Page 26 of The Beast King's Bride

The king dismounts last, and instead of jumping off the horse as he’d done the previous day, he slowly slides to the ground. He snarls something at the stable boy who comes to help him and Embar is led away.

My line to freedom, gone. My way, blocked.

Pressing my lips together, I stand there and wait for the king to order me taken back to my room, locked up to wait on his pleasure.

But he only turns away and heads inside the palace with his guards, his braid lashing against his broad back. He leaves me standing there in my cape and boots, so obviously set on getting out of here.

Leaving me to feel like a fool for even trying.

“This isn’t over,” I mutter as I trail after him, unwilling to go back the way I came and lose myself in the maze of corridors again. I pass under a high arch and look to see where the horses were taken but they have already vanished through some passage.

Annoyed I missed it, vowing to find the stables afterward, I fall in step behind the guards. Pushing the boundaries, waiting to see when I will be stopped.

We enter another long gallery, this one bedecked in framed landscapes all the way up to the ceiling, and after that another, lined with paintings depicting scenes of war.

Finally, we enter the throne room. I assume it is the throne room since there are two thrones at the very end. They are seemingly cut from the same glass-like, blue-black stone that the palace and the town are carved out of, massive affairs, without cushions or anything to make them comfortable.

There are also more columns—the Fae seem to like them even more than humans do—lining the room, dark blue of course, the same material as everything around here, hung with golden shapes and symbols.

The king strides down the middle of the room, still dressed in his leathers. He grabs his crown from a maid—a line of maids is standing in line on the side—and without changing clothes or expression, he sits down on the left-most throne.

A trumpet sounds—or maybe a horn, I think, still crossing the hall to approach the throne. A horn, yes. Four Fae, holding white, curved horns have come to stand by the thrones. They blow once more, the sound deep and melancholy, much less strident than the trumpets in the palace in Kyrene.

“Order of affairs!” the king barks, his rich voice vibrating inside the great hall. “Seneschal!”

An older Fae comes to bow in front of him. “Majesty,” he says in a low, grating voice. “We have a few farmers who have come to apply for your aid for their failing crops, a dispute of borders, and…” He leans closer to the king and whispers something that has his handsome face tightening in what looks like anger.

“Bring in the plaintiffs,” he says and waves a hand at the guards who hurry to the door and lead inside a small crowd of Fae.

Suddenly the palace is teeming with life. Where had all these Fae hidden the night before—and why was nobody in the wing of the palace where I stayed?

Nobody seems to be paying me any attention so I lean against a pillar, folding my arms under my breasts, not sure why I haven’t left to look for the stables yet. Seeing so many Fae has staggered me a little, and I admit… I’m curious to see how this cruel king will handle his subjects and his kingdom’s affairs.

I don’t care about him, of course. About knowing more about him, I mean. Taking me is proof enough of his character.

But still, I stay as the Fae are brought forward one by one to state their cases and make their complaints and requests. Another familiar scene from when I was little and I hid under chairs and behind curtains to watch the proceedings in the throne room, back when I thought that my grandfather and grandmother cared for me.

I harrumph to myself.

The king lounges, hands resting on the massive blue-glass arm rests. The crown glows on his brow but he doesn’t need it to look regal, I think, even dressed in riding clothes. With those wide shoulders, that handsome face and fearsome horns, he commands attention.

I tear my gaze away from him anyway, to prove to myself that I can, focusing instead on the new case presented—more crops failing, more animals dying. The Decay, the farmer calls it, and it’s strange to hear such familiar plights from a slender, pointed-eared Fae dressed in yellow and orange britches and tunic, turning a conical hat in his hands.

The king instructs his seneschal to give the farmer some gold, and the seneschal produces a small bag of coins from somewhere about his person and offers it. The farmer bows and gives thanks and blessings until the guards come to lead him away.

Funny to think that despite their differences, our worlds have so much in common—from war to art and awkward ceremony.

Who would have thought?

But that’s where the similarities end, I think decidedly, and it’s time for me to go, while they are all distracted, go find the horses and make good on my escape.

Just as I push off the pillar to go, there is a small commotion at the entrance of the throne room. The king gestures and two guards come to drag me away. I fight them but one has slapped a hand over my mouth to keep me quiet. They haul me into another room and close the door.

They leave, locking the door behind them. It’s a kind of study with a large, carved desk and chair and cabinets with rolled-up documents and various wooden boxes placed on low tables.

Why did the king order me away all of a sudden? Did it have to do with the commotion or did he sense I was about to run again?

Restless, annoyed at myself for having lingered—for what, to see him dispense gold to buy his people’s love?—and having missed the chance to go, I pace the room. I can’t afford distractions, can’t afford to waste any more time. They say time flows differently in Faerieland so if I ever want to see Pete again…

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