A Red-Rose Chain

Rhys glared at me. I glared back.

Silences might have the bigger army—would definitely have the bigger army, since Rhys wasn’t above using loyalty potions to get people to do what he wanted, while Arden actually had a moral core, however warped it had been by her slapdash upbringing—but it didn’t have bigger allies. If I went back to the Mists with stories of false allegations and abuses against purebloods, stories I could back up by giving blood memories to the Daoine Sidhe attached to the various Courts, we could join their armies to ours. Dianda would never stand for this sort of thing. I was willing to bet that whatever Undersea Duchy bordered on this part of Oregon wouldn’t be too happy about it either. And that didn’t even account for Angels and Golden Shore to the south, or Evergreens to the north, or Falls to the east. There were half a dozen Kingdoms and free Duchies that could become involved with this, if Rhys pushed me into it. Now the only question was . . . was he really that stupid?

Rhys might have gotten his Kingdom through politicking and appointment, but there was a reason he’d been able to hold it for a hundred years. He wasn’t a foolish man. A little hasty, maybe, with the false Queen spitting poison in his ear and making him feel invincible, but not foolish. He looked away, and I knew that we had won.

“Release Sir Daye’s people,” he said. “Return her alchemist’s things to him. Nothing has been taken, or broken.”

“Good,” said Walther. He stepped forward to claim the little chest, clearing his throat when King Rhys didn’t seem inclined to put the amethyst bottle back. Looking faintly offended, Rhys returned the bottle to its place. Walther closed the lid of the chest and retreated to his original position.

I noted all this out of the corner of my eye: the bulk of my attention was on the guards approaching May and Quentin, neither of whom had spoken through this whole ordeal. One of the guards removed a glass vial from his pocket. He uncorked it, and dripped three drops of clear liquid onto the vines holding May’s wrists. They promptly writhed and curled into a small green ball, like a flowered bezoar, which dropped to the floor. The guard repeated the process with Quentin.

Still neither one of them moved. King Rhys turned his head, facing them, and said in a loud, clear voice, “You may go.”

They both walked forward, their steps measured so that they moved together, as smooth and soulless as automatons. I swallowed the urge to shout even as it rose in my throat. I didn’t know that what I feared was happening was real. Maybe they were just staying quiet out of protest, and the desire not to make things worse.

Then they got close enough for me to see their eyes. Their pupils were dilated, and their normally sharp, focused gazes were soft and blank. I turned to Rhys, glaring mutely. He met my eyes and smiled. Just a little. Just enough that I knew he was my enemy. If everything that had come before had been politics, this was personal.

“They had to be sedated in order to keep them calm while we awaited your return,” he said. “Had you not run out of here the way you did, it might not have been necessary. You have my sincere apologies for any trouble this has caused. I’m sure you can understand why I would be wary of deceit from a diplomat belonging to a Kingdom we are on the cusp of war with—a diplomat who has already been known to depose monarchs she did not approve of.”

“Not sure this is how I’d go about making me approve of you,” I said tightly. I wanted to say more, but the eager way he watched me made me rein myself in. He was waiting for an opportunity to strike. Tybalt’s threat had been enough to cow him for the moment. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t move if he thought that he could get away with it. I swallowed my fury, cleared my throat, and said, “Don’t do this again.”