Den of Blades and Briars: A dark fairy tale romance (The Broken Kingdoms Book 7)

Frey patrolled the grounds of the longhouse when the moon was highest, Stieg took the dead of night, and I would give him rest at the break of dawn.

Rune and Bo thought it odd that I worked with my household like a common guard, that I tilled the soil with the forest fae, or when I helped repair fishing nets. It was a lesson I’d always valued of my kingdom, of my king and queen.

Valen and Elise did not shy away from their responsibilities, yet they did not place themselves on a pedestal above the labors of their people. When trouble came to the fields of Etta, they would dirty their hands by helping. When disease entered townships, or death came to families, if they were not present, someone from the inner royal household would be.

I would not simply oversee preparations for this revel. I’d be there, obeying the commands of my surly cook and a troll who’d not smiled once in his life. I was certain of it.

So, when I needed to wake at such a ghastly time already, it was wholly annoying when screams and the tang of blood snapped me out of sleep.

Hair stuck to the sweat on my brow. Breaths burned in my lungs. I propped my elbows on my knees and covered my face in my palms for a few heartbeats until the agony once more slipped into the horror of a nightmare.

It was becoming more difficult. The pain and guilt of a time long gone had reared its ugly head since the day I’d been assigned the title of Northern Ambassador. If Valen only knew, if he truly knew how my foolish choices had caused such disasters in the past, he’d strip me of the title at once, and likely regret ever calling me a trusted friend.

My stomach grew sour the longer bitter, pitiful thoughts bounced about in my skull.

“Dammit,” I tossed back the pelts over my legs and stormed to the open shutters.

The night wind brought in the scent of cardamom and honeysuckle. Frosted dew crusted atop the blades of grass, and the cold against my bare chest helped to chase away the dark thoughts.

I leaned my head against the wood frame of the window. An elm tree directly outside my window shattered the white light into ribbons around the thick branches. The rustle of wings, and a weak, strangled caw drew my attention to the tangle of roots against the outer wall.

“You beastly thing. What is it you want? Do birds now nest on the ground?” Stupid creature, practically begging for a fox to come and devour it.

The raven’s feathers were ruffled. At the sound of my voice, it lifted its head, its glossy eyes locked on me. There we stood, holding the other’s gaze. Even with the lack of ravens in the isles, there was always a recognition whenever my raven appeared.

The bird stared at me as if it could read my every thought.

“Could you not sleep either, my feathered pest? What wakes you? Haunted moments from a cruel past as well? Or is it you simply find a great deal of pleasure tormenting me with your presence? Not that I’d blame you for wanting to be near me.” I chuckled, but there was little humor in it. The words came more out of habit than earnest. A way to hide disquiet. Jest, laugh, chatter. Keep the pain hidden behind levity and enjoyment.

With a shudder of feathers, the raven spread its wings and fluttered into the upper branches, putting distance between us.

I shook my head. Seemed I grew tiresome even for pesky birds.

As I made a move to turn back into the room, I paused when a glint of moonlight caused a shimmer over something dark and wet on the knotted roots.

A furrow gathered in the center of my brows. Left behind in the place the raven had nested was a fresh splatter of blood.

When evening brought the purple dusk, folk throughout Alvheim and the lower courts arrived for the latest revel.

Tables were stacked with sweet delights and foamy, Ettan ale. Minstrels were delivered from the High Court, and the cheery tune of lutes coupled with the steady beat of rawhide drums blanketed the revelers circled around Gunnar and Eryka.

With such a short time to prepare, most folk dancing were only from the Court of Hearts. But a few forest fae from the serpents spun about in their dull green satin gowns, and crowns of reeds and blossoms. Then, the ever-present high nobles from the Court of Stars in their silver doublets and tiaras drifted about, there to ensure their princess did not act out her tongue fantasies with the prince before the vows.

From the doorway of the longhouse, I took it all in. Laughter, music, the scent of leather, tilled soil, and oak.

Bracken was generous in the lands he offered up for foreign dignitaries. Pastures of posies held the strange goats of Alvheim, beasts with long, wiry coats, and sweet milk instead of sour. Next to the pastures were coops of pheasants and hens, and ponds stocked with silver fish that grew plumpest during the frosts.

