by Beth Bolden
Tears glimmered at the edges of Gray’s eyes then. “It’s from the clans?”
Rory reached up and pressed a firm, loving kiss on his cheek. “In another life, you would have been their king. In this one, you’re mine.”
———
Gray couldn’t say exactly why he had been arguing with Rowen over floral arrangement placement. He could say why he’d argued with Rory over including the Ardglassian custom in their marriage ceremony. Evrard would have told him that both definitely boiled down to one thing, and one thing alone: fear. Fear that he wouldn’t be a good husband or a good king. Fear that taking this step would hurt Rory more than it would help him. He wished he could be as confident as Rory was, but the truth was, Fontaine felt balanced on a knife-edge these days, and the smallest thing could send it toppling over into chaos.
Evrard would also have told him he was being overdramatic; something he enjoyed accusing Gray of on a regular basis.
Gray stared moodily at the pile of documents on his desk, in his brand-new office opposite Rory’s own, and tried to ignore the pulse of pain at every thought of Evrard. Of course Evrard could not hang around forever, just in case Gray or Rory got into trouble, but still the thought of never hearing another of his sarcastic and smug retorts filled him with a strange kind of anguish. He’d never thought he would miss those things; in fact, he’d hoped many times to never hear them ever again. But that particular wish coming true had ended up being far thornier than Gray ever could have imagined.
A knock on the door shook him out of his reverie. The night before his wedding, and he was pouting. Gray walked to the door and opened it with a smile. It was Anya, and she smiled back. “And here I thought I would find you worried about all the ways this could go wrong,” she said, slipping inside Gray’s office.
“I was,” Gray confessed. Anya shot him a reproachful look.
“You thought I could be Rory,” she finally deduced. “And you didn’t want him to know that you were pouting.”
“I was not pouting. I was merely …”
“Contemplating every which way this could go wrong?” Anya finished helpfully.
“Essentially,” Gray admitted.
Anya sighed. “Well, regardless of how fatalistic you’re being, I thought you might want this.” She held out the package in her hands, wrapped in plain brown cloth, and tied with string.
Gray took it and turned it over in his hands. “Is this the fabric you embroidered for the ceremony?”
Nodding, Anya gestured for him to open it, and carefully, Gray did so. To his surprise, the embroidery was pristine and intricate. “I had no idea you could do work like this,” he said, his eyes meeting Anya’s with surprise.
“Why? Just because I can wield a sword better than you?”
“Well …” Gray had to admit that had been part of his assumption.
“You’re not entirely wrong,” Anya continued, shrugging in a slightly embarrassed fashion. “I’m not usually interested in needlework, but this was important, and I wanted it to be right.”
Gently, Gray unwound the cloth and was shocked to see an abbreviated version of both his escape of Tullamore at age eleven, and then his and Rory’s triumphant return to Fontaine fifteen years later. And then, finally, on the last panel of the tapestry, the last council meeting of the clans that he had presided over himself, after the death of Gideon. The meeting where the clans had, with Gray’s support, voted to officially disband the monarchy of Ardglass.
“It might have been the most convenient choice,” Anya said, still self-consciously refusing to meet Gray’s gaze, “but it was a noble one, too. And we of Ardglass appreciate it more than you can know.”
“Anya,” Gray said slowly, “thank you. Thank you for all the time and care you put into this, and for wanting me to have something of Ardglass when I marry Rory.”
Her eyes were bright and fierce as they finally met his. “Even though you will be Fontaine’s king now, you were ours first. And you shouldn’t forget that.”
“I won’t, I swear I won’t,” Gray said, and to his own complete surprise—and definitely Anya’s—he pulled her into a tight hug. “Thank you, again. For everything.”
Her gaze was slightly damp when he finally released her, and his own was definitely not any dryer. “I said someday that I would serve the King. It’s not as I imagined it, not exactly, but I’m honored to be in your service, Your Majesty.”
