A Blaze in the Dark - (14/15)
Summary: On the eve of her wedding, knowing nothing about her husband besides his apparent disinterest in his soon-to-be wife, Elain uses a spell to meet her true love in her dreams.
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At least the flowers are pretty.
Elain's governess had always coached that a lady should not exert herself over matters in which she has no control.
At present, there were very few matters that were under Elain's control. She may have been hostess of the ball celebrating her marriage, but all of its details—from the invitations down to the dinner menu—had been carefully monitored and arranged by Eris Vanserra. And King Beron, by extension.
Few facets of the evening allowed for Elain's input, but of that short list, Eris had granted her full jurisdiction over the flower arrangements.
Since a lady should only occupy herself on those matters which she can control, Elain was resolved to do just that. During moments when she found herself overwhelmed by the orchestrations in motion around her, she would look to the nearest flower arrangement and remind herself: At least the flowers are pretty.
"Tell me about them," Lucien said, following her gaze to the decorative column on their right, which boasted a porcelain vase brimming with flowers.
They were standing near the doors of the ballroom, greeting guests as they entered. Many of them were staying in the palace and had arrived earlier in the day, but had been delegated to their rooms to recover from their journeys. Now, the nobles of the Eastern and Southern Kingdoms were flocking to the ballroom in their evening wear, offering gratitude for their invitations and the lodgings as if Elain had any true say in them.
It was during a lull in arrivals that Elain's gaze drifted to the flowers, already feeling a spike in apprehension though the evening had scarcely begun.
She hadn't told Lucien why she was admiring the flowers, and it warmed her heart that he asked about them regardless.
"The tall ones are gladioli," she explained, tracing her eyes over the sword-shaped petals she'd selected as the focal point of the bouquets. "They used to be given to warriors preparing for battle."
"An apt choice. It does feel as if we're standing on a battleground."
Elain shook her head. "I chose them because they represent courage and strength. I thought I could use a little extra of each."
"As could I," Lucien said, offering her hand a comforting squeeze. "And the others? I recognize the roses, of course."
"The globe-shaped flowers are hydrangea. And the ones that look like sunbursts are asters."
She hoped he didn't ask after their meaning. Eris clearly considered flower arranging to be a trivial, feminine task, and so she'd taken liberties with her choices. Most eyes would glaze past the vibrant petals, dismiss them as another pretty decoration, but Elain had made a statement to anyone who looked closer.
Hydrangea, a symbol of pride and vanity. Asters, the wish that things had turned out differently.
Risky, to be sure. But if the Queen or the ladies of her court understood their meaning, Elain hoped they would dismiss it as the slight of a disgruntled bride.
Lucien pulled her gloved hand to his lips, pressing a chaste kiss to the backs of her knuckles. "It's a beautiful bouquet. Much like the lady who arranged it."
"Control your flattery," she admonished, pulling her hand away as if affronted by the open display of affection. "Otherwise you will make it impossible to feign my resentment of you."
"Control my flattery?" Lucien repeated, incredulous. He made a point of stepping back to admire her figure.
Elain felt caught beneath his gaze, like a plant drenched in sunlight. She craved it, until it was too much. Until she was trying not to squirm as his eyes roamed over her with burning intent, admiring every detail as though he intended to commit her full likeness to memory—and light her ablaze in the process.
Lucien's voice was rough as he said, "Surely you understand that you've set me on an impossible task, dressed as you are."
"You can hold your tongue for an evening," Elain sniped, tipping her chin as if that offered any chance of draining the heat from her face.
"Yes, but I would prefer to hold it in a much different position."
She jabbed her elbow into his side, but when it was answered with rich laughter, she feared she was only encouraging his obscene humor.
"I rescind my statement from earlier," she said, breathing out the words in an exasperated puff. "Your flattery is making it all too easy to act my part. I'm no longer certain it's an act at all."
Lucien leaned closer and dropped his voice to a scorching whisper. "That's only because I've been instructed to hold my tongue. If I let it loose, your act would not be the only thing unraveling."
Determined to plot against her, Elain's mind called forth memories of all the ways that wicked tongue had unraveled her in the bedroom, and in his study, and just about everywhere else in the palace they could get away with.
She kept her eyes fixed on the flowers, willing her pulse to settle. It was too early in the night to become flustered.
"You are…" Elain searched for an appropriate word but found her vocabulary deserted her for an accurate description of her husband.
"Deeply enamored with my wife?" He suggested.
His voice was teasing, and she would have accused him of being a flirt if she didn't see the stark affection in his eyes and knew he meant it.
"Transparent," she decided, pulling on that affection like an anchor, letting it warm her exasperation until it softened into fondness, steadying her. "I can see your intentions quite plainly, you know."
Some of the humor in his expression sobered. "What intentions might that be?"
"You're trying to rile me with your shocking words to distract me from my nerves."
"Is it working?" He asked.
Elain sighed. "Briefly." She turned to absorb the ballroom, already half full and swallowed in the sounds of robust chatter. "Believe it or not, even your charm has its limitations."
Her husband threw his hand to his chest, feigning mortal injury, but Elain's mind was too unsettled to be drawn from her mood.
There was a time when Elain adored the prospect of a ball. She found the ideas of courtship and dancing all terribly romantic, and used to occupy her time with fantasies about the gowns she would wear and the clever things she would say to win the affection of a perfect gentleman. The allure of it had been slightly spoiled by the lack of courtship and dancing in her own marriage, but Elain thought in another life she might have enjoyed attending a ball as a married woman.
"All will be well," Lucien murmured. When she huffed a sound of disbelief, he brushed his knuckles along her upper arm, eliciting pimpled skin in his wake. "I promise. Look at how nicely it's all come together."
She could agree, the grandeur certainly matched her childlike visions. Everywhere in sight, there were flowers and ribbons and lavish art pieces that had been curated specifically for the occasion. Candlelight gleamed from the chandeliers overhead, casting the ballroom and all of its occupants in glowing amber. Round refreshment tables were scattered along the perimeter, each towering high with a generous spread of exotic fruits, finger sandwiches, and everything in between. There would be a formal dinner later in the evening, but that would be an affair with a more exclusive guest list.
There was no denying the staff had done an extraordinary job, but that had never been Elain's concern. It was the noble families cloistered around the outskirts of the dance floor that left her feeling uncertain. At a glance, she could see that there wasn't very much integration between the different kingdoms, though perhaps that was for the best.
The guests she'd invited from the Southern Kingdom mingled in one corner of the room, easily identified by the colorful shades that were fashionable in Caterhaugh. She recognized the decadent ribbon trimmings and beaded overlays that were popular in the village shops and felt slightly envious of the way their tulle skirting moved so fluidly, like drifting clouds. Their sleeves were short and puffed, complimented by elbow-length satin gloves to keep off the Autumn chill.
Gaudy had been the word she'd heard Eris use under his breath, which had stung her. But she could see why he would think so—the loud colors and adornments were in such contrast to the understated elegance of the Eastern Kingdom. On the opposite side of the room, many of the Queen's court wore open robe gowns in hues of wine and gold, clasped over delicately embroidered skirts.
It was refined and layered where the Southern style was outspoken and bright. So like the people, Elain thought.
And as always, she fit somewhere in between. Her dark red open gown matched the styles of the Eastern Kingdom, but it was embroidered in golden thread and clasped high above her waistline with a ruby brooch that now seemed garish compared to the rest of the Queen's court. In addition to Lucien's necklace and the tiara atop her head, she certainly felt gaudy, but she told herself royals were meant to be eye-catching.
Lucien certainly was. He didn't wear a crown, nor did his six brothers, but the golden epaulets and cords attached to their jackets left no question of their status. But besides the fine clothes, there was a distinct importance to their postures that was unmistakably Vanserra.
