A Red-Rose Chain

“Tell them not to pull my tail or kick me, and I will respond in kind,” said Tybalt mildly.

“As you say,” said King Rhys, with another broad, chilly smile. He stepped to one side. His guards did the same, falling back so that their backs were to the courtyard wall. It was an eerily synchronized motion. I wondered how much time they had spent practicing to make sure that their footsteps would be perfectly in unison. I just as quickly decided to stop wondering about that. It couldn’t do anything good for my sanity.

“Welcome to Silences,” said King Rhys, gesturing to the portal.

There wasn’t really anything we could do at that point. Refusing his invitation would have been rude, and we didn’t have anywhere else to go. With another, much shorter bow, I began walking around the fountain toward the portal.

Walther stepped close enough that he could murmur, “Ever been to Disneyland?”

“No,” I replied, as quietly as I could. “Why?”

“Because this guy learned everything he knows about crowd control from the Haunted Mansion.”

I gave him a puzzled look. He laughed, and kept on walking.

Walking through King Rhys’ portal was like stepping through a soap bubble formed entirely of someone else’s magic. The urge to hold my breath was great, but I forced it aside and breathed in instead, trying to learn whatever I could about the man whose demesne we were now inside. He was pure Tuatha de Dannan, that much was clear: I could pick up nothing else from his heritage, or from the meadowsweet and wine vinegar traceries of his spell. He was also casting unaided—the magic was entirely his, and he had sustained the portal for the entire process of determining our purpose in his lands. He was strong. Not as strong as Chelsea, maybe, but strong enough to hold his Kingdom.

We came out of the portal in the lushly appointed ballroom we had glimpsed before, our feet and the wheels of our wagon clattering against the polished wooden floor. The dais in front of us held a single central throne, decorated in the same style as the fountain in the courtyard. Walther tensed beside me. Whatever else King Rhys had done since becoming King, and however blameless he may or may not have been in what had happened, he was sitting on the throne that had belonged to the original ruling family. I couldn’t even imagine how that had to feel.

There was no matching queen’s throne. Either Rhys was unmarried, or he had chosen to rule alone. There were two smaller chairs, carved from rich pine and detailed with gold leaf, that were probably intended for use by visiting nobility or dignitaries important enough to share the dais with him.

As my companions and I fell into a loose semicircle, Walther to my left, Tybalt to my right, and May and Quentin fanning out to hold up the ends, Rhys walked past us, mounted the dais, and settled in his throne. He braced one elbow on the armrest, slouching into a position as carefully calculated as the motions of his guards. As for the guards themselves, they took up places around the edges of the room, while his three attending courtiers moved to stand near, but not on, the dais.

“My staff has been notified that you’ll need to be housed and fed for the next little while,” he said. “I assume you’ll wish to have adjoining rooms for your squire and your lady’s maid, Sir Daye?” His eyes raked over my hair, mouth pursing in a way that made it clear he found everything about my appearance to be wanting.