by R. Cooper
It was nothing, and also as much of a threat as a noble thinking to use Mattin’s influence on the king, or who feared that same influence. It was something Mattin would have to deal with, likely again and again, if he continued on with his courtship. He should have considered that before, but he did not have much experience in these matters in general, and none specifically in courting an already hand-fasted king trying to maintain peace, so he supposed he ought to forgive himself the oversight, and perhaps make a note of it to keep in the library for some future potential consort to reference.
Palace guards were passing them now. A few might spot Essa or Kit or Mattin himself.
Overwhelmed at the thought of having to explain this to Arden, to Mil, when even seeing them together again was enough to make his hands tremble, Mattin started moving without plan or direction. He slipped through the press of bodies around him, although the crowd was already dispersing now that the king was only a figure in the distance, and walked quickly but aimlessly while his mind spun and his ears rang.
Mattin did not return to the palace, though he should have. The hour was growing late, and while Mattin had no problem stumbling through the palace grounds after dark, even in the cold, he was less certain of the streets and alleys of the capital. He was not even certain where he had ended up, because while he had visited the city’s taverns on many occasions, he could not tell them apart from the inside, and he had walked into this one with his head down and no eye on his location.
But it was warm and fairly clean, and packed with lots of people enjoying a meal or a drink while the bard at the far end of the room alternated between heartbreaking ballads and playful love songs in a sweet, aching voice.
Mattin sat with a cup in front of him although he had stopped drinking wine some time before. He had not brought much money with him into the capital, intending only to pick up the bracelet and maybe a pie or two. He would not be so rude as to ask Essa or Kit for some coin. They were probably tired or bored over at the table next to his, where they were pretending they were not palace guards with their eyes on Mattin.
He didn’t know if the pretense was for the sake of his pride or if it was a matter of precaution, since they numbered two against many if anyone should threaten the beat-of-four trying to shove the king’s beloved from his bed.
Mattin rested his chin heavier in his hands and kept his attention firmly on the bard, a brightly dressed person of undetermined gender, as was often the case with bards, at least when they performed and sought to follow the old ways. This one had lovely red and purple streaks in their long, unbound hair as if they had some fae blood.
The bard looked back at Mattin, a sharp sort of kindness in their eyes that made Mattin wonder if they knew who he was, but if they did, they did not say. They merely continued to sing one of the merrier versions of ‘Arden Escapes’ which told of a young Arden Canamorra slipping out of the palace and turning his back on all who lived there. There were now additional verses about Mil, although there had not been when the song had first appeared years ago. ‘Arden Escapes’ was more of a way for people to thumb their noses at the nobles within the palace wall than a song about Arden personally. Arden probably would have been amused by it.
Mattin had dropped the hood of his cloak a while ago, too hot inside the tavern to bother with it. Anyway, the only one who might have known him was the bard, although Mattin could not have said how they knew except for perhaps Mattin’s choice in music. Mattin was not famous or remarkable, or dressed as nicely as he might have been. He was not a beautiful seducer of kings, and he was not a high-ranking council member with chains of gold hanging from his ears. He did not even have elaborate braids today. He looked like no one special, and the tavern must get minor nobles from time to time, because no one had bothered him.
The bard’s gaze left him, rising to the entrance as if someone new or more interesting had come in, but their song never faltered, and after another moment, their attention returned to Mattin and they smiled, showing slightly pointed fae teeth.
Mattin startled, although no one seemed to notice, focused on something else as the low murmur of the many conversations around him died out.
Two large bodies settled on the bench of Mattin’s lonely table, one on either side of him.
They were very warm.
“All his talk about our safety, and he goes running off to a tavern by himself,” Mil observed over the top of Mattin’s head.
“All our talk about his safety, and he goes running off to a tavern by himself,” Arden returned.
Mattin did not think they were teasing, despite their playful tone.
He shut his eyes. “You are supposed to be reuniting,” he said, quite clearly for someone tired from wine and moping. “In private. With each other.”
“Was this meant as a gift?” Arden wondered in quiet disbelief. “No one knew where you were.”
“Kit finally saw someone she recognized and asked them to run to the guardhouse to give me a message.” Mil did not sound pleased. “Not to mention that both of them should have been relieved hours ago.”
Mattin flinched and opened his eyes to look over to the next table. “I’m so sorry.” Both guards gave him a flat-eyed look, but did not seem openly angry. “Are they no longer on duty? I can buy them a… oh, no, I can’t. I will give them money for a drink once I return to my room.”
“Are we returning to your room?” Arden asked, not loudly, but the tavern was silent except for the singing, so Mattin was sure several people must have heard. “I do not object, but we don’t all fit on your bed, and I could use a long rest. Or… are we not welcome?” This evening shadowed his question. Or perhaps it was ever again.
Mattin made the mistake of looking at him. Arden did indeed look tired, and yet, still so very handsome. Mattin sighed. Even he could not tell if the sound was happy or unhappy.
“I did not know if I was welcome,” he muttered at last, because Arden would have the truth and Mattin had no skill for lying. “Mil needed you.”
“Well, now,” Mil said, offended.
Mattin turned to him. “You did and you know it.”