As she thought of them, Elain couldn't resist sneaking a glance at where they congregated across the room. Lucien avoided speaking of his family unless strictly necessary, and as a consequence, she struggled to recall the names of his brothers, let alone assign them to the five strikingly similar faces.
As she studied them, Elain couldn't help but compare their likeness to her husband and consider how strange it was. The brothers each resembled each other so closely. There were differences, of course; some taller, some shorter. All of them were red-haired like their mother, but wore it at different lengths and styles, a few more elegant than others.
They weren't identical, but they were all undeniably related. Lucien wasn't exempt from the similarities, but there was something about him that stood out to her. There was his complexion, which was darker than the tan of his brothers. He was also the only one with his proud nose—wider and rounder than the sharp, turned-up shape that the rest of his family possessed. His smile, too, was a bit different. Warmer and broader, though perhaps that was because Lucien was the only one she'd seen smile without restraint.
It felt a dangerous thing to notice. And she knew better than to call attention to it.
Of course Lucien would stand out to her, she reasoned. It would be odd if he didn't, since he was her husband and she saw his face every day while this was only the second occurrence of seeing his brothers. That's all it was.
"You're staring," Lucien noted. "Is there something on my face?"
Elain fought a smile. Beneath the prying eyes of high society, she needed to pretend to be a woman who hated her husband, who was pretending not to hate him since a polite lady would never wear her resentment so plainly. Despite her insistence otherwise, he made it difficult to play the part when he could charm her so effortlessly.
"Yes," she lied. "Want me to wipe it off for you?"
His eyes darkened. "Elain," he said, and she thought he meant it as a warning, but it sounded so devastatingly like a groan.
Her eyes fluttered shut, wanting to hear him say her name like that again. After his teasings about his tongue, she would have been quite happy to drag him off to an empty room and demand he finish what he'd initiated that morning, letting him pant her name into her skin over and over again.
If only things were that simple.
Elain expelled a long, slightly defeated breath. It was difficult to relish her husband's proximity under such intense scrutiny.
She would try, anyway.
"How many dances are we allowed this night?"
"We are married," Lucien answered with a pained frown. "Dancing together would give the impression that we enjoy each other's company. And I'll be accused of monopolizing my wife."
"I would like you to monopolize me," Elain said mournfully. She fought a wince as she again glanced towards his family, each of whom she would be expected to share a dance with. "Did you need to have so many brothers?"
"I trust they'll scatter the moment dancing begins. None of them want to be caught in the trappings of a courtship."
"At the risk the King will disapprove?"
Lucien regarded her, his expression pinched. "At the risk of falling in love."
Her heart throbbed. It was becoming a wounded, heavy thing in her chest as of late. She understood his meaning. Love was a weakness the King would exploit to bolster his control over his sons, the same he was doing to Lucien at present.
"All the more reason they would dance with me," she posited. "My heart belongs to one alone."
Lucien shut his eyes, expelling a deep breath through his nose. How strange, that confessions of love could be so painful. "Find your sisters when the dancing starts," he said, regaining his composure. "They will know better than to approach Prince Rhysand's wife."
The string of pearls around her neck grew heavy, alongside his promise not to leave her side if he could help it.
"Where will you be?"
"Chatting with guests close by. My father will notice if I'm guarding your side all evening. I'll do my best to be subtle."
It was as they were discussing subtly that the candles in the room snuffed out, plunging the ballroom into darkness.
Elain had seen this particular party trick before.
Even as Lucien threw his arm in front of her, using his body to shield her from the unseen threat, she didn't gasp or scream like the other ladies in the room. The muffled sounds of panic weren't exactly the markings of a successful ball, though they soon lapsed into an agitated silence as the guests waited for something—anything—to happen.
The doors pushed open, sweeping a gust of jasmine-scented wind through the room. There were a few more scattered screams, though the breeze was harmless and, truthfully, quite refreshing against the smothering heat of a crowded ball.
Lucien muttered something angry under his breath—she thought she might have caught the word asshole—but Elain's attention was soon swallowed by the sight of a glowing woman stepping through the doors.
Glowing. As if moonlight seeped from her skin, leaking out into the otherwise dark room.
Elain's lips parted in wonder. It was a fortunate thing their father decided not to come. She didn't imagine his poor constitution would have survived the sight of Feyre commanding magic, as ethereal as she looked. Like the Mother Goddess herself was in attendance.
If the room wasn't so dark, Elain would have attempted to seek out her governess to savor the look on her face.
A figure stepped behind Feyre, a shadow against her divine light. Elain marked the silhouette of a tall man, hovering so protectively that she surmised it was Prince Rhysand. Elain searched for any sign of discomfort from her sister at his presence, but if anything, Feyre seemed to glow brighter.
Then, like a crack of lightning, the candles flared back to life, met with a murmur of complaint as guests shielded their eyes against the sudden change. Elain blinked back the spots dotting her vision, her focus still trained on Feyre.
She looked… well, radiant was too literal.
Rhysand leaned over to whisper something to the attendant at the door, who looked aghast.
The attendant hesitated, assessing the Prince and Feyre as if he were considering saying something to them. Elain could see the conflict drawing tightly on his face before he cleared his throat and announced to the room, "Princess Feyre of the Northern Kingdom and her husband, Prince Rhysand."
And her husband. Like his title as Prince came second.
Lucien huffed under his breath, a sound somewhere between exasperation and humor. "I guess the rumors are true."
"The rumors?" Elain echoed, still shocked at the sight of her sister. At the smile curving Feyre's lips as she eagerly accepted Rhysand's waiting arm. "What rumors?"
The only rumors she'd heard about the Prince of the North had been… less than complimentary. But that was before he'd crashed their ball on the winter solstice and taken Feyre as his wife.
"The ones that say Princess Feyre has her husband wrapped around her finger."
"They really say that?"
Elain studied the couple as they entered the ballroom, followed closely by two large men in formal military jackets. Feyre was wearing a lilac underskirt, with a long, navy redingote buttoned overtop by a golden clasp at her waist. The redingote streamed down Feyre's back like a train, fluid and graceful, which created an alluring contrast to the masculine elements of her clothing—like the upturned collar around her neck.
She exuded grace and power, even without Rhysand standing at her side like an elegant, threatening shadow. He was dressed in similar colors, his tailcoat dark blue and adorned with silver epaulets and ornaments that suggested military service.
"Every Kingdom was vying for a match with Prince Rhysand," Lucien explained. "Even my father sent along an envoy with some of my distant cousins in the hopes of forging an alliance. So it was baffling when he married a woman without any ties to royalty—many perceived it as an insult."
Elain hadn't known that, though it made sense that there would be backlash to a Prince marrying outside of his social class. She flushed a bit, to think that she'd replicated the insult in marrying Lucien. No wonder so many of the ladies of his mother's court sent her scathing looks. In their eyes, she was probably beneath them, regardless of her newfound title.
"Was your father insulted?"
"At first," Lucien admitted. "But the rest of the world was left grasping for an explanation, and a popular theory was that Rhysand wished simply to marry his true love. And when my father heard that, he saw an opportunity."
Elain hated to think the way King Beron would, but she could follow the reasoning. His plan hinged on Rhysand caring about the fate of his sister-in-laws, and that would only really matter to him if he loved his wife.
It was almost reassuring, as objectionable as Beron's scheme was. Elain had feared the worst when Rhysand stole Feyre away to the North. But if King Beron was willing to gamble the fate of his kingdom on whether the Northern Prince adored his wife, then he must have confidence in the validity of that rumor.
Or else… or else this whole plan of his would unwind at the seams, leaving Elain and Nesta tangled in the fallout.
Fortunately, there wasn't time to spiral over it. All eyes in the room were fixed on the Northern Kingdom's court as they glided across the ballroom, politely ignoring the wide berth they were given by the other guests.