Gray cracked a smile. “Not quite yet.”
“But soon. You need to get used to it.”
Gray didn’t think he ever quite would, and maybe that was what would make him a good king. Never entirely believing he deserved a part of the throne, or the entirety of Rory’s heart. It would keep him working hard and giving his all, even when the road felt smooth and easy.
If that ever happened. With the way things were going now, that future seemed both very far off and also right around the corner—if only he could reach out and grasp it.
“I’ll do my best,” Gray promised.
———
Rory had promised himself that when some of the kingly responsibilities shifted to Gray—tomorrow, it’s actually tomorrow, he thought, triumph mixing with a little bit of panic—that he would do so with a mostly clean desk.
Which explained why, the night before his wedding, he was working late in his office, sorting through the last of the parchments he’d been asked to read.
A quiet knock interrupted his concentration and he glanced up, sure it was Gray, insisting he not work quite so late tonight, but then, Gray would not bother knocking.
“Come in,” he said, and to his surprise, Shaheen, the leader of the Mecant tribe, entered his office.
“Your Majesty,” she said, bowing low, nearly as low as she had long ago, when Rory had begged for their lives in the middle of the Mecant camp. “I wondered if I might have a word with you.”
Rory stood, and gestured to one of the comfortable chairs opposite his desk. “Of course you may,” he said. “You know you never need ask. My office is always open to you.”
Shaheen’s glance was swift and cut him to the quick. “You are the King of Fontaine,” she said, her tone remaining kind, “and I am the leader of a dying tribe. Of course I must ask. We continue to survive only due to your graciousness.”
Rory sat, somewhat humbled. Whenever he met with Shaheen, which had been frequently since their arrival at Beaulieu two months earlier, he often felt the breath punched from his lungs with painful realizations.
“My apologies,” he said. “I did not think.”
“You are young, very young,” Shaheen said, settling in the chair, her multicolored robes flaring around her, “I was much more foolish when I became the leader. You must give yourself room to breathe, to grow. And also a little credit, as you are not nearly as poor as you think you are.”
Rory was touched. Being a leader was much tougher than he’d ever anticipated, his decisions having far-reaching effects he did not always foresee. As much as Shaheen’s tribe was learning from him at their daily lessons, he enjoyed talking with their leader and gleaning as much knowledge of leadership from her as he could.
“Thank you,” Rory said. “What is it I can help you with today?”
“It is Merleen,” Shaheen said with a heavy sigh. “I think … I think I would like for him to stay behind, when we leave next week.”
Rory liked Merleen very much—he was blunt and amusing and very good with a weapon, from the sparring he’d seen out his office window—but also had the impression Merleen was anxious to return to the forest and to the rest of his tribe. It was understandable, considering the ultra-civilization of Beaulieu and its many high walls might certainly be stifling to someone who had grown up in the forest, living in a tent, always on the move, never being settled.
“Have you spoken to him about this?” Rory asked.
Shaheen nodded. “He is willing to remain behind. I intend him to be a bridge, between Fontaine and the Mecan
t, if that is acceptable to you.”
“Of course it is acceptable, and an excellent idea.” Rory mentally kicked himself for not thinking of it first. The Mecant, their ways slowly being lost, would need to adapt or die out. And Shaheen, like every good ruler, was doing her utmost to assist in that transformation.
“Then it is settled,” Shaheen said, a small, mysterious smile blooming on her face. “I think he will discover that his place here will do him much good.”
Rory was not quite as certain, but envied Shaheen’s confidence.
“How do you know?” he asked, leaning forward and setting his elbows on the desk. “How do you know what is the right thing and what is the wrong path to take? I find myself constantly questioning whether I am making the best choices for Fontaine, and in a lesser sense, for myself.”
Shaheen was quiet for a long moment, contemplating his question. “I believe that your very doubt is what will make you a good leader, Your Majesty,” she finally said. “You worry about your people. You place them above your own happiness and comfort, much of the time. You may not always know the right path immediately, but you search for it, and it is that quest that will bring peace and prosperity to Fontaine.”