Mil admitted this with his silence but then shrugged. “Even if I did, it wouldn’t have meant I didn’t need you, too.”
The bard’s voice faded to nothing.
Mattin turned to the corner of the tavern the bard had claimed for their own rather than deal with the way his heart was pounding. “Do you have another? Or have I bothered you enough for one night?”
“I have others.” The bard might have been the only one in the room aside from Mil and Arden who was focused on Mattin. Everyone else had eyes for the king and his consort. The bard considered Mattin, then held out one hand, palm up.
Still a little clumsy from the wine, Mattin plucked another clasp from his hair and pushed it forward onto the table. The other clasps to match it should have been there, but likely had been taken to the bard by one of the servers. This one stayed put, since the servers seemed frozen now, with the king and probably countless guards in their midst.
Mil swore under his breath.
“Are you paying for songs with your hair clasps, Mattin Arlylian?” Arden’s rough question carried clearly through the tavern. Even though made of glass, one clasp would have been more than enough for a bard’s fees. “What songs are possibly worth that honor—”
“Fuck,” Mil swore again before Arden could finish, guessing the answer quicker than Arden had.
“The king has never heard ‘Blood at the Gate’ if you please.” Mattin addressed the bard with a waver in his voice. Everyone would know his name now. Mattin Arlylian: the foolish beat-of-four forced to marry the king—or forcing the king to marry him, depending on who was asked. A small and soft, freckled nobody, with only a surname of any note, and that was certainly not enough to bend Arden Canamorra to his will. Anyone could recognize that within moments of meeting, or even just seeing, Arden. Perhaps they would pity Mattin. Mattin didn’t think he w
ould mind much; it was far better than being scorned.
The bard gave Mattin another long look, then inclined their head and began, gasping, as Arden must have when the blade had pierced his armor and he had known he’d received a mortal wound. Arden stiffened but said nothing through the verses about his fear, and the pat-pat-pat of his blood falling onto a stone floor, and how each step that took him to Mil had been killing him.
Mattin’s throat tightened, so he turned to bury his face in Mil’s shoulder. Mil’s cloak, at least, was soft. So was Mil’s hand when Mil raised it to cradle the back of Mattin’s head.
“I don’t care what they say,” Mattin lied quietly to Mil as the ballad grew quicker, the song matching Arden’s frantic pace, the faster flow of blood leaving him.“But I want you to be happy.”
“What do they say?” Mil took some time to ask it, perhaps lost in the lyrics describing when Arden had found him at last at the palace gate, perhaps looking to his husband. “Or may I guess?”
Mattin shook his head and didn’t answer. He didn’t want to say it, and if Mil did not already have an idea, he had only to ask his eyes-and-ears. Everyone in the capital would know it was Mattin now. Maybe Mattin wouldn’t come into the capital alone anymore. Maybe he would become one of those nobles who never left their carriage.
“I don’t have a carriage,” he realized mournfully.
“If I got you a carriage, would you finally agree to marry us?” Arden asked, the question loud enough to be heard over the end of the song. Deliberately so, knowing Arden.
The bard shut up.
Mattin frowned into the fur of Mil’s cloak before slowly pulling away. Mil lowered his hand. Mattin looked at him, then turned to Arden. “Are you trying to bribe me to marry you?”
“I left for less than a fortnight, and I return to find you hiding from Mil and trading your pretty clasps for songs—also lovely,” he added, briefly speaking to the bard before turning to Mattin once again. “Forgive me if I seem desperate, dear heart, but you are unhappy.”
Essa sighed.
“I wasn’t hiding from Mil,” Mattin argued, although he had done just that. “Not hiding. I was… I couldn’t come between you, but I also would not come between you. I was... giving you what you needed.”
“Ask next time,” Mil said grumpily. “So I can tell you exactly what I need—and what he needs as well.”
“Oh.” Mattin turned back to Arden. “You worried while you were gone?”
Arden looked both regal and displeased—a heroic storm cloud. “Messages from Mil, but none from you, Mattin of the Records. Not in any color ink.”
Mattin put a hand to the side of Arden’s face, his thumb brushing the white line of his scar. “I’m sorry.” He hadn’t thought the gossip of the assistants or the collar necklace with dark green beads he had found that made him think of Mil would interest Arden with all of Arden’s other concerns weighing on him, but he had made notes of palace business to discuss with him upon his return. “I will write to you next time, in every color ink.”
“You have but one clasp left in your hair,” Arden commented, warm and pleased again after Mattin’s simple promise. His smile was sunshine on gold.
“I am willing to trade,” offered the bard, politely intruding. “Surely the king could spare some coin for a few hair clasps. Coin is, after all, easier to spend, and my price is much lower than the cost of a carriage.”
Arden turned to consider them. “I could, honored bard. I would keep Mattin in his sparkles, if for no other reason than they please my husband.”
“Sass shines without them,” Mil joined in, also speaking for the tavern to hear. “But I do take pleasure in the sight… almost as much pleasure as your king takes in removing them and undoing those lovely braids.”
Mattin stifled the sound he might have made and turned to Mil in disbelief. Mil gazed back at him, unfazed, as though Mattin had missed a point in a discussion that had not been had.
