Fey Regency (Fey Lords #3)

34. Chapter 34

Chapter thirty-four

I ’m going to be sick. Any minute now, I’m going to spew everywhere. The duel is in an hour, at moonrise, and I have no idea if Tristan is going to be a stupid ass or not.

Right now he is sitting in front of the dresser, staring at his reflection and faffing with his hair as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

While I’m standing here, a complete bag of nerves. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. Though, to be fair, part of that was because Tristan rolled me over in the middle of the night and fucked me senseless. It felt very primal. Like he was marking his territory. It was wonderful.

But now it is daytime, and my ass is sore. And…okay, I’ll be honest, I frigging love that my ass is sore. It means I can still feel him. I just have to stop myself from thinking about how it might be the last time I feel like this.

Suddenly, the bedchamber door opens and Mabon lets himself in. He ignores me and strides up to his brother. He snatches the comb out of Tristan’s fingers and takes over braiding Tristan’s flame red hair.

Tristan’s shoulders relax, and he sits calmly while Mabon works. It is nice to watch. They are clearly comfortable in each other’s company and it is making me wonder if I missed out by not having any siblings.

“Please don’t banish Loo-loo. He is our baby brother,” Mabon says softly.

Annoyance flashes within me, but then it withers and dies. Mabon sounds so earnest, so heartfelt. And he is assuming that Tristan is going to win. I don’t think he is taking Llywelyn’s side. He simply has a big heart and feels sorry for the obnoxious shithead.

Tristan bristles. “Dyfri is the youngest. He is our baby brother.”

Mabon’s fingers do not pause in their neat weaving. “And look how we let him down.”

Tristan sucks in a breath. “We were barely adults.”

“And he had just come of age the day before,” Mabon replies mildly.

A heavy silence coils around the brothers until Mabon breaks it. “Being a good big brother would be a lovely thing.”

Tristan says nothing. I bite my tongue. Part of me wants to yell that Llywelyn started this, so it is all his fault. But that’s a child’s view. Overly simplistic. Goodies and baddies, whereas reality is always shades of grey.

“Perfect,” declares Mabon brightly as he finishes Tristan’s elaborate hair. “Blessings for the duel, Brother dearest,” he says, and then he waltzes away.

Tristan stands up and turns to face me. He looks incredible. Magnificent. Every inch a prince.

“What happens to you if you lose?” I blurt suddenly. I thought I didn’t want to know, but maybe not knowing is worse.

“Banishment or Shame,” he says calmly. Far too calmly .

Shame? I swallow dryly. “Like…that rhocyn stuff?”

Tristan flinches ever so slightly. “More likely it will be resyn.”

More likely? So, his own brother…doing that to him is not impossible? Oh stars, I think I’m going to faint.

“Resyn?” I ask, mostly in an effort not to pass out.

Tristan nods slowly. “Someone is made a resyn if they lose a duel and instead of having their hair unbound… it is cut off.” He makes a face as if the words are leaving a bad taste in his mouth. “A resyn is a shadow. A ghost. Disgraced and shunned. Nobody talks to them or even acknowledges their presence.”

That doesn’t sound too bad. Though that might be because I’ve been an outcast all my life, so it sounds pretty standard to me. But there is a very real look of genuine horror in Tristan’s eyes.

I try to swallow again, but my throat is too tight. If Tristan is made a resyn, I’ll still talk to him. Damn the stupid fey rules. I mean, it will be tricky, because I’ll belong to Llywelyn, but I will still talk to Tristan every chance I get.

“Resyn’s are rare. It is considered old-fashioned and usually reserved for when family members duel. Some say it is worse than being a rhocyn.”

Tristan’s eyes are huge now. Wide and dark. He really fucking hates the idea of being a resyn. It is scaring the shit out of him. He is facing his worst nightmare, all because of me. This is all my fault. I insulted his brother, and now Tristan is being subjected to a duel and possibly a terrible fate.

“Better not fucking lose then!” I snap as all my anger comes rushing back. I’m not going to try to fight it. I’m not going to attempt calm. I need the strength that anger gives me.