One of the large men behind Feyre—the one with shoulder-length black hair—cut a rough grin towards Eris as they passed the Vanserra princes. The Crown Prince showed no reaction, but Nesta, who was trapped at Eris's elbow, looked decidedly pale. Elain thought she would be, too, if she was surrounded by Lucien's brothers.
"We need to get Nesta out of there," Elain said under breath, so only Lucien could hear.
He was watching with his lips drawn into a tight line. "Eris will leave her with mother once he sees the opportunity to get Rhysand alone. We'll draw her away then."
Smiling at him was too blatant, so she merely squeezed his bicep in gratitude.
"Am I allowed to hug her?" Elain asked once it was apparent that Feyre and Rhysand were heading directly for them.
"I wouldn't recommend it."
She found herself again mourning the simple relationship she'd once had with her sisters, before the world had its eyes on them. In some ways, she could understand her father's compulsion to keep them suppressed behind the safety of his walls.
"Do I bow?"
"Yes, but not deeply. You are a princess in your own right."
Elain nodded, waiting until Feyre and Rhysand arrived at a halt in front of them. There was a tense moment where the focus of the room pressed in, their observers utterly silent, waiting to see what happened.
She heard the collective intake of breath when Rhysand was the first to bow at the waist.
"It's an honor to see you again, Princess Elain. Thank you for your invitation."
Elain hesitated. He should have addressed Lucien, not herself. Even so, she dropped into a curtsy, relieved when Feyre followed suit.
"The pleasure is mine, your highness." Then, after a moment's consideration, she corrected—"Ours."
"Yes," Lucien echoed, squeezing her arm in comfort. He would know she was mortified by the mistake. "We hope your journey wasn't too draining."
"No amount of time at my wife's side could be considered such," Rhysand replied, sliding Feyre a sideways smile. "Newly married yourself, you will of course understand."
"Indeed," Lucien said, his tone a touch dry.
Elain knew it was part of the act. But the act felt all too much like a dagger that wouldn't seize twisting in her side.
"You look well, Elain," Feyre added. "I trust you're settling in well to the Eastern Kingdom?"
They all knew she asked a pointed question, and there was no way to answer it truthfully.
"Very well," Elain replied. "Can the same be said of you in the North?"
"Oh, yes!" Feyre's eyes brightened with enthusiasm. "The North is beautiful. You must come visit when you have a chance."
There would be no chance so long as their Kingdoms were opposed. Another truth they all deliberately ignored.
"Are these your friends?" Elain asked, nodding to the men that stood behind Rhysand and Feyre's shoulders.
"Of course, how rude of me." Feyre moved aside, allowing space for the two large men to step forward. Both of them boasted tall, imposing figures that seemed almost out of place in their ceremonial garb. Like someone had attempted to shove waistcoats onto a pair of bears.
"This is Sir Cassian."
The slightly larger of the two fisted a hand over his heart and bowed his head.
Beside her, Lucien stiffened. Elain couldn't determine why. Despite his size, and a few scars on his face—the most prominent of which was a pinky-sized slash through his brow—Sir Cassian projected a friendly air about him. His eyes were kind, a muddy hazel that leaned more towards brown, and sparkled with childlike mirth.
Elain offered him a smile. "Good to make your acquaintance, Sir Cassian."
The Knight dipped his chin dutifully, before drawing back to his full, rather intimidating, height.
"And this is Sir Azriel," Feyre said, gesturing toward the more stoic of the two men.
His hair was shorter than Cassian's, cropped short at the sides, but with sufficient length at the top to flop over his eyebrows in soft curls. Between the two of them, he was the more traditionally beautiful, though she could detect no hint of vanity in the way he carried himself.
Sir Azriel's greeting wasn't so heartfelt. He merely dipped his chin in respect and returned to surveying his surroundings. She knew he had a keen eye for danger when his hazel eyes landed on Prince Eris. And lingered.
"I am humbled you each made the journey to celebrate our marriage," Elain said, grateful to retreat to the safety of Lucien's arm now that the greetings were settled. "Please, go enjoy yourselves. Drinks will be handed out shortly."
Lucien was stiff at her side, still regarding Sir Cassian with an odd expression, of which the knight returned with a knowing smirk.
Elain waited until the group departed to ask Lucien, "Do you know him? Sir Cassian?"
Her heart sunk when he shook his head, thinking that he would deny it, still concealing things from her after all they'd been through. But then Lucien cleared his throat. "I—It's a long story. I'll explain it to you when we find a moment of privacy."
She nodded, content with that answer. Now wasn't the time to press him for details.
After the Northern Kingdom arrived, the majority of the guests began to trickle through in earnest, and Elain signaled for Vassa to begin handing out drinks.
The King was always served first. As an Eastern tradition, they'd had his goblet for the evening specially crafted—composed of melted gold that was set with gems from one of Elain's bridal combs. She assumed most brides found it a lovely sentiment.
Elain only felt repulsion as she watched the King accept the goblet. It felt like a mockery of her wedding to see those gemstones in his hands, but she supposed every part of this arrangement had at some point been in his hands. This occasion was no different.
King Beron rapped his ringed knuckles against the metal rim, hushing the room. The servants continued quietly handing out drinks so that the guests could toast to the King's impending speech.
"We thank our guests for making the journey to attend this celebration." The King nodded his head towards Rhysand in acknowledgment of the foreign sovereign. "It was a happy day in the Eastern Kingdom when this union was arranged. We have long been hoping to establish ties with the Northern Kingdom, and Elain Archeron is the bridge who has made that possible. This was a most advantageous match, and I could think of no better bride for Prince Lucien."
No better bride… Elain wondered if that was less a compliment towards herself and more a criticism of Lucien. As far as she was aware, none of his other brothers had been considered for the honor. Eris and Nesta had something of understanding, but there was no formal betrothal, merely the threat. Elain suspected that if they could settle the dispute with the Northern Kingdom this evening, the Crown Prince's interest in her eldest sister would fizzle into smoke.
The King's cold, assessing eyes swiveled from Rhysand, sweeping the room until they landed on Lucien. He raised the goblet to his youngest son.
Lucien's hand began trembling. Elain laced her fingers through his, keeping her posture stiff to keep up the appearance of reluctance, though hopefully, no one could see the way she smoothed her thumb across his knuckles, offering comfort.
"It's tradition for the King to drink first, but as host of this fine event, steward of this estate, and groom to the lovely bride, I would like to invite Prince Lucien to have the honor of drinking from the ceremonial cup."
The King paused expectantly, waiting for his son to join him. Lucien didn't move. No one did. Though her understanding of Eastern culture was still nascent, Elain understood this was a breach in etiquette that extended beyond a mere gesture.
Even Eris look agitated. His amber eyes were wide as they fixed on his youngest brother, and she swore she saw him mouth something. Don't?
Was it poisoned? She couldn't have been the only one thinking it.
It wasn't as if Lucien had a choice. An invitation from a King was a command trussed in pretty ribbon, and there was no chance of refusing it with so many witnesses present. When Lucien stepped out of her grasp, it felt like a betrayal to let him go, but she had no choice, either.
It was just a ceremonial drink. It wouldn't make sense for Beron to poison him with so many people watching. But then why did it feel so much like a public execution?
Her heart thundered in her chest as she watched Lucien join his father in the center of the ballroom and accept the outstretched goblet. A servant rushed forward to offer the King a glass flute, and they clinked their drinks together before Beron gestured for Lucien to take the first sip.
"To the Eastern Kingdom," he toasted. "May you both prosper in its service."
Lucien bowed his head in acknowledgement before taking a slow, exaggerated swallow that everyone watched as if expecting something unusual would happen. That he might grow a second head or combust into flame or a thousand other horrifying outcomes made possible through magic, but he only lowered the cup and offered his father a subdued smile, before returning to Elain's side.
"That was strange," he mumbled.
