by Holly Bargo
She knew she could not expect the girls to disregard everything they had been taught, to dismiss the evidence of their very lives. Yet their refusal to entertain any other notion that a different fate lay waiting for them merely to grasp it exasperated her.
“You have a kind heart,” one of the girls said, daring to lay a hand on the fae lady’s arm. “But we know our fate, even if you do not.”
The girl glanced at Uberon standing near the bow, long hair blowing in the wind like a shining, black banner. She looked back at Corinne. “He will find us husbands and he may even secure their promises to treat us well. But he has no interest in us beyond his kindness to you.”
Corinne’s shoulders sagged. She could not deny the girl’s wise words, even if they disheartened her.
“I cannot teach when they are not willing to learn,” she complained as she lay in Uberon’s arms while the twin moons rose high over the horizon and their gleam outshined the stars.
“The older girls, perhaps not,” he agreed, taking care to keep his tone mild and neutral. “But the younger may yet be convinced.”
“What do fae women do?”
“Many fae females hold occupations, but their occupation ceases when they are mated. They then turn their attention and energies to managing their mates’ lands and businesses and, if they are so fortunate, their children.”
“What about the other races?”
“I do not know of any race in this world that allows females the same freedom and latitude as that which you enjoyed.”
“Humph.”
“Neither do they labor under the same responsibilities and expectations.”
She snorted.
Uberon rolled over and pinned her beneath his weight. He tilted his hips, sinking his cock into her still wet and sensitive folds, even as he grasped her hands and drew them above her head where he imprisoned her wrists in the gentle, unbreakable grasp of one hand. “And is this life you lead so awful?”
Corinne could only gasp and then moan. A moment later she lost the capacity to think and speak and had no focus other than the heady pleasure her mate lavished upon her body.
On the afternoon of the third day, the cabin boy perched in the crow’s nest cried out, “Land ho!”
Corinne and the girls rushed to the starboard side of the ship for their first glimpse of their new home. As the ship plowed through the waves, they saw colorful buildings of wood and stone rise in stately spires from a steep, rocky coastline. The sight reminded Corinne of a fairytale version of the Amalfi Coast. Or at least the photographs she’d seen of that region. The city looked freshly washed, as though from a recent rain. A hint of lemon danced on the ocean wind, as though the sea itself coveted the citrus scent for its own delight.
The ship headed for a tiny harbor. Stone cliffs rose sheer and tall around the sheltered water. The laughs and shouts of fishermen, vendors hawking their merchandise, and children playing echoed off the rock.
“How does one get up there? Do people here fly?” the girls inquired as they looked up, up, up at the buildings clinging to the steep hills facing the sea.
“We climb a lot of stairs,” Uberon murmured in response.
The girls gasped, startled and embarrassed. He gave them a look of tolerance, knowing their experience limited.
“When we dock, I shall lead you to your new home. Follow no one but me.”
They nodded. Corinne, too, because she hadn’t the faintest idea where he planned to take them.
“I do not wish to leave,” the oldest of the girls murmured, daring to lift her gaze to his. Her sisters gasped at her audacity. “I … I like the ship.”
“I think it’s the first mate you like, more than the ship,” he corrected in a dry tone.
Corinne’s jaw dropped. What had she missed?
The girl’s cheeks flushed a dusky red, but she did not deny the fae lord’s words.
“Lord Nochnaya,” another sister began in a fearful tone, ready to plead for her sister’s forgiveness.
“Your Majesty,” he corrected, his voice crisp. “You shall properly address me as Your Majesty or King Uberon.”
The oldest girl turned pale, realizing she had spoken out of turn to a king.
Certain he had their rapt attention, he continued, “You will follow me to your new home.” He nodded at the oldest girl. “If the first mate truly wishes to claim you as his mate, then he may come and pay court to you like a proper gentleman and steal no more kisses in dark corners.”
Corinne’s eyes widened at the realization of just how much she had missed.
I guess I’m not the vigilant chaperone I thought I was.
The girl is clever and besotted.
“My lord,” the first mate called as he approached, having heard that last sentence. “The ship sails out again as soon as she is provisioned, probably tomorrow. I cannot remain behind to pay court to Sin’halissar.”
“Almost I think better of you,” Uberon said, slitting his silver eyes. The Maltani first mate barely flinched. “The ship remains in port until the dark moon. She flies a new banner now.”
“Master Fidor Merogis owns this ship.”
“Master Merogis is dead and his warehouses destroyed.”
“How do you know this?”
“Word comes on the wind. The wards around the compound fell and the Quoli swept in to reclaim that which they had lost.”
The sailors overhearing the conversation flinched. Several looked ill. A few turned away to conceal their grief. None of them questioned the fae lord, because all of them knew fae did not lie. They also knew this fae commanded vast power.
The Maltani gaped, then whispered hoarsely, “Did any survive?”
“No.”
“Mother,” one of the girls whined as she sank to her knees in tears.
The girl’s grief failed to distract Uberon’s attention. Leveling an icy glance at the witchbreed sailor, he said, “Present yourself at the Quoliálfur castle tomorrow morning if you wish to pay court to Sin’halissar and take her to wife.”
