Page 91 of Of Iron and Moonlight

Relief washed through Gavriel so sharply his knees nearly gave. He offered Finnleif a half-hearted shrug in answer, then sheathed his sword, his pulse still loud in his ears.

The relief vanished the moment he saw his seat was beside Drifah. Her scent reached him before her proximity unmoored him. When he sat, her hand slid to his leg, drifting higher with open intent before stopping just short of where a flinch would draw notice.

“There will be one more fight tonight,” Oorlon announced.

Laughter died. Hands paused in the air. Nobles traded uncertain glances.

“Lord Maren,” Oorlon said casually, carving another slice of meat. “You have been conspiring to usurp the throne.” He seemed pleased by the sharp intake of breath that swept the hall.

The accused shot to his feet, panic rising in his deep amethyst eyes. “I have not!” he shouted. “You have no proof!”

Oorlon lifted a finger without lifting his eyes from his plate.

From the shadows, Damlor emerged with his scar and without emotion. He seized Maren by the arm and dragged him into the open space between the tables as a low growl rolled through the chamber. One of Oorlon’s wolves rose from beneath the table and padded onto the stage, white fur bristling, dark eyes fixed on its prey.

Oorlon spread his hands, introducing an act. “Begin.”

The struggle was brief. Maren fought wildly, managing one parry, then another. But the beast was faster. Claws tore through his defense. Jaws closed around his throat. His cry ended in a wet gasp as blood spilled dark violet against white fur and pale stone.

The wolf stepped back, panting. Not a soul in the room dared breathe.

Gavriel stared at the body of one of the most powerful and highly regarded fae in Norrelia. At the widening stain on the floor. His appetite vanished.

“Was he truly plotting a coup, Your Majesty?” one noble asked, daring the question.

“No.” Oorlon threw back his head and laughed, the sound vibrant and terrible. “I simply disliked him.” Then he returned to his meat as if the violence had merely whetted his appetite.

A few strained chuckles followed and died quickly. Conversation resumed in careful fragments, winding around the corpse as it was dragged from the floor. And Gavriel wondered, not for the first time, how he had survived two years of this madness.

Chapter 44

Gavriel

“It’s a shame,” someone murmured, “the High Priestess has not fallen pregnant again this year. The temple confirmed it this morning.”

“Gorien is the problem,” another replied. “Thalien is more likely to sire a child. Rumor says he already has one bastard.”

“Sarvo did well enough this year, I’d say.”

“Speaking of, where is Sarvo tonight? He never misses a feast.”

Caught between exhaustion and Drifah’s magic gently probing his mind, Gavriel’s patience thinned as the chatter around him limped on cautiously after Maren’s death. He let his face slacken into the mask of a bored noble. Despite the cold, the effort burned.

“Let’s not overlook Finnleif,” another voice added.

“I hear Finnleif keeps two women in his east gallery. Bleeds them once a week. Calls it medicine. Thinks it will help him win the rite next year.”

“Be quiet,” someone hissed.

“Did you hear—”

That was enough.

Gavriel pushed back his chair and rose abruptly, causing Drifah’s hand to slide from his leg. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said to no one in particular, “it’s been a long day.”

A few nodded without interest and returned to their chatter.

Drifah glared.