Tristan blinks at me and then smiles. “I’ll do my best.”

I scowl at him. “Your best would be using all the information you have and not being a knobhead about it.”

“Is that so?” he grins.

“Yes! Because a cheat equals a cheat! It is perfectly fair!”

His grin turns into a smirk. “Look at you, Little Nisny, getting all grumpy again.”

I glare up at him. His head lowers. My eyes widen and I step back.

“Don’t you dare fucking try to kiss… ” I start to rant, but then stop abruptly. “Fuck it,” I say instead and I reach up, grab his horns, yank him down to me and smash my lips against his.

He grunts in surprise, and then again in pleasure. He takes control of the kiss and I surrender gladly. The kiss is heat and fire and need. It is a plea and a promise.

All too soon, he escapes my hold. He straightens up and stares down at me with gleaming eyes.

“I’d much rather stay here and kiss you, Nisny, but I cannot be late.” His eyes are intense and I swear I can taste his hunger for me on my tongue.

My heart flip-flops, and sudden inspiration strikes. I have a brilliant idea on how to motivate him.

“The quicker you win,” I say breathlessly, “The quicker we can come back here and I can blow you.”

His eyes glow. Two red spots of light. It should be freaky, but it is hot. Really hot. Gut-swooping, feeling-faint kind of hot. I can really see how my human ancestors were led astray. It is not my fault. Fey-fucking is in my genes. I was born for it .

His fingers run along my jaw in a tender caress. “You should practise on something smaller first, Little Nisny.”

It’s a very sensible idea considering how flipping gigantic he is. I can totally see myself struggling to get it in my mouth, and then choking on it.

I swallow as that mental image consumes me. Flipping heck. What’s a little jaw dislocation? It will be worth it.

“I’ll manage,” I growl. It is a promise I really, really want to try to keep.

He smiles at me softly, but then his expression grows sombre. Dread churns inside my stomach. It really is time to go. We can’t procrastinate any longer.

He takes my hand, and the feel of his touch tingles all the way through me. I give him a squeeze, and we walk out of the bedchamber hand-in-hand.

T he Great Hall is packed. Every single fey at court wants to see the duel. Twisted bastards that they are.

It is nighttime and the hall is dimly lit. Everything is shadows and malevolence. There are no decorations, no music. Nothing save for a sea of people and the scent of bloodlust.

The crowd has formed a circle in the middle of the room. An expanse of bare, polished floorboards. Nothing has ever looked more intimidating.

Unease is coiling through me, but I think I’ve run out of fear and anxiety. I feel strangely numb, calm almost. As if this isn’t really happening. Maybe I’ve finally snapped and lost my mind. If I have, it is probably for the best. Sanity has never brought me any joy, only suffering. Losing all my marbles might just be the cure to all my problems.

Suddenly, as if rehearsed to be perfectly synchronised, a wave of excitement washes through the room, and then a heartbeat later, Tristan and Llywelyn step into the bare circle.

They stare at each other. Faces utterly blank. Two statues carved in marble. Two fey princes facing each other. One with flame red hair, one with hair like spun sunlight. Both with proud antlers. It would be a striking piece, if it were art.

But it is real life. And deadly. Awful and unnecessary, and all my fault.

I hate it. I hate the heavy and suffocating silence that has settled in the room like a shroud. Covering everything. Weighing us all down.

Anticipation and dread are twisting through me. I am so glad I asked Tristan what to expect because I think not knowing would kill me. Though, saying that, knowing roughly what is coming doesn’t seem to be helping my sanity all that much.

I suck in a breath. Time to concentrate on the mechanics. Tristan is facing three rounds. He will get three chances to attack Llywelyn with magic. And Llywelyn will get three chances to attack him. Trust the fey to come up with something seemingly civilised but utterly savage at heart.

Suddenly, a gong rings out. The sound is soft, but it tears through the silence. The duel has begun.