“Mate,” the first mate dared to correct.
Uberon blinked, almost a nod of approval. “Mate, then. Almost I think better of you.”
He turned away to oversee the docking of the ship and confer with the captain.
“Look!” the youngest girl exclaimed and pointed toward the pennant flapping at the top of the mast above the crow’s nest.
Corinne and her sisters looked. The ship no longer flew the green and gold flag of Merogis’ ownership. It flew the black and silver colors of the former Unseelie Court and the current Quoliálfur king: two silver crescent moons on a black field. Corinne wondered if the Jolly Roger would have been more appropriate, but said nothing.
They all fly my banner now.
Uberon called to them and they went to him. They followed him down the gangplank and wobbled on legs accustomed to traversing the pitch and roll of a ship’s deck. None made any complaint as they followed him, picking up their skirts and gawping at the shining city draped with flowering vines and window boxes overflowing with colorful blooms. The strong scent of citrus flavored the air.
They climbed. And climbed. And climbed. Even Uberon breathed heavily as they neared the castle at the top. The hot afternoon sunshine bounced off the light gray walls which appeared to glitter faintly from the flecks of mica embedded in the granite. Tall portals of dense, heavily figured wood swung open at their approach.
“Your Majesty,” a servant intoned as he bowed to his king. “Welcome home.”
“Golsat, this is my mate, Queen Corinne,” Uberon said, taking his beloved’s hand in his and raising her fingers to his lips.
The servant’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing impolite. After bowing deeply to the new queen, he waited for the rest of the introductions. Uberon did not disappoint him.
“These females are the daughters of Fidor Merogis, the merchant. He has perished, and I have taken charge of the girls. They are to be treated as honored guests.”
&n
bsp; The major domo nodded in understanding. He bowed to them and said, “My ladies, please follow me. I shall show you to your new quarters.”
The girls paused and looked to Corinne for reassurance.
“It’s all right,” she said, putting her trust in Uberon’s introduction of her has his queen. “You’re safe here.”
The five girls followed Golsat. Corinne looked at Uberon and said, “He’s not—”
“No, he’s not fae. He’s a gargoyle.”
“A gargoyle,” she echoed.
“One of the few creatures that can take on a Quoli and win.”
“Good Lord. And what other creatures can take on the Quoli and win?”
“Dragons, gryphons, basilisks, ice drakes, firebirds, but usually only singly. And I.”
“And you?”
He ran the back of one finger down her soft cheek. “Haven’t you realized by now that, except perhaps for the Erlking, I’m the most dangerous thing in this world?”
She shivered, but not with fear, as the liquid heat gathering between her thighs indicated. She, the young woman who had resented the overprotective, overbearing attitudes of her badass brothers, had given her heart, soul, mind, and body to the biggest badass across multiple dimensions.
And she was not sorry for it.
Uberon’s nostrils flared, catching the heady scent of her arousal. Taking her hand, he led her inside the castle to find a room where he could fuck her in privacy. If anyone in the castle entertained any doubt as to their king’s claim to having taken a mate, the muffled sounds filtering from the red drawing room dispelled those doubts.
Spilling his seed inside Corinne’s body, the Quoliálfur king anticipated with glee the prospect of introducing his mate to every room in the castle in just such a manner. The castle had a lot of rooms. And shadowed corners. And cozy alcoves. And sheltered courtyards. And even some thermal springs.
Welcome, Uberon and Uberon’s mate.
“What was that?” Corinne mumbled, blinking in dazed surprise.
Still lodged deeply inside her body, Uberon replied, “’Tis the castle welcoming us.”
She heaved a breath and remembered the Erklking’s fortress. “It’s sentient, isn’t it?”
“Aye.”
“And you built it, didn’t you?”
“I raised it from the mountain.” He shared the memory of the castle’s creation with her so she finally understood exactly what he meant.
“Fuck.”
“I thought you’d never ask,” he murmured and began thrusting again.
CHAPTER 18
Damned good thing I learned cursive, Corinne remarked silently as she scribbled notes with an old-fashioned quill pen that needed ink every five seconds. Or less. She chewed on her lower lip and wondered if Uberon would consider introducing his people to ballpoint pens. Or pencils. Even a pencil would be an improvement.
Perched on a stool at what she thought of as a small drafting table and which Uberon called a secretary, Corinne recorded the proceedings of the royal audience. She ignored the curious glances petitioners and courtiers cast toward her as she listened and learned. She disliked being cast as the secretary, and quickly realized that scribe served as a better title.
Few commoners can read or write, Uberon informed her. Many rely upon memory. Therefore, it’s important to accurately record what happens.
She nodded her understanding and wondered whatever happened to the old truism that the victor wrote the history. The Quoliálfur king merely raised an eyebrow at her, but otherwise did not respond. She wanted to complain about the injustice of being relegated to scribe when she’d rather manage by Uberon’s side; however, she also realized she needed to learn the culture and acquire at least a general understanding of the laws before she could even pretend to be worthy of that responsibility. So, she listened and wrote, the scratch of the quill pen on parchment strangely satisfying in a way that pecking away at a keyboard was not.