Was it nothing, then? All for show?
"How do you feel?" She asked, thrumming with anxiety.
"Fine," Lucien said with a shrug. "The same as before, though slightly more mystified."
"Did you notice a difference in taste?"
"It was ordinary wine, as far as I could tell."
Elain chewed her lip. "Perhaps you should check with a healer, just to be sure."
"And leave you on your own? I don't think so."
She gripped his arm tighter. "You won't be any good to me dead, Lucien."
"I feel fine," he insisted.
"For now. What if whatever you ingested is slow acting?"
"I think this was simply the paranoia of a King realizing he's made no friends with the servants of this palace, nor any of its guests." Lucien kept his voice calm and even. He placed his palm on her arm as he added, "I promise to alert you if I feel even the slightest irregularity."
His tone, his touch. Elain could recognize when she was being coddled. She wanted to chide him for comforting her nerves at his own expense, but couldn't quite muster the spirit to do so. Her nerves were frayed to rough, tattered ends, and the warmth of his hand was soothing the worst of it away.
If only they could remain touching all evening.
It wasn't long until they were approached by other guests, and Lucien's hand dropped back to its respectable place at his side. He introduced Elain to his friends—a group of Lords from the Southern Kingdom, the Duke of Cartheraugh among them—and the sting of formality set back in.
She kept a close eye on her husband as he talked, waiting for any symptoms of poison to present itself. Red swatches or swelling lips or perspiration on his brow. But he seemed, as he insisted, perfectly fine. Cheerful, even, as he recounted an amusing tale of capsizing a barge on his last river cruise with the Duke.
"It was Tam's fault," Lucien insisted. "I told him to go left. And we would have heard the falls sooner if he'd stopped playing his fiddle for five seconds."
The Duke humored the teasing with a wag of his finger. "You were grateful I had that fiddle when we needed to trek back to the manor on foot."
Lucien grinned. "Only because the blasted thing was made of gold. We were able to trade it to a farmer who allowed us to ride on the back of his wagon."
"I would have loved to have seen that," Lord Bron said, clapping Lucien on the back with a boisterous laugh. "You always did bring a delightful mischief to our functions, Lucien. It was a shame to have missed you at the last two public banquets. His Grace mentioned you helped arrange them, after all."
The smile on Lucien's face vanished. Elain found that odd.
"You arranged public banquets in Carterhaugh?" She asked him. "When was this?"
Lord Bron considered, answering on behalf of her husband, "Just over two months ago? I believe they were a week apart."
The Duke of Carterhaugh cut Lord Bron a silencing glare, telling Elan everything she needed to know. This was meant to be a secret kept from wives, or perhaps only herself. A public banquet hosted around the time they were married—but was it organized before or after? And why?
The emergency summons from Eris. The thought was like a puzzle finally slotting into place. The details Lucien shared with her had always been questionable—the feigned urgency despite his obvious preparation, his resistance to volunteer any information, the length of the journey which, in retrospect, was the exact amount of time required for a journey to Carterhaugh. And if the banquets were a week apart, it would account for the delay caused by her fever. But then, why did he miss the second banquet?
Elain processed this with the eyes of her husband and his accomplices upon her, guilt written on their faces, and she marked it as another explanation that was owed to her once they'd survived the ball.
For now, she managed a placid smile and said, "Hopefully His Highness will be able to attend the next one."
Her eyes met Lucien's and he dipped his chin in what she willfully interpreted as an apology. She squeezed his arm to tell him that she wasn't angry. A bit bruised by the revelation, maybe, but she understood their relationship was different at the time. She only wanted an explanation, and she wished they could go somewhere private to talk.
But of course, there were more pressing matters.
Like Prince Rhysand, on the other side of the ballroom, whose violet eyes narrowed to slits whenever he glanced in their direction. She presumed that was the consequence of standing beside the Duke of Carterhaugh, who Feyre once intended to marry.
Elain didn't mind the glaring. A petty lover's quarrel was refreshing, actually. Those sorts of issues were typical of an ordinary ball. The kind where a hostess didn't need to worry if her husband had been poisoned during the toast.
An ordinary hostess would sweep her eyes around the ballroom at regular intervals to ensure that no unmarried ladies were left without a dance partner. Whereas Elain was monitoring to ensure no one was acting antisocial or, worse (and more likely), violent.
And there was most certainly an undertone of violence creeping into Prince Rhysand's smile as he stepped protectively in front of Feyre. At first, Elain thought it was directed towards the Duke of Carterhaugh. Until she noticed King Beron drifting closer to the Northern Kingdom's retinue. He moved slowly, stopping to strike up forced conversation with guests along the way, but the trajectory of his path was clear.
Then she spotted Prince Eris on the opposite side, creeping forward the same as his father, like a pair of felines closing in for a kill.
"If you would excuse us, Your Grace," Lucien said, nodding in farewell to his friend.
The Duke of Caterhaugh looked perturbed to be interrupted mid-sentence, but Lucien offered no further excuses as he pulled Elain away.
"Eris and my father are about to talk to Rhysand about something." He whispered, guiding her to a nearby refreshment table. "I fear I may need to play intermediary to ensure nothing escalates."
"Do you think it will?"
Lucien looked over his shoulder. Eris was the first to interject himself, though it appeared he and Rhysand were having a perfectly cordial conversation. Lucien's mouth tightened. "I can't be certain, but I don't think it's a good sign Rhysand has sent his darling wife away."
"What?" Elain's head jerked back toward her brother-in-laws, finding that Feyre was nowhere in sight. "Where did she go?"
"Rhysand probably sent her away the moment he sensed my family on the prowl." He winced. "I'm sure she's fine. Partake in some refreshments and keep an eye out."
Against her better judgment, Elain said nothing as her husband detached himself and launched towards the ballroom's den of lions. Trying to avoid drawing more attention than was already being paid to Eris and Rhysand's impromptu meeting, Elain forced herself to look away from Lucien's retreating back.
The refreshment table was at the back of the ballroom, sporting a lavish spread of drinks and finger-picking foods. Eyeing the plates of the guests around her, and their indulgent smiles as they grazed, the selection appeared to be a success.
It should have been a relief to see the guests were happy with the refreshments. Perhaps if she had married Lord Nolan's son—who was also in attendance this evening—her largest concern would have been whether or not the guests would like the exotic fruits imported from the continent.
Elain plucked a flute of sparkling wine, feeling guilty for the thought as soon as it surfaced. She didn't regret marrying Lucien. She only feared that his family would continue trying to sabotage their happiness.
"Elain."
She turned at the sound of her name, finding a familiar face that made her gasp.
"Oh, thank goodness!" She said, setting down the flute in favor of throwing her arms around Feyre now that there were fewer eyes upon them. "I was wondering where you wandered off to. I would have come to speak with you sooner, but I admit your husband terrifies me a little."
"Rhys?" Feyre snorted. "Don't tell him that, his ego is large enough already."
The way Feyre spoke of him so casually relaxed something in Elain. Feyre had once been so distressed by the idea of marrying him that she'd plotted to run away—and would have done so if Rhysand himself hadn't caught her in the act.
Elain still remembered the look in her sister's eye the day she left for the Northern Kingdom. It wasn't fear. Elain would have petrified, but Feyre had always been braver than most. Instead, she'd worn a profound, abyssal sort of misery that had rattled Elain to her core. She hadn't seen that look since the day Mother died when she glimpsed her father's expression during the service. It was the look of someone with a shattered heart.
Rumor said that True Love was the most powerful form of magic. But Elain doubted it could cure that kind of sadness.
"You look beautiful," Elain said, relishing the chance to admire her sister's clothing up close. She hadn't seen before, but the fabric of Feyre's redingote was stamped with a design of intersecting flowers and vines and whorls—a match to her tattoo, which Elain noticed she wore proudly, without hiding it behind gloves as she had been made to do all her life.
