“She should,” Luther muttered. “This is precisely the kind of matter she should have advised you on.”
“Stay out of it,” I clipped, and he frowned.
“He’s right,” Eleanor said. “I let you down. I’m not worthy to—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” I said. “There is only one person in this realm who has proven themselves worthy to be my advisor, Eleanor, and that’s you.”
Luther bristled.
“What about me?” Taran said, pouting. “I could advise on… I don’t know, something.”
“Drinking,” Aemonn drawled. “Sleeping around. Being useless.”
Taran grinned. “Exactly.”
I ignored the brotherly bickering. “Did you do it on purpose?” I asked Eleanor.
“Of course not,” she breathed.
“And you would handle it differently now?”
“Oh yes, I swear it.”
“So one might say it has made you an even better advisor, because now you’ll be more likely to consider what might have gone overlooked?”
Eleanor’s expression shifted as she realized what I was implying. She nodded, a faint smile breaking through her shame.
“Then it’s over and forgotten. I don’t want to hear another word about it.” I turned to Luther with a pointed glare. “I don’t know how you all do things, but where I come from, we don’t give up on someone after an honest mistake.”
“No, you don’t know how we do things, and that’s the problem,” Luther growled. “You’re an Unchallenged Queen. ‘Honest mistakes’ can get you killed.”
“Then at least I’ll go out looking fucking fabulous in this dress.” I flipped my hair over my shoulder and hauled up the hem of my gown to flash my legs as I crossed them in a huff.
A vein popped under the scar that ran along his throat. He stood and gave a sharp tug on the edge of his jacket. “It’s time to give my eulogy,” he said icily, then stalked to the podium.
I scowled, folding my arms irritably over my chest.
Taran chuckled. “Long live the Queen.”
Chapter
Seventeen
I was starting to wonder if Descended time operated like dog years, because the funeral that Luther had assured me would last “an hour, at most” had been going on for what felt like three decades.
An endless flow of speakers shared words of reverence about the late King, and not a single one had seemed genuine. Even Luther’s eulogy had been stiff and impersonal, lacking the nuanced emotion I’d seen in him when he had described their complicated relationship to me in private.
Remis and Garath spoke of the King’s commitment to his family, leaders from the Twenty Houses spoke of key trade deals he brokered, and visiting Descended from the other nine realms offered the condolences of their Crowns and urged the importance of our longstanding alliances.
The latter group had struck my interest the most. I longed to rush into the cordoned-off area where the foreign representatives were segregated behind a heavy contingent of guards led by Alixe and bombard them with questions about their realms. From the way they watched me with intense focus, they were itching to do the same.
The rotation of speakers was punctuated by musicians from around the realm offering songs in the late King’s honor. At the moment, a small orchestra was playing a truly gods-awful piece that the conductor swore was one of Ulther’s favorites.
It wasn’t immediately evident whether the musicians were all playing the same song, so it wasn’t off to a great start.
“If I die in the Challenging, will my funeral get all of this pageantry, or will you just toss me in an unmarked grave and move on to the next?” I asked.
Taran gave a thoughtful hum. “Well, you’ll already be down there, and all of us will already be up here… we could throw some logs on you and make it a two-for-one event.”
Several nearby Corbois gasped and shot us horrified stares. Taran and I shared a mischievous grin.
Over the course of the funeral, he and I had become fast friends. There was something I instantly liked about him. Like all Descended, he was drop-dead gorgeous and fearsome to behold, but unlike his kinsmen, Taran was quick to hand out a smile or a laugh. He returned my sass with quickfire barbs of his own, and he’d treated me not like a mortal or a Queen, but an equal.
For the first hour, he had burst out laughing every time he glanced at my black dress. After vowing to call me “Her Depressing Majesty, Queen Die-em the Royal Undertaker” for the rest of my life, he’d finally thrown an arm around my neck and turned his teasing on other members of the family.
I had a sneaking suspicion his bold friendliness was an act of mercy to shield me from his family’s cruelty. It didn’t work—I was still acutely aware of every nasty look, every scandalized whisper—but it was a kindness I wouldn’t soon forget.
“So the Challenging is held in this arena?” I asked, and Taran nodded.
I looked around at the blood-red smear of the crowd. I tried to imagine them cheering me on in victory, but I could only picture their faces of disgust when I’d arrived.
“Will they all wear red then, too?”
“Only if they think you’re going to die.”
“So that’s a yes.”
“You’re not going to die at the Challenging,” Luther interrupted.
“You don’t know that,” I protested.
“Maybe he’s planning to kill you before the Challenging,” Taran suggested.
I frowned. “Good point. I’ll have a chat about that with Sorae.”
A muffled growl rumbled from the landing above our heads.
“You’re not going to die because I won’t let it happen.” Luther’s attention stayed fixed on the arena floor, his shoulders drawn tight. “We have a number of tools at our disposal to ensure you are coronated. I’ll use as many of them as I have to. You belong on that throne.”
I pressed my lips together to hold back a smile. While I was still miffed at his scolding of Eleanor, I had to admit the gruff, overprotective champion act was a little sweet.
My knee brushed his, luring his eyes to mine. The hard set of his expression was almost painful to look at now that I knew it had been forged from years of being isolated by his power, his family, and his destiny. This was the public-facing Luther, as heartless as he was matchless. The Prince.
But I knew better.
“You’re not going to die,” he repeated, his eyes blazing.
My gaze drifted to the King’s body. For a moment, all I could see was my own funeral pyre—my corpse broken and bleeding from defeat, my father and brother weeping at my side.
My throat burned. “You promise?” I whispered, remembering his words.
I keep my promises, my Queen. Whatever the cost.
He nodded. “I promise.”
“Luther,” Remis called out sharply. “The poem.”
Luther retrieved a folded paper from an inside pocket and returned to the podium. His voice boomed across the crowd as he began to speak.
“As most of you know, King Ulther’s mate, Rapheol, passed away many years ago. Rapheol was a talented poet, and when his mate ascended to the throne, he wrote a poem to commemorate his beloved’s reign. I would like to read you an excerpt from that poem.”