There were cottages for field workers and gardeners, a staff made up mostly of forest fae. There were burrows where troll folk could pass through with bone knives for trade, or baked sweet breads from the town squares down the road.

It was a pleasant place to call home during the months I was away from Etta.

At the head of the longest table, Bracken laughed, his cheeks painted in oils with true flecks of gold. His eyes followed Sofia as she spun around the hall with various partners. Bo had already tipped sideways on one bench; Frey laughed, catching him before he toppled, and handed the tracker another horn of ale. Rune had his iridescent wings free and was stoic at Bracken’s right hand. Nothing new.

I was pleased with such a fete with so little time to prepare, but the disquiet from the night still knotted in my chest. Most cases when the nightmares came, I could swiftly forget them, but the feeling of unease remained through the day. Now, more disconcerting was being surrounded by laughter and frivolous stupidity, and I wanted to retreat from it.

“You do not join the revel, Ambassador.” Astrid appeared from nowhere. The rustle of her skirt shivered when she came to a stop at my side. Two attendants with sternly braided hair stood on either side and stared at the ground.

“I am the lord of this house,” I said. “I will oversee tonight.”

Astrid scoffed. “You oversee, yet you see nothing.”

I kept my expression impassive and faced the former queen. “I assure you, I have no idea what you mean.”

“Of course you don’t.” Astrid laughed. “You, a man who jests and desires nothing more but acceptance from the king who stole the crown from atop your head. How could you understand anything?”

“Careful how you speak of my folk, Lady.”

“Is it not true? Did you not turn over your place on the throne? I am told you did so without a single argument, without a single pause. Like a coward.”

“A coward?” I lowered my voice, too angry to properly assess my thoughts before they rolled off my tongue. “To turn over the rightful throne to its rightful king is not cowardice. What is cowardly is fighting with tyrants, fighting against your own folk to keep your greedy claws on power you do not deserve.”

Astrid narrowed her eyes. “Again, you see, yet see nothing.”

“What do you wish of me?” I took a step closer. “I serve my king and queen; peace between our people is for the benefit of all.”

“I wish for your presence here to be ended.” The threat hissed through her teeth. Seeming to catch her misspeak, Astrid softened her tone. “I do not need such unambitious influences around my son and my king.”

I laughed. “Ah, never fear, Lady Astrid, your son is fully aware that when the time comes, your ambition will bring war to his throne yet again.”

Without a word, Astrid lifted her skirt and sauntered away, her silent attendants in her wake.

I took a moment to imagine an arrow point lodging into the back of her skull. Another breath, and I felt better.

The revel continued. Drums, lutes, pipes, all left folk dizzy from spinning more than the ale and sweet wines spilling down their throats. I scoffed more than once at couples disappearing into the shadows of the longhouse. Frey was once again surrounded by two or three huldra. Sofia was absent the dance circle now, I wondered if she might be one of them.

Stieg stood in the corner like an unmoving sentinel.

Guards pulled forest fae onto their laps. Even Dunker kept casting Hodag an occasional glance as if he might want to take his fellow troll for a spin.

I shook my head, a smirk on my lips, when Princess Signe giggled to someone in the corner, then disappeared into the shadows. Revelry, debauchery, all of it was in the blood of the isles. If one ball outdid another, it would be an endless competition to top it until the people danced their feet bloody.

I took up a horn of ale that reminded me of home and watched. There was a sense of enjoyment here, but it always felt as though something were missing. Truth be told, even in Etta the missing pieces were still there, an unspoken thing I kept to myself.

“Ari!” Sofia materialized from the back corridor by the time my horn was empty.

Her hair was tousled and I considered my theory about her taking a lover like Frey might be true.

“Sofia.” I lifted my horn. “Enjoying yourself?”

“I would enjoy myself more if you took up and danced, my friend.”

“I am content to observe, since I would, no doubt, leave others feeling rather unsettled once they witness my skill at dance.”

