Page 123 of A Dance with the Fae Prince (Married to Magic 2)
“You certainly don’t.” He dips his head and raises his catlike eyes to meet mine. “I want you to know that it has been my supreme honor playing with you.”
“Likewise.”
“No matter what happens tonight, I think I shall compose an epic ballad inspired by your tale.”
I chuckle softly. I begin to suspect that’s why he let me come along. “Hopefully, that song is not cut short and has a happy ending.”
Our conversation comes to an end as we emerge on the other side of the portcullis. There is an antechamber where people mill about in their finery. A few clap and smile as we enter. A grand, gilded staircase winds around the room, but we head for the double doors that open into the main hall of the castle.
All breath leaves my body and I’m suddenly torn between awe and horror. Buttresses support a ceiling that feels as if it could touch the sky. Holes in the roof have been punched out with circular panes of glass, giving the stars and moon a view of the revelries below. Fae dance to unheard music, spinning around the floor, laughing. Some linger off to the side, eating and scheming.
It would be a normal enough celebration were it not for the men and women suspended in cages between each of the buttresses. I see Hol in one of the cages and instantly grab for Raph. The child looks to me and I meet his eyes.
Be strong, I mouth silently and stare at him with an intense gaze. Then, I lift my eyes back to Hol. Raph must follow my stare because I can feel him trip; I hear the choked whimper that almost escapes. I clutch on to him with white knuckles, so tightly that I know it hurts. He would’ve seen his father eventually. It’s better for him to not be caught off guard. But, yet again, I’m overwhelmed by the guilt of bringing him here.
All of this will be worth it so long as our plan works. Raph and I went over the details multiple times last night before we slept. He knows why he’s here. He knows why I need him. And he won’t back down…not even when he sees his father on the menu of tonight’s entertainment for these demented people. This is his only chance of saving his mother and father.
At the far end of the hall, perched high atop a dais, is the throne and the man that I can only presume is King Boltov. From this distance, it’s hard to make out the details of him. I can gather only the broad strokes—like his fiery red hair, or how tall he must be to still dominate a chair while so hunched and sullen. I’m taken aback by how wiry and frail he looks. This is the man that has kept the Boltov legacy alive and the fae kingdom on its knees? This is the king who has committed all of the atrocities I’ve seen and imagined? He looks like the one withering, not me.
No, I can’t let his appearance fool me; I must stay on guard.
As we cross the room to ultimately stand before the king, I search for any sign of Davien or Vena. The people in the cages are certainly captives from the sacking of Dreamsong, but I can’t see any of the leaders. I’m not sure if that makes me feel better or worse.
“Your Majesty.” The leader of the troupe dips into a low bow. “Thank you for bringing us back tonight to serenade your great hall.”
King Boltov nods his head ever so slightly. The glass crown that sits heavily on his brow picks up the light of the massive chandeliers and breaks it into a thousand pieces. It puts the replicas from the night in Dreamsong, and those on the brows of the men in this hall, to shame. Its craftsmanship is more refined and it oozes staggering power. A thousand rainbows cage in a cosmos within it.
It also appears that Davien was right—he’s performed some dark ritual to allow him to wear the crown. Seeing it on his head churns my stomach. I am enraged, as if seeing him with that crown is an affront to my history—an insult to me.
“My favorite minstrels have returned.”
“We would not dare object to your summons, Your Majesty.” The troupe leader has yet to straighten. He still stares at the floor. The rest of us have followed suit, bowing our heads. Though I look up through my lashes.
This close, I get more details of the bloody king.
His face is weathered, like leather that has been over-tanned, thinned in the process, and stretched taut over jagged stones. His eyes are sharp blue, piercing, threatening to expose even the slightest hint of deceit. The man’s fingers are more bone than flesh or muscle, and gnarly yellow claws extend out in place of nails. Two crescent horns, as black as pitch, curl up from his brow around the glass crown. There is nothing about him that is soft, or warm, or inviting. Everything is brutal angles.
“I look forward to what you perform for me tonight as we are at the end of our celebrations. Play well and I’ll let you keep all your fingers and feet. Play poorly and you’ll be forced to dance on nubs.”
I’m beginning to figure out why the troupe was so willing to allow me to join them. Even if they’re not strictly loyal or disloyal to anyone but themselves, Boltov is an easy enemy to all.
“It will be our pleasure to play for you. We will not let you down, sire.”
“Good. But do know when to stop; I have a special surprise planned for the culmination of the autumnal celebrations that I do not want interrupted.”
The words “special surprise” fill me with dread—anything that this man feels is special is surely something I won’t like. But I move with the troupe off to the side of the dais. The leader lays down the initial melody. The rest of us follow. Raph taps along on his comically small drum, bravely putting on a smile.
Two hours and my fingers are aching. I’ve never played this long or this hard. But I continue forcing myself to do so even when my hands are threatening to cramp. I’m playing for my life.
And then, the music suddenly stops. I look from the leader of the troupe to the king. Boltov has lifted a hand. Like a dark omen, he slowly unfurls himself from the throne, standing at full height and towering above everyone else.
“Good subjects, today is the last day of fall and the first of winter. It is the day when the living gives way to the dead. When one world passes to the next. And the Veil between us and the great Beyond is at its most thin.”
There’s excited murmuring throughout the hall. I see courtiers grabbing up goblets and taking hearty sips. They can’t wait to see what their king has planned, and it makes me sick.
“I know many of you are expecting entertainment tonight similar to that of last night, especially given my décor.” Boltov lifts his hands and motions to the cages around the room. “However, tonight’s special. Tonight is for me, and for a history that began hundreds of years ago with the death of King Aviness the Sixth.” The gathered fae hiss at the mention of the former king. He slowly begins to descend the staircase that wraps around the dais. “As you know, there are some who still think that the Aviness line can be restored. That the true king to the throne is out there, even though it is I who wear the crown.” He taps on the glass circling his brow for emphasis. Chuckles ripple through the hall. “So tonight it is my pleasure to see that the last of that line is finally cut off—henceforth, there will never be a question about who is most fit to rule.”
Boltov curls his fingers and doors at the side of the hall open. A small legion of Butchers led by the leader I saw in the woods manhandles in Davien. He’s chained up, shackled, helpless. The courtiers jeer and spit on him as he is paraded through the hall to ultimately be brought before the king.