Feyre beamed. "I was just thinking the same thing about you."
Glancing down at herself, Elain thought her gown paltry compared to the command and elegance of Feyre's. They were both princesses, which was a surreal thought, but Feyre truly looked the part.
"Are you happy?" Elain asked quietly. Even if it risked faux pas. She needed to know while they were together and she had the opportunity to help. "In the Northern Kingdom, I mean. With…"
"Yes," Feyre answered, without hesitation. "Beyond happy, Elain. There's some things that I'm still learning, of course. We weren't brought up to be princesses. But Rhys is by my side through all of it."
Tears burned behind Elain's eyes. "You love him?"
She didn't really need to ask. She could hear it in Feyre's voice.
"Yes," she said again, glancing fondly across the ballroom, to where her husband looked to be having an increasingly displeasurable conversation. "With every piece of my heart, I love him."
"Is he…" Elain searched for a polite wording, "different from what the rumors claim?"
Feyre's lip twitched. It was an expression Elain recognized, from when Feyre used to intentionally misbehave to rile Nesta or their governess. Naughtiness, but with a darker, more wicked twist that she suspected was all Rhysand's influence.
"It depends on what rumors you've heard," Feyre said, dropping her voice into a conspiratorial whisper. "Do you mean the ones about his—"
"Do not say something crass to me at my own ball, Feyre Archeron!"
Her younger sister descended into a fit of giggles. "You asked the question Elain, you deviant."
Elain gaped. "I was asking about his temperament!"
"Sure you were," Feyre sang, her tone ripe with disbelief. "And I'm no longer Feyre Archeron, you know." She stuck out her hand, revealing a silver ring on her left hand set with a stone of deep, solid blue, which glinted with the lines of a six-pointed star across the round surface. "You don't want to know what I had to go through to get this ring. So if you're going to scold me, you might as well call me by my new name, Princess Feyre—"
"Hey!"
Feyre hissed as an elbow jammed into her side, compliments of Nesta forcing her way between them.
"Watch it," she hissed.
"You watch it," Nesta shot back. "Did you have any intention of rescuing me from Eris's family, or were you going to enjoy a bit of cake while I suffered?"
"'My, what a lovely ball you've put on, Elain.' 'Oh, why thank you, Nesta.'" Elain muttered, mocking her sister's lower register.
Nesta quirked a brow. "Are you done?"
"You didn't seem to have any trouble finding your way here," Feyre said, still tenderly rubbing her side. "Why the urgency? Are you harmed?"
"No," she said quickly, crossing her arms. Elain didn't miss the glance she sent across the room, where Beron and Eris were still conversing with Rhysand, newly joined by Lucien. "I'm perfectly fine. Is it a crime to want to be near my sisters?"
"It's a crime to assault them, I'm fairly certain." Feyre took a measured breath. "Regardless, I'm glad you're here, and it's quaint you've mentioned needing rescue because that's precisely why I've come."
Nesta frowned. "Pardon?"
"We have a plan," Feyre said, grinning. "Rhys and I. Any moment now, he's going to lure the Vanserras out of the ballroom to take their negotiations somewhere private. And while they're distracted, we're going to get into my carriage and flee to the Northern Kingdom."
Elain's face slackened. "What?"
"This might be our only chance to get you out before the war," Feyre explained. "Beron's trying to use you and Nesta to persuade Rhys into withdrawing his support of Rhodes. He loses that leverage if you're safe behind our border." Her eyes brightened like she was excited about this plan. "You can escape these marriages. But we need to move fast."
"I…" Elain shook her head. "Feyre, I can't."
"You can," she urged, grabbing Elain's hand. There was something maternal in the way she slid her hand across Elain's knuckles, soothing away her fictional anxieties. "You'll be safe in the North, I promise. Lucien won't be able to reach you—"
"I love Lucien," Elain interrupted, her voice sharp.
Both her sisters stilled, their eyes wide.
Elain lifted her chin, unwavering. "I will not leave him."
Feyre's mouth parted. Elain imagined the gears turning behind her eyes, shifting to a halt, then spinning again as she reconstructed her plan in real-time.
"Okay," she said slowly. "Well, in that case. I… Erm. Does he approve of his father's plan?"
"No. Not at all. But he's a prince in title only. He doesn't hold any power in his father's court."
"Good—That's good," Feyre said, nodding. "Well then, in that case, he can come, too. It will be a tight squeeze, but we can acquire another carriage once we're past the Autumn border. The only problem is…" Feyre trailed off as she glanced toward the space their husbands had been occupying. Only to find they had already departed.
"It's too late," Nesta said. "If he's in the room with them, there's no way to get him out without drawing suspicion. Your plan only works if it's stealthy."
Elain turned to her, alarmed. "You're on board with this?"
"You think I want to marry Eris?"
"I…" Elain knew she needed to tread carefully. "I considered you two might be a good fit, in some ways. And that you might like to be queen."
Nesta snorted. "Queen of what? Sycophants? I'd sit beside his throne while he lauds me as some plaything. I wouldn't have any power if I stayed here, and neither would you."
"I'd have love," Elain said quietly. "That's more important to me."
"You wouldn't be safe, Elain," Feyre reasoned. "Can Lucien really protect you from his father? As soon as the war starts, you'll be kept as a hostage, not a princess. Love might not be enough."
"If you care so much, then why doesn't your husband just prevent the war by giving in to Beron's demands?"
She was embarrassed for asking even before Feyre's gaze morphed into one of hardened steel. "Beron will go to war regardless of the Northern Kingdom's involvement. He plans to invade Rhodes and raze their cities. Their entire Kingdom will fall without our aid."
Hot, oily shame flooded through her. Framed in that light, her question sounded exactly as childish and selfish as her governess used to accuse her of being. Of course the solution wasn't that easy, and the world wasn't that simple. The impact this conflict had on her life was but an inconsequential sliver of a much larger composition, one which would impact the lives of thousands of people.
That thought began chafing against another awareness, no longer raw with discovery, but still a source of discomfort: that she was starkly ill-prepared for the life of a princess. It was apparent to everyone that she was navigating these politics blindly, and it was only a matter of time before she stumbled too gravely to recover.
Those thoughts frightened her. They suggested it would be wise to accept Feyre's offer and abandon this life she was never suited for to begin with.
"I can't go," Elain repeated. "Not without Lucien."
She was met with incredulous silence.
"Nesta?" Feyre prompted, turning to their eldest sister. "Are you coming? Our window is closing."
Nesta stared vacantly into the space between her sisters. Elain had the sense her mind was somewhere very far away.
"No," she said, finally. Reluctantly. "Not without Elain."
Feyre looked moments away from tearing her hair out. "Okay. Fine. Fine! Let me go speak with my knights. I need to call this whole thing off."
Feyre's underskirt rippled as she turned and stormed away, muttering something under her breath about stubborn sisters.
"You don't have to stay," Elain whispered to Nesta. "I'm choosing to stay here because I have love. I know you can't say the same about—"
"I have you," Nesta interrupted, her voice fierce. "As long as you're here, I'm staying. It's not up for debate."
Across the room, Feyre was speaking to her knights, neither of whom appeared to be taking the news with grace. One of the knights, Sir Cassian, peeled away from the group whilst Feyre was still talking. If Elain thought his face was friendly before, now it looked thunderous.
He was heading straight for them at an alarming pace, certain to cause a scene.
"Oh no," Elain whispered, grabbing Nesta by the wrist. "Do you think Feyre's planning to force us—"
"Nesta," Sir Cassian called, his voice seething.
Some of Elain's concern curbed into confusion. "Do you know him?" She asked her sister.
Nesta turned her back to the knight. "No, I don't," she said, with a venom that suggested the opposite. How was it that everyone seemed to know Sir Cassian? "Elain, please escort me to the nearest bathing chamber."