“If I did not know you, I would think you the most arrogant of fools.” Sofia snickered.

“Ah, leave the ambassador to his own devices.” Bracken stepped from the crowd. He winked at Sofia and held out his hand for the huldra. “He does not wish to dance, no need to force his hand.”

“Nonsense,” Sofia said as she spun into Bracken’s body. “Saga is right behind you. Dance.”

Sofia laughed as Bracken took her away, far enough she could no longer shout demands.

Alas, Gunnar overheard, and did not let the ridiculous notion die. “Ari, take the woman, and come celebrate with us. I demand it.”

“Bastard,” I whispered under my breath. Not low enough, and it had him laughing with a bit of arrogance since he knew he’d won. The young prince knew I respected commands no matter which royal offered them up. He was a prince of Etta, and I bowed to the title.

I’d not seen Saga for most of the day. A few glimpses of her slipping in and out of the cooking room or leaving to the lawns to aid in the set up. If I cared to know better, I might think she was avoiding me.

She’d stepped into the hall from the back of the longhouse to replenish the empty ewers at the wrong moment and froze in the gilded light from the open door. Her hair was left long over her shoulders tonight. I hated to admit it, but to see it so free added a distressing sort of beauty to my venomous serf, and I had no business having a thought of attraction to such a woman.

With Gunnar, Sofia, and even Eryka cajoling me to join the dancers, I pointed a scornful grin at Saga and held out my hand. “Dance with me?”

Folk laughed, some hissed, others murmured displeasure or delight.

Saga was a traitor to some, a simple thrall to more, and would be required to do as I commanded. But she was also a former guard of the Court of Hearts.

Saga’s smile was unreadable. She bent down and placed the ewer on the stoop and came next to me. Her gray eyes were like a storm as she accepted my outstretched hand. “You demand it, Master?”

Be it the confrontation with Astrid, the exhaustion from nightmares, or the shadow of fear still alive in her gaze, I found it too irritating to fight back. I brought my cheek alongside the smooth skin of hers. “The choice is yours, sweet menace.”

“I will shame you should I walk away.”

“When has that ever stopped you?”

She tightened her grip on my fingers. “I do not understand you, Ari Sekundär.”

I took one hand and splayed it around her back, pulling her against my body. She winced, but I took it as her normal disgust for my touch.

My lips brushed the sharp point of Saga’s ear. “There is one simple thing to understand about me—I am not so fragile that I must force a woman to do anything she does not wish to do. And it would cause me no shame to allow a woman her right to choose differently than what I desire.

“Walk away if you choose, it will in no way bruise me.” I pulled her tighter in my grip, our hips, our chests, pressed together, and I took pleasure in the way she gasped. “You are bound to me, Saga, but your mind is still your own. Understand?”

When I stepped back, she looked as if I had struck her.

Saga licked her lips, then dipped her own chin. “I shall dance with you, Ambassador.”

There was no time to analyze why the thought gave me a touch of fulfillment.

I took her hand as the tune slowed its tempo. My arm went around her waist, and Saga let out the softest whimper of pain.

Perhaps my touch was not disgusting, but more painful. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” She tilted her head and sneered. “I must ache from the endless duties my cruel master supplies day in and day out.”

She was lying. I knew better than most how to cover up a truth with sharp words.

“No one said living in my household would be simple,” I said lazily. “But I find it is worth it.”

“You think too highly of yourself.”

“I think of myself just the right amount.”

Our gazes met and my fingers tightened around hers. All at once I was keenly aware of how close her body was to mine. The soft curves of her breasts to my chest, the heat of her skin under my palm, and how I wanted to grip her tighter. How I wanted to touch more of her. Saga’s gaze dropped to my mouth.

For a moment I allowed myself to think she might want my lips on hers. She hated me but danced with me. Resented me but arched into me.

I narrowed my eyes when she lifted her gaze back to mine. She glared back, dark and searing, as though she might want to burn holes in my skull with her disdain. Even though my skin prickled as her fingers ran small circles on the base of my neck, playing with my hair.

I doubted she even knew she was doing it.

When the tune ended, we broke apart at once.

