A Red-Rose Chain

I still considered it. Getting the Crown Prince of the Westlands elf-shot because I didn’t want to talk to the King of Silences alone struck me as a bad plan. At the same time, Quentin’s parents had known the risks when they had agreed to let him try for his knighthood—something that wasn’t required for him to become King one day. And they did have a backup heir if I got this one put to sleep for a century.

“I hate my life sometimes,” I muttered, and kept walking.

The doors to the receiving room were closed, flanked by two guards in the livery of Silences. They moved to block me as I started for the door. I marched straight up to the closer of them, making no effort whatsoever to conceal my fury.

“You will not fuck with me right now, do you understand?” I snapped. “I am here as a diplomatic emissary, and you are going to start respecting that title if I have to punch every single one of you assholes in the throat. Now I am going to talk to your King, and he is going to give me some answers, or I’m going back to Arden and kick-starting this war all by myself. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

The guards stared at me. Quentin smirked.

“She’s using human profanity,” he said. “She learned that from her close personal friend, the Luidaeg. Just in case you were wondering if you needed to be concerned right now. I would be, if she was talking to me like that.”

The guards exchanged a look. Then they stepped back, allowing me open access to the doors. I paused, looking at them. “You should get out of here, you know. Things are about to get ugly.” Before they could react, I shoved the doors open and marched inside, Quentin once again at my heels.

There were people in the receiving room, men and women dressed for Court and milling around the edges. Going by the time, they were probably getting ready for dinner. Meals seemed to be the focus of all the action around here, maybe because there was nothing else anyone could do that didn’t run the risk of the King stepping in with an elf-shot arrow and an admonition about bad behavior. Some of those same people gasped when they saw me, pointing at my outlandish human world attire and covering their mouths like they had never seen anything more shocking in their lives. Quentin, who was dressed similarly, walked beside me with his head held up, every inch the prince he had been born to be. If their stares concerned him, he didn’t show it.

I couldn’t have cared less about the petty concerns of a bunch of fops, courtiers, and political leeches. All my attention was on the man at the head of the room, King Rhys, sitting on his throne and smirking—yes, smirking—as he watched me approach. The seat reserved for the false Queen was currently empty, which explained how we were able to make it all the way to the foot of the dais without someone turning my jeans into a ball gown.

Rhys composed his expression as we drew closer, but it was a hollow gesture: he knew we had seen his true face, and he didn’t care. We were of no more concern to him than the rose goblins in his gardens, and he wanted us to know it.

Oh, I knew it. And I was going to make him pay for it. I held up the broken arrow, showing him the feathers.

“Does the hospitality of your halls always extend to pursuing visitors into the streets of Portland—into the mortal world—and leaving them in alleyways with elf-shot inches from their hearts? Because where I come from, that is neither showing respect to your guests nor to the rules which keep us safely hidden.” My voice was cold as ice, and I was actually proud of myself for that: until I’d started speaking, I’d been afraid that I would scream. Raising my voice to the King of Silences might be the last thing I’d do for a hundred years.