At least, not with Mattin present.
Mattin tightened his mouth and Mil leaned closer to speak in a carrying whisper. “Didn’t mean to embarrass you, Sass, but some things need to be said and done before witnesses. You told us that once, if you recall. And it seems that people need to know what you are. It seems that you do.” He gestured toward the bard. “How many of those songs have you asked to hear while leaving us to fret over you?”
Mattin grabbed Mil’s hand without answering, holding it tightly. After a moment, he pressed it to his cheek.
Everyone was looking at Mattin now, sitting where he was between the king and the king’s husband. They had all heard him called Sass and dear heart and his whole name, beat-of-four though he was. They had all seen him touch them both in a way that spoke of intimacy, and heard that he had asked for nothing but songs of their love all night.
He turned his hot, flushed face to the bard.
The bard showed more pointy teeth in a smile, but then looked to Arden. “Well? I will return them all—all but one. I find it a worthy token of a lover’s devotion, and that should be celebrated, and never exchanged for coin.”
“Done,” Arden answered firmly, as though a deal had been struck.
Mattin frowned, suddenly certain one had, but the bard began to sing again, a song Mattin did not know. They grinned despite how tired they must be after performing for so long.
“And now we return home?” Mil asked hopefully. “I had plans that did not involve trying not to cry in a tavern.”
Mattin released Mil’s hand so he could fall against Mil’s arm and expel a weary breath. “And now we return home,” he declared at last. Everyone in this tavern had witnessed enough, and Mattin’s hands were shaking.
“To our room?” Arden wondered, and oh, what would those in the capital say now that they had heard their king sound so uncertain about the affections of the noble he was being forced to marry. “Or shall we leave you at your—”
“Hush.” Mattin shushed him, tired and anxious but also pleased. “Mil has plans.”
“That I do,” Mil replied after a beat. “I don’t suppose you’d allow me to carry you.”
“That’s hardly proper,” Mattin informed him, but let Mil pull him gently to his feet and then further allowed Mil’s arm beneath his for support, strong and steady. “They are going to speak of us tomorrow,” he confessed in a concerned whisper, glancing up to the two of them and then beyond to the rest of the room, the guards and the tavern customers and the bard.
Arden leaned down to share a secret against Mattin’s ear and make him shiver. “They are going to sing of us tomorrow.”
Mattin jolted and shot a look down to the table, where a pile of hair clasps now waited, although the bard had not moved. The pile was all of Mattin’s traded clasps but one.
Arden placed a small bag on the table, though he had not taken any time to count the amount of coins in it, and scooped up every glass dragonfly before tucking them into the top of Mattin’s satchel.
Mattin opened his mouth for a question, but then Arden took his free hand, and Mattin left the matter for now to let Arden and Mil lead him back to the palace.
“I’m sorry,” Mattin said again, to them, and to any listening guards, as they walked out into the chilly night air.
“It’s a shame,” Mil said as if agreeing, only to startle Mattin by adding, “It might have been more fun to go into a tavern and pretend you were a stranger we were bringing back to our bed.”
One of the guards snorted.
Mattin turned to see who, only to get distracted by his last glimpse inside the tavern, with everyone still watching them as they left.
“But this is better,” Mil continued, “don’t you think?”
“Oh, yes.” Arden tucked Mattin’s hand into his elbow and slowed to keep pace with them, seemingly content to walk the capital’s streets despite the lateness of the hour and his own exhaustion from traveling. “As fun as you would be as a night’s bed warmer, Mattin, I take more pleasure in kno
wing you will be there for many nights to come—and that others will know it now as well.”
“Not fair,” Mattin grumbled, nearly inaudible, although Arden had not done anything but share what those within the palace wall already knew… and at the same time made everyone aware that this was his choice as king and husband. Mattin was his choice. “They will think you besotted,” Mattin complained, but breathlessly. “They will think that I… Mill is laughing.”
Mil was laughing, quiet snickers that he did not quite muffle against Mattin’s hair.
“Oh, Sass,” he sighed as his laughter ended. “Do you still not see it?”
Mattin stopped, bringing everything to a halt with him. “No,” he said at last, thoughtfully, glancing up to the two of them. “No, I see it now.” He did not understand it. But he saw it. “They will never watch me as they watch you. And the danger will be mine, whether or not I am the villain of the story. But you have followed me here, and placed yourselves in my arms for all to see. I have seduced you. You are besotted.”
He thought of glass and onyx, far more interesting than any carriage, not that he would ever make anyone buy such a thing, or bribe him to do what he had wanted to do all along.
“It is all mine,” he said softly, and began to walk again. “So I suppose my answer must be yes.”
Arden’s grip on him tightened almost painfully. Mil took a noisy breath.
The cheer that rose up from the guards around them was probably loud enough to wake anyone in the capital who had already gone to bed. They would open their windows soon and peer outside to find the source of the din.
Mattin pulled hard on both of the arms twined with his to bring the king and his husband down to his level. He placed a kiss on their stunned mouths and flushed in embarrassment before continuing on.
It seemed a long journey home, and he desired to be in bed.
The End