Tristan lifts his hands. Magic pours out of him. I can’t see it, but I can sense it. Llywelyn stands perfectly still. Only his lips move as they curl up into a smirk. The rest of him is untouched. Unharmed. The Devourer Charms are doing their thing. Eating up Tristan’s magic before it can do a thing to Llywelyn.

The gong sounds again. It is Llywelyn’s turn.

Tristan takes a deep breath and braces himself. Llywelyn’s magic comes as a big ball of golden light, one that I can actually see. Llywelyn throws it like he is pitching in a game of baseball. The ball hits Tristan right in the gut. He grunts and bends slightly. But then he straightens and grins.

I suck in a breath just as the gong sounds again. Tristan’s turn.

He does something different this time. I still can’t see it, but I get the idea that his magic oozes under the floor and attacks Llywelyn’s feet.

“Oh!” someone near me gasps. “Prince Tristan’s magic is so strong!”

“Of course it is, he has a vessel now,” answers another voice in the crowd.

My heart thuds hopefully. Oh my stars, am I going to be able to help Tristan even if he stays a stubborn ass? Is the magic I’ve given him making him stronger than his brother’s stupid charms?

The magic coils and hisses around Llywelyn’s feet. I watch intently. But nothing else happens. It doesn’t work. The golden-haired prince simply smirks even harder.

The gong sounds.

Oh god, I can’t watch. I just can’t. I scrunch my eyes up tight and wish for it all to be over. The crowd murmurs and exclaims. I can’t hear anything else.

The gong sounds again .

My eyes snap open. Tristan is still standing. All his limbs are intact. He looks fine. I suck in a desperate breath. It is his turn now. His third, if I am managing to keep count accurately. His third and therefore his last.

I can’t breathe. I can’t even blink. I think even my heart has stopped working.

Tristan flings out some more invisible magic. Llywelyn’s eyes widen. His smirk vanishes.

Oh my god. Is Tristan winning? What is happening?

The gong sounds.

Fuck me, I hate that thing. I want to find it and smash it to pieces. I never, ever want to hear that sound again. I already know it is going to haunt my dreams.

Llywelyn isn’t doing anything. He is just standing there. Motionless. A fine sheen of sweat beading his brow. Does this mean Tristan has him? He has frozen his brother? He is winning?

The gong sounds.

Llywelyn missed his turn. The crowd whoop and jeers. All teeth and malice. Is it over? Has Tristan won?

Tristan steps behind his brother. Llywelyn remains motionless, but he is clearly trembling.

Tristan pulls out a beautiful dagger from a sheath at his hip. He raises it to Llywelyn’s hair. The whole of court gasps as one. I think even my lungs join in.

The dagger slices through one tightly coiled braid. The sound is strangely sickening. Ripping, tearing, severing. I watch, darkly enthralled, as the long golden coil of hair falls to the floor.

Slice, slice, slice. The dagger rips through more hair and long plaits flutter down like snow. Llywelyn’s eyes are closed now and silent tears are streaming down his pale cheeks. His hands are clenched by his side.

Hair continues to fall. He looks different with short, choppy hair. Younger, softer, less of a douchebag. It really suits him. Though I know that is no consolation. This isn’t a make-over or a new look. This is something abhorrent and awful in fey culture. He is now a resyn. It is going to affect the rest of his life.

The last braid falls. The crowd cheers. Llywelyn suddenly moves, walking so quickly it is basically running. He darts in a straight line and everyone parts around him. A rock in a stream. Nobody looks at him. They all act as if he isn’t there. I watch as he makes it to the doors and disappears through them. Damn, not so much as eye contact.

I turn back to the centre of the room. Tristan is surrounded by a hoard. Clapping, cheering, back-slapping. The picture of jubilant glee.

Tristan has won. It is over. He is safe. I am safe. We get to stay together. It is wonderful, it really is, and I am so very thankful.

But I have never felt less like celebrating.

I just want to go home.

And with a wry smile I realise, home is now Tristan’s rooms. Home is where Tristan and I are alone. It is the only place I want to be.