It was such a strange request that Elain was temporarily afflicted with inaction until Nesta sniffed and added a shrill quickly! that threw a spur in her side, driving her forward. They hastened through the doors of the ballroom, ignoring the inquisitive looks from the other guests and the knight following at their heels, still calling for Nesta.
"What does he want?" Elain asked.
"Attention," Nesta answered with reproach.
"I don't think he's going to stop following us."
"He will."
"He's walking much faster than we are."
"Then let's—"
"Nesta," Cassian said again, grabbing her by the elbow and hauling them all to a stop in the middle of the hall.
"Unhand me!" Nesta snarled.
Cassian did not, which Elain observed with a great deal of disapproval. Knights were meant to uphold the greatest standards of chivalry, but evidently Sir Cassian was not measuring up to the great fables they read in childhood.
"And it's Miss Archeron to you," Elain added, trying to wedge herself between the Knight and her sister. "Though you don't seem to care the least about manners, Sir Cassian. How dare you act so familiar with my sister!"
Nesta snorted. Elain was beginning to feel very lost about this whole exchange.
"Forgive me, Your Highness," Sir Cassian said, and his face did look remorseful. "I fear I must act out of order for your own safety."
"Cassian," Nesta warned.
Elain, bemused, repeated, "For my own safety?"
In answer, Sir Cassian barreled forward, shoving his body into Elain's stomach at the same moment his arm swept around her back, holding her in place so he could haul her upon his shoulder like a sack of vegetables.
Never in her life had Elain been handled so indelicately by a gentleman. At first, all she could do was hang limply in disbelief, like a puppet cut from its strings, half-certain she was stuck in an anxiety-induced dream.
As Sir Cassian began running down the hall, Elain at last came to terms with her predicament and began beating her fists against his back.
"Let me go!" She cried, kicking her legs out in a useless attempt to squirm out of his iron-tight grip.
A glance at her side showed that Nesta was in a similar position, though she seemed remarkably more resigned to their situation.
"I'm doing this for your own good!" Cassian insisted, rushing through the halls to escape before someone could investigate the commotion.
"I'll scream," Elain warned. "I'll have every guard rushing to stop you."
And if that failed, there was always the ruby around her throat.
Cassian laughed. "I'd like to see them try."
Such arrogance. She readied to tell him that Eris had positioned twice as many guards in the palace as were usually on patrol.
Until Cassian added, "We took them all out on the way in. How else do you think we planned to get you two out of here?"
"Y-you killed them?" Her eyes darted down each corridor they passed, searching for the evidence of such a gruesome attack. "All of them?"
"Relax. They're just having a nice, long sleep. They'll rise tomorrow with mild headaches and questionable memories of how they spent their night in the barracks."
Elain was relieved to hear the guards were still alive, though the good news did little to aid the kidnapping attempt at present. She sent Nesta a beseeching look, suspecting that her sister would have more influence over the knight, considering that they knew each other.
Arms braced against Cassian's back to resist bouncing with his every step, Nesta was monitoring the retreating halls, her eyes unfocused. It took several moments for her to notice Elain's stare, not even jarred by the successive sharp turns Cassian executed as moved through the palace with astonishing familiarity. As if he had studied this path.
When Nesta did notice, she blinked several times, as if too dazed to process what Elain was asking. Then she frowned, clearly conflicted. Nesta did not want to stay, and it would be all too convenient to allow Cassian to force them to leave so that she need not harbor any of the blame.
At last, Nesta sighed. "Cassian, this is absurd. Put us down."
This was the same sister who had caused past nursemaids and governesses to resign, citing an inability to manage a child of such vicious temper and unyielding will. Elain could recognize when her sister was not earnestly applying that skill set.
"I'm not leaving you here to rot, Nesta," Cassian said. He paused as he came to the top of a stairwell and took a moment to catch his breath. Though, Elain noted with begrudging awe, he did not sound even slightly winded as he demanded, "Have you seen what the Queen looks like? What your future looks like?"
Now, genuine irritation itched across Nesta's face. "I alone am the master of my fate. Not you, nor Eris, nor some fictitious Mother Goddess. Do not insult me by pretending you are doing me a favor."
Cassian laughed. Laughed. "I understand ladies are taught to play at refusal, so not to appear overeager. Though I must say, Nesta, I've seen you fight harder against a tough cut of game."
When had they ever had a chance to dine together? Elain was baffled, particularly when Nesta merely glared in response. She didn't claw, or scream, or attempt to flay him with her words.
Satisfied, Cassian repositioned their weights upon his shoulders, then descended the stairs two at a time, never once wavering in balance or grace. He was an impressive athlete, a credit to his title—if only in athleticism alone. His honor and chivalry were still questionable indeed.
Elain huffed under her breath. It was clear no one cared much about her opinion, and that she was alone in her disapproval of the Northern Kingdom's scheme. She would find no ally in either of her sisters.
She thought of the necklace Lucien gifted her. What would happen if she activated it? He was in a meeting with his father and Prince Rhysand, and would surely draw attention if he excused himself. She feared how King Beron would react if he discovered the Northern Kingdom was attempting to smuggle Nesta and Elain out of his borders. Would he have Sir Cassian executed for the crime?
It was reprehensible to be seized against her will, but she did understand the intentions behind the act. They believed her life was endangered if she remained in the Eastern Kingdom. And, to their credit, they were probably right.
Following that line of thought, would she truly find an ally in Lucien? Or would he want her to go? Not two months ago she'd found him drowning in spells to contact her True Love so that she might escape his father's plot.
Elain spent too long deliberating it. Cassian took another sharp turn and raced across a doorway where rich, polished floorboards gave way to bright marble. They were on the ground floor, on the opposite end from the kitchen given the quiet, and from the chill in the air, she knew they were approaching an open door to the courtyard. She reckoned they would race across it, and there would be some carriage obscured in the forest where they would make their breakaway.
It was an expertly planned escape. She could admit that much.
And its execution would have been perfect if Nesta had not begun screaming in agony when Cassian attempted to haul them over the threshold. Cassian staggered, his weight thrown back as if he'd sustained a blow.
"Let me go!" Nesta gasped, writhing against his grip.
Cassian obeyed without question, setting both Elain and Nesta to their feet. Nesta crumpled as soon as she was released, trembling as she stared wide-eyed at the open door, as if it had betrayed her in some way.
"Nes?" Cassian whispered, sounding stricken. His arms hovered in the air, like he wanted to reach toward her, but was afraid he would inflict further pain.
"It burned," she said, pulling her arms protectively around her body. "Like I'd been..." Her eyes grew red with tears. "As if I'd been cast into boiling water."
Elain didn't think she'd ever seen her sister cry. It unnerved her, not understanding how to help nor how to comfort. Nesta did not like being touched or offered sympathies, and there wasn't anything she could do about the magic—for Elain suspected it was magic at work.
Her suspicions were affirmed when Cassian fixed his jaw. "This is Eris's doing," he growled.
"Is there anything we can do to help her?" Elain asked. She didn't want to aid the escape, but she would if it meant remedying Nesta.
"I don't know what he's given her." Cassian's hands turned to fists at his sides. He began pacing, muttering angry words to himself. "Did he give you something, Nes? A potion? Or something more innocuous—a refreshment, perhaps?"
Nesta's lips began trembling. "H-he handed me sparkling wine during the speech."
With a furious roar, Cassian turned and sent his foot into a standing brass lantern. It rattled, swinging wildly back and forth from its hook, but did not fall over. A relief, because Elain was certain the flame would have caught on the entry rug, and then they would have all felt as if they were burning.
"Kiss me," Cassian let out, causing both Elain and Nesta to jump at both the volume and the pure shock of his demand.
"What?" Nesta asked. She did not sound as appalled as Elain would have been.
