I scrub my palm over my face. “All of this”—I gesture to her, then myself— “it was all a setup. A trap to trick me into revealing the location of the fae’s hideout and to lure Briar’s dragon here so she could reach it.”
There is much to resolve between us, but my wife pales with understanding of the enormity of this moment.
“War is coming,” Elinor whispers. “Isanthia will fall.”
Wordlessly, I confirm her suspicions.
“Good riddance.” My father coughs violently. “Never cared for witches or dragons. Or Isanthians, for that matter.”
Killian shoots my sire a dark glare. The king is too busy collapsing to notice. Elinor rushes to his side, her veil spattered with blood as he’s racked by another fit of coughing. The remaining crowd gasps in unison.
“Help me move him.” I gesture to Killian, who obeys my command as if our relationship had never fractured. I could probably have lifted my father alone, but he’s more comfortable being carried by the two of us. As comfortable as can be, at any rate.
Another catastrophe of a wedding. I can but pray that my reign won’t be as plagued as my nuptials have been.
* * *
Elinor
I trailafter Alistair and Killian carrying the King of Belterre, each man holding one leg and his arms looped around their shoulders. They’re strong men, and I have to hasten to keep up with them despite their burden. Together, they lay him gently onto his bed.
The king’s rheumy eyes dart to me.
“You be sure to give him lots of heirs,” he says. My fingers, which have been playing absently with the hem of my veil, go quiet. Flecks of blood mar the pristine white.
I have no response to the king’s dying wish. Alistair bends over his father, haggard and stone-faced. I have the strangest temptation to run my fingers through his hair.
He tricked me. We’re not doing affectionate gestures right now, Ellie.
Yet the grief pinching the corners of his eyes gives me pause. My husband’s father is dying. He is about to become King of Belterre as a war descends upon the land, and all I can think about is my own pain?
I’m better than that.
Aren’t I?
The king stretches out one trembling hand to me. “Come closer.”
Obediently, I do.
He pulls me down to whisper with labored breath. “Tell my son…I am proud…of him.”
With a final, painful wheeze, he collapses onto the bed, unmoving. Alistair’s throat works.
“Awkward timing,” Killian says, holding out his hand. The prince—now, king—clasps it over his father’s corpse. “I’m sorry.”
“He was holding out to see me married.” Alistair’s voice contains so much grief I can hardly bear it. “I suppose that’s part of why I put it off for so long. I didn’t want to lose him. He was a bastard in most ways, but he was my only family.”
His eyes find mine.
I drop my gaze to the floor. We are a family now, for better and for worse. Our marriage will be tested by war, by distrust. But it can be whatever we make of it.
But first, we have to clear the air.
I make my way over to him and take Alistair’s hands, dragging him into a corner. “I hate that you tricked me into going through with the wedding. I hate that you lied to my face.”
“I’d do it all over again, if it meant keeping you.” He swallows visibly. “I would burn down the world for you, Elinor.”
“I know you would. You’re a liar who will resort to the most underhanded tactics imaginable to get what you want.”
