House of Pounding Hearts (The Kingdom of Crows #2)(56)
Dante never factored into my reasons for returning to Luce.
“Are you happy?” I ask him.
“Happy?”
“Yes. Happy. Are you happy to sit on a throne and marry a princess?”
“I would rather marry another princess.”
The memory of the pallid Glacin shrivels my heart. “Perhaps it’s not too late to swap with Lore.”
Dante’s forehead puckers before smoothing. “Fallon, I’m not speaking of Alyona.”
“One of her sisters, then?”
He halts. “I’m speaking of you.”
My heart holds as still as the both of us. “I’m not a princess.”
“Your great-grandmother sits on the Shabbin throne.”
“Last we talked, you called Shabbe an island.”
He shrugs. “When you have a common enemy”—his gaze wanders over my shoulder—“you find your views shifting.”
“Are you speaking of Meriam?”
He nods.
“How did she escape?”
His attention returns to my face before wandering up the shell of my ear to the little hoop outfitted with the ochre crystal. “I believe Lazarus let her out, even though Lorcan refuses to hold the healer accountable.”
Twenty-Eight
Lazarus?! As we traverse gold bridge after gold bridge, Dante’s absurd theory runs on a loop inside my mind.
The giant Faerie wanted Marco gone, not Lorcan. By freeing Meriam, he’d be dooming Lore’s reign, and he seems to appreciate Lore, so that makes no sense.
“What is being done to retrieve Meriam?” I ask.
“I’ve tasked Dargento and several legions of sprites to sniff her out.”
I swing my gaze off the olive tree grove. “You must be kidding. Silvius?”
“Yes. Silvius.”
“The male wants me dead.”
“The male also wants to be reinstated in my regime. He will not harm you.”
I snort.
“What?” Dante’s jaw stiffens in annoyance.
“He may not harm me himself, but if he does find Meriam, he’ll assuredly lead her to my door and hand her a dagger.”
“I’ve sprites watching over you, and I’ve granted Lorcan permission to send some more birds into my lands. I fathom you are currently better guarded than I. Not to mention that it’ll keep Dargento busy and away. Isn’t that what you want?”
“What I want is for him not to exist,” I mutter under my breath.
If Dante hears me, which he must—not only is he a pure-blooded Fae, but he also stands mere centimeters from me—he doesn’t ask why I want the man dead. Either he does not care or he does not want to get involved.
As we walk up shimmery stone steps, past a carved archway, I’m momentarily pulled out of my glumness by the splendor of the columned veranda with its garlands of yellow vines in full bloom and the rosette cutouts in the pale stone.
Dante comes to a stop and slowly drops my arm. “Fallon, I’d like you to meet my betrothed, Eponine, and her father, King Roy.”
My attention swerves off the stonework and onto an ornate dining table. Syb, who trekked through Isolacuori beside Gabriele, bumps shoulders with me.
“Santo Caldrone,” she murmurs. “We’re lunching with two kings?”
My Crow vigilantes dive beneath the arches. Where some perch on the balustrades others rise to the tall stone eaves and pace the air. With a squeak, Eponine releases the gold wineglass she’d been lifting to her painted mouth.
Although the goblet doesn’t shatter, the large terracotta plate it hits cracks, and a crimson splash lurches from the goblet’s rim, splattering the burgundy velvet she wears. The servants, who haven’t seized up at the sight of my feathered companions, jump to attention, wet and dry cloths at the ready.
Unlike Eponine, her father does not make a sound, but the harsh lines of his face visibly sharpen. As he surveys my assigned guards, I survey the Nebbans who sit across from each other. They look almost identical, what with their twin green eyes and narrow faces, matching brown hair shot through with various shades of gold, slender noses and tall foreheads that one has adorned with a crown of golden thorns, and the other, with a jeweled headpiece.
Syb drops into a low curtsy. When she sees I haven’t followed suit, she tugs on my wrist. I don’t sink into a reverential squat, but I do incline my head toward father and daughter.
Although I cannot see much of Eponine, what with her sitting, the triangular shape of her torso baffles me. Until I recall Syb explaining that Nebban women use corsets to crush their rib cages so a man can encircle their waists with one hand. I hope Eponine isn’t planning on making Lucins adopt such a barbaric trend.
A round-eared woman with chin-length hair, dressed in a white sheath pulls out the chair beside King Roy and nods to me. The fine hairs along my arms rise because I don’t care to sit so close to the man nicknamed the Butcher of Nebba, but refusing will cause tension, and I want to keep the peace.
Besides, women are allowed to be soldiers in Nebba, so perhaps the man’s reputation is unmerited.
As I tuck myself into the proffered chair, I launch right into that subject. “I hear you let women into your army.”
“You hear correctly.” Pierre Roy turns in his seat, the emerald tunic he wears barely creasing as he turns. Although centuries-old, the monarch’s skin is barely lined.