling or worse.

More stories.

More lies.

Everyone has a sad tale to tell out in the world—of loved ones dying, of hard times coming on their house or village, of illnesses and wounds caused by mischievous fairies escaping through our borders with Faerieland, the land of the Fae; relatives struck down with fae-shot, their milk curdling and their children taken away to be replaced by sickly effigies.

Only here, at the palace, is it a crime to have a mother who died young and an absent father, and eyes unlike those of any other person around. Only here is it a crime to have a sad tale to tell. Sad is not tolerated. Sad is boring. Instead, it all has to be made dramatic by casting the blame on those who might have loved you, and on you.

I’m to blame for the accidents of my birth, it seems.

Sins of our fathers and all that.

Our mothers, too.

Grabbing the full basin of peeled roots, I carry it into the hazy kitchen, my eyes watering instantly from the smoke. “Is the chimney blocked again?”

“Those damned crows keep building their nest up there,” the cook mutters, nodding for me to place the basin beside her on a bench. “Warm and cozy.”

“Who can blame them?” I turn to go.

“You like those damn birds too much. To be expected, I supposed, from the likes of you.” She sniffs. “Go and fetch water to wash the stairs. We’re starting the preparations for the ball and won’t have anyone slipping with the platters.”

Yes, I like crows and ravens. I like animals in general. They’re not judgmental and wicked and have no tales to tell. They’re the perfect company to keep.

But I just go out and grab the buckets to bring water from the covered well in the yard. The stairs are slippery with fat drops and filth, it’s true, so I make my careful way down and step outside into the wintry chill of the early morning.

A ball.

They already had one at the end of summer to celebrate the equinox. For all the talk about hating the Fae and blaming them for everything, we humans sure kept a lot of their festivals and songs and dances. Even their fashion in clothing, although by now the Fae must have changed theirs completely.

Perhaps.

In the tales of old, they appear as a conservative people, keeping ancient traditions and rituals alive, using old magic to erect palaces and castles, to cure or end lives. I mull over that as I trudge down the worn flagstone path to the well, an old structure, a stone arch built over it to protect it from the elements, overgrown with ivy and wild roses. The Greater Fae haven’t been seen around human lands in a long while. Lesser Fae have been slipping through the gates, like I said, causing mischief and sometimes real trouble, like when the goats of old Merry’s farm were set loose and ran into a ravine. I overheard him tell the tale to the king, asking for compensation and revenge, from where I was hidden in the awnings above the throne room.

But generally, these are small fairies who just want some fun. Pranksters. Harmless but better to avoid. And—

“Going somewhere?” The voice startles me so badly I drop the buckets to the ground and almost go down with them. A strong hand grabs me by the elbow and keeps me on my feet. “Whoa. Careful.”

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