Bloodguard

chapter 32

Maeve

I instinctively release Leith and take several steps back.

He straightens. “Can you make it to the cottage?”

“There’s no time,” Father says.

Leith’s features ice over as we follow Father from the ballroom to the entry hall. Leith brushes his sword hilt and then, arms loose at his sides, faces the door.

“Are you ready to greet our guests?” Father asks.

I glance at Leith, who stands next to me, more marble than flesh. “Always, Father,” I say, straightening my shoulders and lifting my chin.

Father kisses my head. “That’s my daughter, the future queen.”

I grimace when the muffled gallop of hooves striking the front lawn pricks at my ears. Ten, maybe twelve guards on horseback and the rumble of at least three carriages.

Taking a deep breath, I clasp my trembling hands in front of me.

Unlike me, Father is rock steady. He walks to Neela and carefully takes her heavy hands in his. “My most distinguished friend,” he begins. “If I’m not arrested this eve for cracking a wine bottle over these fools, we will meet later for tea and reading as promised.” He chuckles when Neela doesn’t budge. “Please leave us. This is neither your battle to fight nor your war to win.” He bows and kisses her crooked knuckles. It’s only when her bushy gray eyebrows lower that I know she’s conceded.

I press my lips together as she shuffles up the stairs, her movements slow and careful so she doesn’t slip, even as she shoos away the herd of estrellas poking their heads over and through the railings. Pasha returns from the kitchen. She wipes her wet hands on her apron and quickly takes the position by the door.

Leith is most dangerous when he’s quiet. And he’s very quiet now, his gaze unwavering on the door. My ears prick again when the horses chuff and stomp as they come to a stop outside the front of the manor and several guards dismount, shouting orders. The sounds carry clearly to us through the open windows.

When Leith checks his sword again, I give him a small bow. “If you would, my future king, kindly suppress your great urge to stab Vitor and Soro on their way in.”

His lips barely move when he mutters, “I’m not making any promises.”

The hem of my skirt slides over the marble floor as I straighten. “Leith,” I whisper, “the last thing either of us needs is to have the entirety of Vitor’s and Soro’s allies calling for your head.”

“Maeve.” Pasha’s hands are shaking horribly as she peers out the window. “The high lord and his son are almost to the door.”

There’s a pitter-patter of little feet. Lots of little feet. I exchange glances with Father. He shrugs, unaffected. “If you would, sweet Pasha, please let them in.”

Pasha, her tight gray curls askew from dancing, wipes her hands on her white apron one last time and casts a final look at Leith. Then, after only one knock, she throws open the door and steps aside, bowing.

My eyes practically shoot from my skull when the first of five…six…eight… twelve pageboys in pale-blue silk shirts, white breeches, and round flat caps march in, their arms full of golden and midnight roses.

Leith turns to me, his features darkening to those of the Bloodguard he’s destined to be. “I’ll ram every last flower down Soro’s decapitated throat if he so much as reaches for you.”

I’ve come to think of Leith as more wolf than man. The way he eliminates his competition, the way he moves—ready for a fight that may come without notice—and how protective he is of those he considers his pack.

“We can’t accomplish everything we mean to if you’re sentenced to death.” My voice trembles when Father steps forward to greet the lords outside. “Leith, you’re not in the arena, and neither are they. Any harm upon a noble outside that battle zone results in execution. They will find you, and they will kill you.” I squeeze his arm. “Please, Leith. I need you.” I’m not thinking of the throne now. No, I’m terrified for him .

“What are you doing here?” Father demands. As proper as he is, he’s never forgiven Vitor for imprisoning Papa.

Vitor strolls in like the king he believes himself to be, gallantly removes his robe of gold-and-white silk, and passes it to Pasha without even looking at her. He adjusts his long, thick braid of dark hair so it lies over his left shoulder. “Now, is that any way to greet your High Lord?” Vitor laughs wholeheartedly as he motions around the entry hall and the rooms beyond, proclaiming them his to conquer. “Especially after such a grand gesture from my child to yours.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose when the small clink of Leith’s sword against his buckle announces he already has his hand over the hilt.

Several of the flower arrangements are placed along the sills of the densely leaded windows that overlook our front garden. Some are placed on tables and mantels in the library and parlor, and more are arranged along the length of the buffet tables in the ballroom.

“Bloodguard. Bloodguard,” one of the pageboys chants in a whisper.