“Sometimes I am not always selfless,” Rory admitted.
“You are a man, not a figurehead. You matter, too.” Shaheen’s voice was firm, and brokered no arguments.
“A man,” Rory thought out loud, pondering her words.
“And tomorrow, you will also be a husband.” Shaheen smiled.
———
The morning of the wedding and coronation dawned clear and cold, the bells in the very highest tower of Beaulieu ringing so brightly and so loudly that Gray thought, as he lay in his bath, that if Evrard was still in the Valley, he might have heard them.
To his surprise, it felt like the day passed very quickly. First, his bath, then being dressed—as of course, a future king of Fontaine could not possibly dress himself, even though he’d told everyone who would listen more than once that if he couldn’t dress himself, he certainly wouldn’t make a very competent king. But nobody wanted to listen to him, and they sent the valet in anyway. Gray, who had finally decided that it was worthless to argue when it felt like the entire court, including Rory, was against him, let the man dress him.
“You look very handsome, Your Majesty,” the valet said, voice worshipful as they both took in Gray’s very fine reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror dragged into their bedchamber just for this occasion.
Gray’s first inclination was to make a face at all the glittering silver and gold embroidery on his forest green tunic, but he could hear Evrard’s voice in his head, asking, is that what a king would do? Gray knew the answer to that particular question—and this time, decided that he should be embracing this new change, instead of constantly fighting it. He’d have to send Rowen one of the biggest floral arrangements as an apology for being difficult.
It was different; thinking of others first, instead of himself, but he’d already had some practice, because from nearly the first moment he’d met Rory, he’d been putting him first.
He straightened and without any silly or gross expressions, looked at himself seriously.
He’d turned out as tall and broad as Gideon had always hoped. As he looked, Gray realized the evergreen of the tunic, trimmed with all that silver and gold thread, as well as the broad red epaulets—distinguishing him as royalty and not merely a high-born noble—actually suited him. His breeches were supple and butter-smooth leather, fitting to his legs like they had been tailored just for him, and to Gray’s embarrassment, they actually had been. His dark hair shone under the candlelight of the chandelier overhead, and though his head was bare now, a brand-new crown that Rory had commissioned especially for him was waiting in the throne room, for the moment of his crowning. It combined the fiercely sparkling amber of the traditional crowns of Fontaine with the deep green emeralds of Ardglass. A special piece that Gray knew Rory hoped would help establish his blending of both heritages.
He reached for the final touch; his leather and gold sword belt, from which always hung Lion’s Breath.
“Wait,” the valet said, reaching out to stop him, “the King left especial instructions that you should wear this instead.” He indicated an even more ornate belt made of gold links and more amber and emeralds.
“But I can’t wear a sword with that,” Gray objected.
The valet frowned. “A sword would completely ruin the line of your ceremonial tunic,” he said.
It felt wrong leaving Lion’s Breath behind, like he was only half-dressed. For the last eight months, the sword had been always at his side or in his hand. But then, Gray reasoned with himself, practically all of Marthe’s army would be guarding the outside of Beaulieu, as well as inside the castle and even the throne room itself, for the ceremony. Of all days, he shouldn’t need to carry Lion’s Breath. He was being crowned a king, not a general. Certainly anyone of importance or with any influence already knew he bore Lion’s Breath. It was hardly a secret. He did not need to have the extra reminder today, of all days. Not when Rory was about to place a crown on his head.
Gray reached for the jeweled belt, and told himself the weird voice in his head, begging him to reconsider, wasn’t the remnant of Evrard’s influence, but merely what remained of his nerves.
“Excellent, sir,” the valet said and helped to position the jeweled belt around his middle. “I believe you are ready, Your Majesty.”
