“If the goddess wills it,” Stamel said, nodding sagely. He flagged down an attendant and took from them a writing board with a piece of parchment pinned down. On it was official letterhead from Liaberos and a transcribed blessing from Croatens. Seidrik craned his head to read it, but his position at the table limited his vantage point.
“Seems you’ve thought this out.” Alluin stared at the paper and squinted hard, head swaying.Very drunk.
“I have an admission to make, Alluin.” Stamel, on a first-name basis with his father, sighed. “I fear thatthe two of us are fated. I know the goddess will approve. His inability to sire a child may be on the goddess’s behalf, ensuring him to me. To unite our kingdoms.”
The piety was too much for Seidrik to believe, but Alluin bought the holy and imperious speech with a nod. “Honestly, it makes sense. We ask the goddess at dawn!”
Seidrik pushed the paper toward Alluin, and he sighed with a flourish and demanded his dessert be brought to him first.
And if the king had his sweets first, so did they. And fittingly, it was cake, a fluffy, white birch-syrup cake with creamed flickercane and flaxsheep butter frosting topped with a shaving of finely ground tallroot powder.
“Here’s to my beta son finally becoming useful to the crown.” He toasted his glass to Stamel and frowned before gesturing to an attendant to top him off once more.
Seidrik sipped his water and took a bite of cake as the sweetness of it turned to ash in his mouth.
Moments stretched into minutes before Alluin shook his fork at Stamel, his face a contorted twist of confusion. “Okay, so I have to ask.”
Stamel raised a single brow.
“Which one of you is thewomanso to speak?” Alluin gave Seidrik a glassy-eyed stare.
Dinner seemed far less important than it had five minutes ago. Seidrik stood, almost knocking his chair over, face a heated mask. “Father!”
“I suppose that answers my question.” Alluin took another bite of cake while humming with delight.
“I’m going to bed. Goodnight, Father. And goodnight, fiancé, I suppose.” Seidrik turned in place and stormed off.
“Why couldn’t he have been the omega and Virion the beta? Waste of thalms if you ask me,” Alluin said through a mouthful, and Seidrik saw no reason to stay or respond.
As Seidrik marched to his hall, the gravity of the situation hit him. His only consolation? Stamel hadn’t laughed. He remained stoic at Alluin’s jabs.
When he returned to their wing, he flung himself into his bed and buried his face in pillows. Moments went by before the creaking of his door alerted him to another presence. He’d not heard Stamel’s heavy footsteps. Seidrik lifted his head and glanced toward the door as a pink-faced child sat in the doorway, lips twisted. In his hands was a thick tome. “Where’s Dada?”
“In the dining hall speaking with King Alluin.” Seidrik turned over and sat up. “Where’s your governess?”
The boy, Tyran, blinked innocently. “She fell asleep. Will you read me a story?”
“Can you not read?” Seidrik scooted over as the little one toddled in, slung his book up over the edge of the bed, and climbed up the duvet as one might a rope ladder.
“You aren’t going to make water in my bed, are you?” Seidrik stared him down.
“I know how to use a chamber pot all on my own.” He pouted and picked up the book once more before flopping it in Seidrik’s lap.
“Well, do you need to go or anything before I read something?” Seidrik didn’t want to risk it, but one supposed far worse substances had been spilled in his bed.
Tyran twisted his lips and nodded.
Seidrik sighed, slid from bed, and picked the little one up as if he might be poisonous. He carried him tothe garderobe and sat him down at the entrance before gesturing.
“I need a stool.” He glanced up at Seidrik and earned an exasperated sigh. Seidrik once again lifted him up and held him at the chamber, head turned politely.
As it turned out, children could peeforever. Seidrik waited patiently until the little one proclaimed himself done a few seconds after the tinkling sounds ended. Seidrik carried him to the washbowl to insist he cleansed his hands, as all good little boys should, and returned him to bed.
He snuggled up to Seidrik’s side and pulled the book up, flipping pages to a story insistently. “This one.”
“The Thalmsmith and the Merchant’s Son?” Seidrik stared at a gaudy woodcut image of an overdressed fainting night-fae omega sprawled back in a boorish sun-fae alpha’s arms.
Tyran bounced excitedly, eyes a bright copper color and glittering.
