Page 12 of The Beast King's Bride

4

ASH

“A tithe.” King Pryam sinks on his throne, rubbing a hand over his chin. “We don’t pay tithe to the Fae kings anymore. Not since the Last War.”

The ballroom is abuzz. As the spell abates more, everyone steps forward, toward the dais, for a better view of the unfolding drama.

“The law has not been abolished,” the Fae says. He’s standing, legs apart, head thrown back a little. Disdainful. Implacable. “We have been lenient, is all.”

“And now, what? You’ll come back every year and ask for your tithe, all you kings of the Fae? How many are there of you, anyway?”

“This isn’t a geography lesson,” the Fae growls.

“We won the war,” King Pryam says.

“No, you didn’t. The worlds were sundered. That was what saved you, not your own bravery.”

“That is what you say. And the how doesn’t matter. What matters is the outcome.”

“Such a human, narrow perspective,” the Fae says. “Anything to reach your goals. Like siding with the Empress to cause the sundering and win an unjust victory.”

The Empress?

“This is nonsense.” The king waves a hand at him. “Now leave. Your kind is not welcome here.”

“Oh, I know. But I will not leave without my tithe.”

“This is becoming bothersome,” King Pryam says. “Guards!”

“Maybe we should listen to what he wants,” the queen says, laying a hand on her husband’s arm.

“No.” The king is glaring at the Fae. “You’re not getting anything from us.”

The Fae takes a deliberate step toward the thrones. “If you don’t give me what I seek, I will take it by force, be certain of it.”

“Are you threatening us? In our own palace? Guards, I said! Put him in chains.”

Gasps echo around me. Everyone knows the Fae are vicious and dangerous, their magic wild and murderous. What if he lashes out at all of us?

“They should give him what he wants,” Blanche whispers, fidgeting with her fan. “Give it to him, let him go, and lock the gates after him.”

The guards approach him, reach for him—and he explodes into motion, drawing his knives, swiping them around in silver arcs, cutting through the guards. One falls, the other falls back as more guards run to join them, pointing at the Fae with their spears.

“Surrender now,” one of them says, “by order of the king!”

“You should bow to me.” The Fae bares sharp teeth, knives held out, gleaming. “Before I cut you down.”

“Take him!” King Pryam roars and the guards scramble to grab the Fae.

They fail.

He’s fighting like a whirlwind, silver knives flashing like stars. He shoves and slashes and kicks and hits them with every part of his body, so fast he seems like a blur. The guards fall one after another, a groaning mass heaping on the floor around him.

When the last guard is down, the Fae straightens. “My tithe,” he says, “and I will be on my way.”

But more guards are arriving, probably those guarding the doors.

“You will not get away with this,” the king says, hands curling into fists on the armrests of the throne. “Take him!”

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