"Kiss me," Cassian said again, stepping towards her. He held out his hand. "It will shatter whatever spell Eris has cast."
Nesta stared at his hand, blinking. Then she looked up at Cassian, her brows merging together. Not in confusion, or bafflement, but in a sadness so heavy that Elain felt an echo of its grief splinter in her chest.
Then Elain watched as that expression disappeared. The way they had all been coached since childhood to contain unpleasant emotions behind pretty, practiced masks. Nesta's was vacant, mimicking the hollow eyes of a porcelain doll.
Her voice was equally empty as she whispered, "You don't know that will work."
"I do," Cassian said firmly. "It will work, Nesta. Because True—"
"Don't." Nesta turned her face the way one would prepare for a blow.
Cassian faltered. "Don't you… Nesta, don't you want this? To come to the North with me? You can't tell me you want to stay here. I don't believe you."
Nesta fixed her gaze intently on the far wall, staring at one singular spot as she blinked. And blinked. And blinked. Her lips were trembling again. Elain didn't understand why she was doing this to herself.
"Nesta," she said softly. "It's okay. You don't need to stay here for me."
"You don't—" Nesta's voice cracked. "You don't understand what I've done, Elain."
"We can fix it," she soothed. "Whatever it is."
Nesta covered her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut. The tears that she'd been trying to blink away sprung free. And then she took a deep breath, and rasped, "Lucien. I—it was meant to be the King, but Lucien—"
Any further explanation was interrupted by the sound of an object whipping through the air, and subsequently plunging into Cassian's chest. The knight regarded the foreign object, which looked to be a golden stick pin brooch in the shape of a serpent, with momentary curiosity before his eyes rolled skyward and he toppled onto his back.
Nesta began wailing, crawling on her hands and knees toward Cassian's prone body, meanwhile Elain scrambled to face the assailant. She was prepared to throw herself in front of her sister, if necessary.
Eris Vanserra strode from the shadows of the corridor, a sneer curled over his lips.
"There's no need for the hysterics," he said, sweeping his eyes over the scene before him with obvious disapproval. "Your heroic knight will recover. I merely grew tired of his meddling."
He put his ringed fingers to his temples, rubbing there as if it had truly inconvenienced him to stab Sir Cassian. She thought she heard him mutter some complaint about Northern Kingdom dogs and fucking up plans, before he dropped his hands and snapped them at Nesta.
"Deal with the mutt," he said, jabbing his chin at Cassian's limp body.
"What are you going to do with him?" Elain demanded.
Eris released a long, exaggerated breath. Like she was truly testing the limits of his patience by asking.
"You," he said, mouth tugging into a frown. Elain straightened beneath his assessment, raising her chin to dare him to say something indecent to her. He only sighed again, before reaching into the inside of his waistcoat. "This doesn't concern you. Find Lucien. Give this to him."
He handed her a small vial, no bigger than her thumb, filled with a milky, translucent liquid. Twice she had accepted nondescript concoctions from Prince Eris. Three times would make her a fool, especially after what happened to Nesta.
"You gave my sister something," she seethed, refusing to take the vial. "I have never heard her scream like that before."
Eris regarded Nesta where she still kneeled on the floor, attending to Sir Cassian. Her tears had dried when she saw he was still breathing, but her movements were still quick and darting, laced with panic that matched the wild look in her eyes. Elain didn't think she had any awareness outside of monitoring each of those precious breaths.
The Crown Prince shrugged. "I needed assurance she would stay in the palace, a precaution which proved necessary. I'd discourage you from further questions. Your husband's clock is ticking, and I know you don't despise each other as much as you've been pretending."
"Lucien's what?" Elain recalled now that Nesta had been about to say something about Lucien. She felt a spike of incoherent panic. "What did you do to him?"
Eris winced at the shrill in her voice. "He's been poisoned," he said, volunteering no further detail. "This is the antidote. You do not have time to continue interrogating me."
Elain glanced between the outstretched vial and the hallway he'd come from, antsy from the thought of causing delay if Lucien was in peril, and yet not trusting Eris in the slightest.
She hesitated. "How do I know—"
"Take it, Elain!" He shouted, losing composure for the first time since knowing him. Without waiting for her to react, Eris snatched her wrist and forced the bottle into her palm. The glass was still warm from the lining of his waistcoat "Go now. I will not waste my brother's life to indulge your theatrics."
His teeth were barred. That was the observation that finally set Elain into motion, because she recognized that expression in the sister who was beside Cassian on the floor. The lashing out, because anger was easier, more acceptable, to wear than pain or fear. He was terrified, she realized.
And so was she.
Get to Lucien. That was the single, dominating thought bubbling to the top amid a sea of other anxieties as she turned and sprinted down the hall. She couldn't think of Sir Cassian, slumped into a heap on the floor, or what might become of him and Nesta.
She couldn't question why—or how—Nesta was involved in Eris's schemes, though her whimpered confession did ring in her ears. You don't understand what I've done. Nor would she wonder how the Northern Kingdom's thwarted kidnapping would disturb the unspoken, and admittedly shaky, treaty of peace for the evening.
It was all sediment sinking to the bottom of importance, and she would not stir up those thoughts at the risk of obscuring the most pressing issue. Lucien had been poisoned. Lucien was dying, and no one knew it.
No, Eris knew it. He'd been carrying the antidote.
That was another thing she couldn't inspect too closely, or else she'd become too dizzy to ever make it to the ballroom.
As it were, the details in her periphery were already becoming smudged at the edges. The firelight from the lit sconces of the wall shot across her vision in long, arching paths. She could barely see the hallway blurring past, and all she could think was, Lucien, Lucien, Lucien. I have to get to Lucien.
"Elain?"
King Beron stood before her. He wasn't nearly so tall as Lucien or Eris, nor as broad as Sir Cassian, and yet he seemed to occupy the full width of the hallway with his proud stature.
"Are you well?" The King asked, staring over her shoulder as though assessing where she'd come from. Or if they were alone. "You appear flustered."
It was a marvel how he could make those words sound like an accusation. Elain wondered if men like King Beron were even capable of sincerity, or if he was born twisted and rotted within.
"I…" Elain sucked in a harsh breath as she searched for a suitable explanation. The King was too discerning to feign composure, and truthfully Elain didn't believe she was capable in that moment. "Forgive me, Your Majesty. I've just heard the news of my father's waning health and was taking a moment of respite."
"You looked as if you were in a hurry."
Elain bowed her head. If she could not subdue him with sympathy, perhaps he would react better to shame. "I didn't wish for anyone to see me in this state."
The King clicked his tongue. She could not tell if it was intended as a sound of understanding or disdain. "Come along then." He grabbed her by the wrist. It wasn't an arresting touch by any means, but it was firm, and Elain made an alarmed noise in the back of her throat. "We'll find you a private place to compose yourself."
"Oh," Elain breathed, warring with the instinct to fight against him as he pulled her down the hall. "I'm not sure if that will be necessary, Your Majesty. I was planning to return to my quarters—"
"On the opposite end of the palace?" the King questioned. "What foolishness. You're in the servant's wing. Any of these bedrooms would be suitable."
To prove his point, the King threw open the nearest door and dragged Elain inside. It was empty, though clearly lived in. Elain didn't know which servant the room belonged to, but it had been left in a respectable state; the single bed neatly made, their belongings organized into tidy piles, the chair of their small, private table pushed in.
King Beron pulled out the chair and more-or-less threw Elain down upon it. She sat gingerly, regarding the angry mark on her wrist and resisting the urge to rub at it lest she look meek. She was relieved he had let go, but that feeling was overshadowed by the apprehension of being in an enclosed space with him. With no one to witness what occurred.
"Is this better?" The King asked, raising his brows as if expecting gratitude. Did he truly think he was being charitable by dragging her in here?