It’s hard to know who’s chanting. All the pageboys are running circles around Musy as she directs them where to set the vases. Yet the chant continues, loud enough for the little boy to alert Leith to his presence but not so obvious that he may immediately be discovered.

“A friend of yours?” I ask.

Leith thrums the hilt of his sword, choosing to keep his eyes on Vitor and Father’s exchange instead of answering me.

“Please don’t do anything, my champion,” I whisper.

“I’m going to tear out his throat,” my champion replies.

Vitor’s ogren generals, Tut and Pua, step into the entry hall. Their oversize helmets make Tut appear bald and scrunch Pua’s braids against his shoulders. They’re here to witness their High Lord’s triumph, yet they fixate on me, Tut mouthing something to Pua that I can’t fully make out. What I do recognize is the name Ugeen.

Vitor jerks his chin and dismisses the generals. A few of the royal moon horses whinny, and more chuff and stomp their hooves into the soft grass as the two generals return to the front lawn.

What just happened?

Ugeen is here? Father would never let him inside. The man lied to the council, falsely condemning his husband.

Vitor raises his hands as he does when addressing the arena. “The Great Avianna of Iamond would have relished this day,” Vitor tells Father. “Remember how she spoke of Soro and our lovely Maeve becoming one?”

Father glances at me. “Actually,” Father says, his smile widening, “if my memory serves, I believe she once called Soro a ‘sadistic pig of a child.’”

As if called directly, Soro storms into the foyer. He tears the collar of his burgundy cape as he whips it off and tosses it away to square off with Father. And Father still smiles as he continues, “Or perhaps I am mistaken?”

“Take caution of how you speak of your general,” Soro bites out.

When I take a step forward, Leith’s grip on my arm tightens. “Not your fight,” Leith tells me. “That’s my job.”

“Not today,” I whisper.

“I am no longer a mere soldier,” Father says. “I am the lord of this house and spouse of the real king.”

“The disgraced king.” The cold sneer that forms beneath Soro’s pointy nose makes me shudder. “You’ve made many mistakes, Jakeb. It won’t be long before you regret each one.”

“We all make mistakes, don’t we?” Father says casually. “Like opening the door to uninvited guests. And you are correct. I regret it already.”

Soro doesn’t frighten Father, but he frightens me enough for Father. At least it looks like Soro is backing down this time as he wanders the entry hall, peeking into various rooms as if inspecting the ridiculous flowers the pageboys have carefully set upon every available surface.

Empty-handed now, the pageboys make a quick exit, each afraid to draw attention to themselves, except for the smallest, who continues to chant. He rushes to Leith and curls his thin arms around his waist.

“Bloodguard, Bloodguard,” he whisper-chants.

Leith solidifies his imposing form, clearly surprised by the contact. He recovers quickly and places his hand on the boy’s shoulder. Using care, he moves the little boy gently away. “Be wary of those who watch you. I don’t want you hurt,” he says in a voice so low, only the two of us can hear him. “Run along, Gunther, and I’ll see you soon.”

The sweet child fiddles with the collar of his shirt, which is two sizes too big for his lean body. He heard Leith, but even as he steals a quick look in Soro’s direction, his fascination with Leith keeps him in place.

“Out!” Soro commands from the ballroom archway, and the little boy flinches. With a nod from Leith, Gunther runs.

Vitor approaches, all smiles, takes my hand, and raises it to his lips. “Maeve, my darling. How are you this evening?”

He squeezes my fingers tight, drawing my attention from the door where Gunther disappeared. It takes everything in me to bow in greeting. “Uncle.”

Vitor releases me and turns to Leith as if just noticing him. “Good evening,” he says. “I am High Lord Vitor of Revlis, Arrow’s Regent and Defender. And you are?”

“You know who I am,” Leith says.

Anger singes me from head to toe, and I grip the fine satin of my gown in my fists. The regent gives me a warning glare, but I look away without acknowledging him. Furious prickles of heat creep up my neck. The nerve of him, to pretend not to know Leith after he has bled him in that damn arena time and time again.

I’m taking a breath in preparation to tell Vitor exactly what I think when strong hands grasp my shoulders and whip me around.

“Daughter, this is not the time to confront Vitor,” Father whispers, having come up behind me. His voice is soothing, and it calms me as it has since the day he and Papa made us all a family. “But your time will come. You will soon be queen. Do not lose sight of it.” He braces himself, looking straight ahead. “No matter what this filth says.”