“I’m something,” Gray said under his breath, looking one last time in the mirror. The next time he saw himself, he would be a king, and perhaps even more life-changing, Rory’s husband.
“Shall we meet the King’s party?” the valet inquired and Gray nodded.
A few minutes found them outside the hallway of the throne room. Ironically right where it felt like his entire journey to the throne began; when they’d sneeked into Beaulieu in an attempt to remove Sabrina from both life and power. Anya was already there, her armor shining and her eyes sparkling. She was carrying his length of embroidered cloth that she had labored over. Gray had decided that she needed to be the one to present it to him at the appropriate moment, so he could bestow it upon Rory.
Rory approached with several of his guard surrounding him. He was dressed in finery typical of the Autumn Prince—golds and burnt oranges with a bright turquoise silk cape falling from one shoulder. A delicately wrought gold crown with carnelians, amber, and topaz adorned his head. He looked stunning, a fairy tale brought to life, and somehow all Gray’s own.
“We would like a minute,” Rory finally said, staring at his betrothed. The guards around them moved away, but Gray noticed that they did not leave entirely. Smart, considering he was not wearing Lion’s Breath and the trespasser had yet to be caught.
“You look …” Gray reached out and took Rory’s hands, laughing self-consciously. “I’m afraid words fail me.”
Rory’s eyes shone just as brightly as the jewels crowning his brow. “From the first moment, I have never looked away from you. Whether you are as beautiful as you are this day, or are stooped and worn and aged, I will love you all the same,” Rory vowed. “One kiss before all the dull ceremonial processes?” he asked hopefully.
“Just one?” Gray teased.
“I’m not sure we have time for much else,” Rory said earnestly, “and if we are off-schedule, Rowen may cry and that would be a catastrophe.”
“Marthe wouldn’t be very happy with us,” Gray agreed. “One kiss, then.”
“And make it a good one,” Rory suggested, with a twinkle in his eye that promised that he knew Gray would apply himself properly whether he reminded him to or not.
Gray did as asked, his hand sliding to the small of Rory’s back as he bent them both back, and captured Rory’s perfect mouth with his own. He kissed him deeply, feeling Rory’s fingers come to clutch at his shoulders, and then smooth back his hair as he pulled back just enough to see the shine of his belov
ed’s eyes.
“Promise me something,” Rory said softly.
“Anything,” Gray vowed.
“Kiss me like that at least once each day, for the rest of our lives?”
Gray chuckled. “Like what?”
“Like you love me more than you imagined you could, and you’re surprised by it every single moment.”
“I think that can be arranged,” Gray said, and reaching down, tucked Rory’s hand into his own. “Are you ready to get married?”
“I’ve never been more ready,” Rory said, his smile luminous and happier than Gray had ever seen it.
———
They walked down the central aisle hand in hand, their progress slow but stately, and even though Gray knew he was supposed to be staring ahead, expression solemn, he couldn’t help sneaking a look every foot or so, smile breaking through his serious demeanor. He’d been so afraid that at the last moment, he’d be nervous and terrified and sure they had made all the wrong decisions, but instead, all he felt was the unimpeachable rightness of this moment.
Marthe, in her golden armor with a stern countenance, was to hear their vows between themselves, and then Gray’s vows to Fontaine.
“I’m but a general of an army,” she had protested, because she never wanted to make more of her position than she should, but Rory had held up a hand, quieting her argument.
“You are the most right person I know for us to make our vows to,” he’d insisted. “You saved my life, you made it possible for us to regain the throne of Fontaine. You hold the armies, while we hold the support of the people of Fontaine. Who else should we make such vows to?”
Finally, Marthe had conceded the point, and as they stood in front of her, Gray could think of only one additional person—or one additional unicorn—who would have been more appropriate for Rory and him to swear their fealty in front of. But Evrard wasn’t here, and he wasn’t going to be here. Gray needed to let that go, no matter how much it stung. He refocused on Marthe, who was giving the short welcome.