"Yes," Elain said, not meeting his eyes. "Thank you, your majesty."
She fixed her attention on the bouquet at the center of the table, a smaller version of the arrangements from the ballroom. There was an identical bouquet in every room in the palace—their priority had been decorating the guest rooms, of course, but Elain had been pleased when there was enough left over to place in the servants' quarters as well. She liked being kind to them in what little ways she could.
Now, it was a kindness paid to herself. A pretty thing she could use to avoid the King's prying gaze.
"You are looking improved," he noted. "Less flushed in the cheeks."
It did not seem possible to Elain that she would look better. Not when Lucien's antidote was being delayed, and certainly not when she'd been shoved into this room like a caged bird.
"Yes," Elain agreed, preparing to stand. "I think a few moments was all I needed. I rather think I'm ready to return, now."
"I think it would be clever if you took advantage of this time to collect yourself," the King said, placing a hand on her shoulder. He applied adequate strength to suggest his intentions—that she would either comply, or he would exact whatever force proved necessary. When Elain sat, he hummed agreeably. "I always find there's great value in taking a moment of reflection. Don't you, Miss Archeron?"
It's Princess Vanserra, she wanted to snap, uncertain which bothered her more: his refusal to acknowledge her royal title or her marriage to his son. He undoubtedly shared the opinion of the Queen's court that she was below a noblewoman's station. He likely perpetuated it.
"Certainly," Elain said, thinking about the necklace around her throat. If she pressed it, Lucien would come to find her, and she could give him the antidote.
But Elain took stock of the things she knew. King Beron's ceremonial goblet had been poisoned. The King asked Lucien to drink from it. Eris had been in possession of the antidote. At best, Eris had attempted to poison his father. At worst, the King poisoned Lucien intentionally.
She didn't see an outcome where luring Lucien to this room would benefit him. Either the King discovered she was in possession of the antidote and blamed her for the attempt on his life, or the King discovered she was in possession of the antidote and prevented her from administering it to Lucien.
"I have been reflecting on something of late," the King said. His tone lacked any color of whimsy or contemplation. It was stone cold, the same as an executioner's block. "I'm sure you may have wondered what I was doing in the servant's wing myself. You see, there have been odd rumors finding my ears."
He paused, as though expecting this would invite intrigue. Elain kept her eyes fixed on the bouquet, dread boiling in her stomach. She thought she could feel it expand, like rising steam, filling her near to bursting.
"Some of the servants claim that you and Lucien shared living quarters before my arrival, and were quite amorous with each other. It beggars belief, considering what I have observed these last few weeks."
"We did share quarters," Elain said, seeing no use to deny it. He wouldn't believe her if she did. "We decided it would be sensible to produce an heir quickly. So that we needn't… prolong our attachment." She swallowed down her mortification to be divulging these details to him, however fabricated they may be. "Lucien was eager to return to separate bedrooms."
"So, then it's worked?" The King pried. "You're with child?"
"We don't know the results yet." In truth, Elain hadn't had the vacancy of mind to consider if their attempts had been successful. "We've resolved to try again in a month's time, if I'm not with child by then."
"How dutiful."
It did not sound like praise. Elain held herself still as the King began pacing the perimeter of the small, circular table, his arms clasped behind his back, swallowed beneath the dark red cape that trailed beneath his back, collecting on the floor like a pool of blood.
"If it were the truth, that is," the King added. "It grieves me to admit that I don't believe your tale. Shall I share with you why that's so?"
Elain didn't know how to respond without admitting guilt. She kept silent, staring ahead.
"Are you familiar with magic, Miss Archeron?"
"My father forbid us from learning of it," she answered, trying not to think of butterfly wings.
"A disservice, to allow you to be ignorant of such a power artifice. Though, I suppose I see the merits of your docility. My wife is well practiced in the art. It's why I sought her as my bride."
Elain, at last, lifted her eyes to the King. She was curious about the note in his voice when he spoke of the Queen, the closest she thought she'd ever heard him come to affection. Her curiosity curdled the moment she saw the smug tilt of his lips, the way a cat would smile with a mouse beneath its paw. Possession, not affection.
"She has a fascinating gift," the King continued. "Whenever she's experiencing pain, she can see glimpses of the future. And if I slip linden root into her tea, she tells me everything she sees, whether she wants to or not. Do you know what she revealed to me last night?"
Every instance she'd noticed bruises on the Queen's skin hurtled back to Elain with horrifying clarity. The healers that would visit her in the night, the vacant look in her eyes.
Elain thought she might be sick.
"She told me," the King went on, "that she saw a woman with golden-brown hair and a tiara sneaking into the scullery to slip poison into my goblet. When I asked the servants of your whereabouts this morning, do you know what they said?"
Yes, she imagined she did. They would have said that she was in the scullery. Helping polish the drinking glasses.
There was no denying it, now. She knew who attempted to poison the King. If the choice was incriminating Nesta or incriminating herself, it wasn't a choice at all. She said nothing, though as she absorbed the full gravity of her situation, she imagined the horror dawning on her expression said plenty.
"At last," the King said with a smirk. "The conflicting accounts of your relationship with Lucien made sense. He's been hiding you, the vessel of his revenge, and now the vessel of mine."
Elain shot to her feet. His eyes held that same predatory gleam she'd observed when he ordered Lucien to whip a child. He relished causing pain, and now he was staring at her like she was his next fix.
"Lucien's already poisoned," she reasoned, edging around the table to keep it as a barrier between them. "He won't know about anything you do to me if he's dead. It will be pointless."
"Regardless, it will be satisfying," the King said. The way one talks about squishing an ant underfoot. "How amusing that he thought he could keep you from me."
With a yelp, Elain darted toward the door, only for the King to snag a handful of her hair and yank her back towards the table. Her scalp burned as threw her down, and she cried out when the wooden edge jammed sharply into her spine.
In a mindless scrabble, Elain clawed for her throat. Her hands were trembling, uncoordinated from her panic, but she was able to crush the stone on her second attempt at jabbing her thumb against it.
Red light burst into the room. Beron scrambled back, momentarily shielding his eyes before he realized what it was. With a hiss, he snatched the necklace in his fist and snapped it off her neck, sending pearls scattering in every direction.
"Did he think I wouldn't recognize this? His father played the same trick three decades ago and it was just as ineffective then." King Beron regarded the glowing stone with a derisive sneer, then strode towards the window to hurl it out.
His father?
Elain didn't have time to linger on that train of thought. As the King watched the glowing stone sink into the darkness of the courtyard below, Elain raised from the table, grabbed hold of the bouquet in the centerpiece, and hurled it with all her strength at the King's head.
It struck true, shattering a rain of glass and water and flower stems atop the crown of his head. The King collapsed, and Elain leapt forward, terrified he would get back up and she would lose her chance of escape. Of getting Lucien the antidote.
The glass fragments cut into her gloves as she felt around blindly for a piece that was large enough to use as a weapon. Her hand closed around a sharp, oblong piece of glass. It cut into her palm from the severity of her grip, but she hardly felt the sting.
King Beron groaned, raising a hand to his head.
Elain acted on pure instinct as she shoved the pointed tip of the fragment through his throat. She saw nothing, fueled by blind panic and a rushing in her ear as she stabbed over and over, until her hands were too slick with blood to hold on any longer.
She let the bloodied piece of glass fall atop the King's motionless chest. His eyes were wide and unseeing, much like her own.
It took several shallow, ratcheting breaths for clarity to creep back in, after which Elain couldn't stomach the sight of the King's bloodied throat. She looked away, finding the remnants of the bouquet as if subconsciously seeking the comfort of the familiar.
The flowers were interspersed among the debris of glass and pearl and splayed limbs. Crushed gladioli petals floated in a puddle of blood.
And in a moment of pure hysteria, she thought, At least the flowers are pretty.