With that, Father takes my arm and leads me away from our unwelcome guests and into the library, where candles in the wall sconces cast shadows that dance along dark wood bookcases and across heavy brocade chairs on one end of the room. At the other end is Papa’s desk, all his personal items placed upon it exactly as they had been in the castle. The only things missing are the ancestral swords, which were placed in glass casings and set into the wall behind the desk. When Vitor took over as regent, he claimed my grandfather’s and grandmother’s swords. To this day, he promises they’re somewhere safe and swears I will receive them when I take the throne.

Father wraps an arm around my shoulders as I take several calming breaths. I pull away and sit on a green silk settee as Soro and Vitor enter with Leith following them. Father lowers himself onto the settee to my left, but instead of sitting in the chair next to me like I wish, Leith stands behind my right shoulder with his hands clasped in front of him and his full attention on Vitor and Soro as they position themselves in high-backed chairs opposite us.

Pasha and Musy bustle into the room and can’t seem to move fast enough as they serve cherry wine in shimmering goblets, careful not to spill a drop.

Vitor nudges Soro covertly, but I notice it. Soro clears his throat. “You look lovely tonight, Maeve.” He shifts uncomfortably in the chair that looks too small for him. “I hope the flowers suit. They are your favorite, I believe.” His rote delivery sounds like he’s reading from one of the manners primers I had to study as a child.

Fine. Two can play the false-civility game—at least until Vitor and Soro reveal why they are really here. In a cordial voice, I reply, “Thank you, Soro, for your kind words. I do love roses, but the dahlia will forever hold a special place in my heart.”

Behind me, Leith shifts slightly at my tribute.

The corners of Soro’s mouth lift. “Then they shall adorn every last open space at our wedding.”

Wedding? Shit.

It takes a great deal of composure and several visuals of Soro being tarred and feathered to not shriek and throw furniture, but I manage to calmly say, “Oh, have you and Aisling announced your affections at last? Congratulations. You are perfect together.”

Soro’s face remains expressionless as he balances his goblet in his fingers. “She can’t make me king.” He used the same tone at last year’s Winter Solstice Ball when he complained the duck was too dry. “I need a queen for that.”

How…sweet.

Vitor takes a sip of his wine, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes deepening as he scrutinizes me and the way Leith shields me like a lover. Stars above. Does he know what I’m up to?

“You will make a fine queen, Maeve,” Vitor says. “Provided you choose your king wisely.”

Leith’s spine is so rigid I could build a roof on top of him. I’m no less relaxed.

Vitor raises his chalice so Pasha knows to fill it. “Your birthday is fast approaching, my dear,” he says. “It’s time to decide.”

Father reaches over and squeezes my hand. He knows Vitor is onto me, too.

Vitor wants me to marry Soro. There’s no way he’ll risk sharing that power with the other noble houses. As Soro pointed out, Vitor has not been pressuring me—the longer I am ineligible to rule, the longer he retains power—but I can see how that would be a liability. Once I’m of age, the law of succession states that I can marry anyone of nobility.

Is that why he closed the borders? To limit my opportunities?

My full attention returns to Soro, who is studying me with a self-satisfied smirk. “Come now, Maeve,” he says. “You knew this was coming.”

I did—but not so soon, and I have other plans now. I’m to marry Leith. But I do understand Soro’s haste. While the noble houses of Arrow might not be suitable, there are other lineages outside of Arrow. Soro knows I mean to marry to free my father. Soro is running out of time, not me.

“Now, gentlemen, just because I’ll shortly be of age doesn’t mean I’ll marry the day after my birthday.” I make a point to toss my hair as if flirting. It’s not something I ordinarily do. Flirting and hair-tossing are Aisling’s gifts and not mine. I don’t do either well.

Soro finishes swallowing a gulp of wine. “Then when?” he asks.

Just a day after Leith wins Bloodguard so I may tell you no .

“Just enough time so I feel comfortable.” Which, of course, will be never, and Soro knows it. He narrows his eyes on me, and I shrug. “This is a big decision.” I lean back and take a sip of wine. “I will need time to consider it.”

Soro snorts and rolls his eyes. “I’ll give you one week, Princess.”

Or else what? Is he trying to tell me that I no longer have a choice?

If Leith had the power to freeze others with his glare, Vitor would be chiseling shards of Soro from his chair from now until next spring. Someone may die tonight. Please, don’t let it be Leith.