Saga wiped her palms down the front of her skirt. “I should refill cups, Master. Have I permission to attend to my work?”

Hells, her voice trembled with such fury she was practically spitting. If I simply knew what had brought her to loathe me so fiercely, I might be willing to make amends. From the first day, it was as if Saga wanted to gut me.

I’d lived my life with Timoran folk despising me for my magical blood and fae ears. Enemies were no skin off my nose, but I think I hated her because her hatred ached. In a secret place deep within, I hated that she hated me.

“Go.” I waved her away. “You don’t need my permission to do your duty.”

Saga hurried out of the longhouse through the backdoor. Air sounded delightful. Before I could be stopped, I slipped into the back of the house, ignoring the curious glance from Hodag as she gathered a few milk cakes to set out on the table.

I sat atop a grain barrel and knocked the lock on shutters, so the wooden planks swung open. My cheeks burned; my pulse raced. The night air soothed a bit of the fire in my blood.

After a moment, Dunker came to my side. I noticed him, but the troll still felt the need to slam his rock-hard knuckles into my upper thigh.

“Damn you.” I glared at the troll and rubbed out the spot on my leg.

All Dunker did was grunt and hand me a new horn filled with watered-down wine. The troll watered most of my drinks, since he did not think it right for a man of position to drink into the dawn.

First blubber, now water-wine. I would starve before I returned to the North.

“King’s speakin’.” With a flick of his thick head, Dunker made it clear my time hiding out in the cooking room was at an end.

“You could ask with a bit more politeness, you bleeding sod.”

A grunt. Always a grunt in response.

I sipped the tasteless drink and returned to the crowd in the hall.

“Hiding again?” Astrid sneered at me over a silver cup filled with blood red wine. No, on second thought, it was probably just blood.

I didn’t try to hide my irritation. “Ah, have you taken an interest in habits I have with lovers, Lady Astrid? Surely, I’m not the only one who has escaped the room to let a woman taste what’s in his trousers.”

Beneath me. Vulgar. If Elise were here, she would frown and slap the back of my head. But I was satisfied at the wrinkle of disgust on Astrid’s nose, and the lack of retort. That was, perhaps, my favorite part.

I pretended to adjust my leather belt, then strode over to the table and stood by as Bracken went to the center of the room.

“The moon is bright.” The king pointed to the silver crescent, grinning. “Let us toast the betrothed.”

All around, the people cheered, some already deep into their cups, and staggered to the tables. I rolled my shoulders as if shedding the disquiet still there from the calm, the desire, brought on by my dance with Saga, and made my way to the head of the table.

“It is your table, my friend, you do the honors.” Bracken grinned and sat beside Eryka once she and Gunnar were seated.

I smirked, pouring sweet wine into their horns first.

Eryka rested her hand over mine before I pulled away, and whispered, “Tragic as it is, this is what must happen to finish the story began long ago. Find the truth hidden in plain sight.”

“What?”

Eryka simply smiled, then nuzzled against Gunnar’s neck. I eyed Bracken. The king shrugged, then laughed his cousin’s oddities away.

It was common for Eryka to spill out random thoughts and words, and she seemed unbothered. I lifted my own horn. Folk all down the benches did the same, pouring drink from various ewers.

“To my prince, and my future princess. May your union be gods-blessed, and keep peace between many lands for turns to come.”

A rumble of agreement ran down the crowd. As customary in the South, we waited for those being honored to drink first. Gunnar beamed at Eryka, and together they took the first sip. Countless horns knocked on the table as folk tapped their drinks on the edge before we would tip our own ale onto our tongues.

My drink was halfway to my lips when a guttural scream rang from the back room in the longhouse. One of Astrid’s attendants flung herself onto the long table, hands coated in fresh blood.

Bracken gripped the woman’s shoulders, shaking her. “What’s happened?”

The attendant sobbed, her tears fat on her cheeks. “My King, it’s . . . it’s the princess.”

“Signe?” Bracken’s face paled.

The woman spluttered, but no one moved when she finally said what she’d come to say. “Your sister . . . she’s dead.”