Sunday's Child(20)
He could say he didn’t regret them in the least. Alfr’s favorite concubine was a lusty mara between the sheets but hardly worth a thousand-year punishment. Midgard, with its joys and its struggles, its short-lived humanity that embraced chaos, pondered the existence of gods and strove to conquer the stars, had bound him in both heart and spirit. Those tethers had drawn tight and fast when he met Claire for the second time in her life and fell in love with her. He regretted nothing of his actions.
That long answer would see his head separated from his shoulders.
“Yes,” he said. “I regret them deeply.” No doubt Alfr’s colossal vanity would blind him to Andor’s blatant lie.
Nicholas coughed and cleared his throat but otherwise stayed silent and kept his gaze on Alfr and Dagrun.
The king settled back in his throne, his approval of Andor’s answer written in his posture and the relaxing of his mouth. He still made Andor’s blood run cold. “I can be forgiving,” he said. “You may return to Ljósálfheimr.” His eyes narrowed. “My mercy isn’t limitless. Another mistake like the first one, and death, not exile, will be your punishment.”
Having offered his judgment, Alfr stood and strode out of the throne room. When Andor straightened from his bow, he discovered Dagrun still seated on her throne, watching him. She motioned him and Nicholas closer. “Welcome back, nephew.”
Andor didn’t want to come back. Not any longer. A decision loomed before him, one that would change the course of his existence. He’d pondered the question in the darkness when he was alone in the bare garage apartment he rented as simply a roof over his head while he stayed in Houston. Then he’d assumed he had another twelve years of exile. In human terms, it was a long stretch in which anything could change, and he’d grown to see time in the way humans did.
He’d forgotten that ljósálfar could be fickle in many ways, as quick to forgive as to punish. Alfr’s anger had cooled a little sooner than anticipated, and his pardon had caught Andor off guard. He would have to leave Claire and never see her again. The thought made his chest burn and his stomach roil. If he stayed in Midgard, he’d sacrifice something just as important.
Andor inhaled slowly, exhaled just as slowly and made his choice. “You have my gratitude, Your Majesty, however; I have no wish to return to Ljósálfheimr.”
Nicholas’s robes sent a draft swirling up from the floor as he spun to gawk at Andor. Dagrun’s surprise was less obvious—the twitch of her hand where it rested on the throne’s arm.
“Why ever not?” she asked. The roses on the soaring columns began to wither.
Andor edged closer to the throne. “I’ve grown to enjoy Midgard and all it offers.”
The queen’s upper lip curled. “There is no comparison between Ljósálfheimr and Midgard.”
“No, there isn’t. They are too different, but exile has taught me the charm of other realms, and I am content in that one. I wish to stay.”
Nicholas grasped Andor’s arm. His dark eyes held both wonder and desperation. “Andor, because I move freely among men, you could too as my ward. It’s a dispensation granted to you during your exile. You can’t live them among them elfin and immortal now.”
Andor nodded. “I know.”
The saint’s fingers dug into his bicep. “Do you understand what you’re saying?”
“Yes.”
“It isn’t just Midgard, is it, Andor?” Dagrun had abandoned her throne to stand in front of her nephew.
Andor bowed to her. “No, my queen.”
Where before her mouth had curled in contempt, it now curved in a knowing smile tinged with sadness. “I will hold you to exile a little longer so you may help Nicholas one final year. And to give you more time to consider your decision. If you don’t return to Ljósálfheimr by the dawn of Solis Invicti, your grace will leave you. You will be mortal, human, and without magic. Our realm will be forever closed to you. You will age, and you will die.”
Nicholas’s eyes glistened with tears. “Andor.”
Andor didn’t share the saint’s sadness or the queen’s melancholy. The smothering dread that had draped itself on his shoulders the moment he crossed into Ljósálfheimr was gone, replaced by euphoria and a restless need to fly from here and return to the world and the woman he’d grown to love. He grinned at the saint. “Forever is a notion, Nicholas. You said so yourself.”
9
Claire checked her appearance in the mirror one last time and pronounced herself ready. Andor was on his way to escort her to the Carmichael’s benefit gala. The program in her purse had promised an enchanted evening of holiday fantasy among the Christmas exhibit in the Ainsley exhibit hall. Dinner, dancing, an open bar and most importantly, a silent auction. The last garnered a lot of money every year from the wealthy museum patrons who attended the gala and bid on luxury items from first-class trips to rare antiques.
She presented herself to Elise and Jake who sat at the dining table gluing pieces of felt to construction paper for an art project. Jake kept licking glue off his fingers, and what he missed, he rubbed in his hair. Elise patted him on the back. “Dude, it’s bath time after this, or I’ll be able to stick you to the wall.”