She wondered if Uberon would mind her snatching some paper and writing her stories.
Of course, not. Everything I have is yours.
Warmth suffused her, because her mind immediately went to that hard, thick, long appendage that he’d given her not so many hours ago and vowed again was for her use and hers alone.
I like the way you think.
Of course he did, the big, handsome horndog.
His deep, velvety chuckle reverberated in her mind.
You know, you never did tell me what happened to the horses.
The horses?
Yeah, the big black and palomino animals that we rode all those days and miles—remember them? I didn’t see them loaded onto or off of the ship.
They did not accompany us here. I released them from service and sent them home.
You sent innocent, domesticated animals free without someone to care for them?
Uberon’s velvety chuckle rippled through her mind. They’re not simple horses, beloved, but demons pressed into service and well able to take care of themselves.
“Demons?” she squeaked aloud in mingled surprise and horror.
Raised voices distracted her attention and she looked up from the desk.
“Your Majesty, we heard you brought back women. We want them. We’re willing to pay good gold.”
She turned her face toward the tall doorway and the group of men—males—standing there. One held up a leather sack filled with what she assumed was gold coins.
Uberon raised his icy silver gaze at them, then returned his attention to the petitioner in front of him and said, “I will send guards to your estate to see whether the wards have failed or whether it is merely wild animals that have killed unsecured livestock.”
“I know it’s those filthy Quoli,” the man protested.
“Quoli would not stop at killing a few goats,” Uberon replied with chilling certainty and a wave of his hand.
The man’s expression darkened, but he moved aside to make way for the rude newcomers’ approach. One of the group latched his gaze upon Corinne. She blinked, and he licked his lips suggestively.
“Rumor spreads fast,” Uberon murmured. With a gesture, he told them, “Speak freely.”
Their leader nodded, took a second to gather his courage, and then spoke, “We’ve hardly any women here but whores and hags that used to be whores. We’ve all used ’em and make no apology for it. But we want something more. We want to establish families, found our own Houses.”
Another chimed in: “We’re the wealthiest males in Quoliálfur. We’ve worked hard and feel the press of years. We want sons to inherit our good fortune.”
“Why not daughters?” Corinne murmured under her breath as she dutifully recorded the petition. “Why can’t they inherit?”
Uberon, for all intents and purposes, ignored the comment and said, “And what if you should get daughters upon a woman?”
The man who fixed his attention upon Corinne answered, “Then we’ll get good bride prices for them.”
“And should your daughters not care for the husbands you choose?” Uberon prompted.
The man shrugged. “No matter. They’ll spread their legs and bear sons regardless.”
Corinne ground her molars with the effort to hold her silence at the boor’s callous words.
“My mate would see you go forever without a woman for that sentiment,” Uberon stated, his voice low, smooth, conversational, and all the more frightening for it.
“Your mate?” the leader echoed with a furtive glance toward Corinne.
“Aye. Mine.” Uberon rose from a throne made of exotic wood from Quoli trees and the cleaned bones of Quoli natives. He speared the man with a sharp glare. “I’m inclined to agree with her.”
“You won’t stop me from taking a wife, Your Majesty,” the man said, squaring his shoulders.
The others in the group took a step away from him, lest they, too, be burned in the forthcoming blast they believed inevitable. He glared at them, then redirected his gaze to his k
ing.
“No, I won’t stop you from taking a wife as long as you gain the woman’s consent,” Uberon replied mildly. “However, I will not tolerate mistreatment. Our mates are too precious to harm.”
“Women are plentiful, just not here.”
“Then go. Live where women are plentiful.” Uberon paused, then added, “That’s an order. Master Orifelgany, you are no longer welcome in my kingdom. I expect your departure by dawn tomorrow.”
The man gasped and spluttered in protest. “What about—? I cannot!”
Uberon ignored him and leveled his gaze at the other males in the group. “The females here are not for sale. Go, before I lose my patience with all of you.”
The men backed away several steps, then turned and hurried out of the audience hall. Uberon extended his hand toward Corinne. She rose from her stool, obeying the silent summons. She disliked the peremptory gesture and expectation of her obedience, but she also understood this was neither the place nor time to assert her independence and undermine his authority.
“We are finished for today,” Uberon announced.
“Your Majesty?” a courtier called out. “Who is this wo—female?”
“Bow to your queen who is called Corinne. Obey her as you do me.”
Everyone in the audience hall bowed. No females other than Corinne occupied the space, which emphasized the paucity of mates for the worthier males in Quoliálfur. She fisted her cold hand in the folds of her silk skirt and began to understand the enormity of responsibility thrust upon Uberon’s shoulders for having agreed to purchase Merogis’ daughters.
“My lord,” a Maltani male stepped forward and bowed. “You bade me present myself today.”
“Aye, I did. Follow me.”
The ship’s first mate gaped for a brief moment, then schooled his expression to quiet pride and confidence. From the periphery of her vision, Corinne watched him stride toward them with the rolling gait of a seafaring man. She followed the light pull of Uberon’s hand clasping hers and accompanied him to a formal drawing room where she took a seat beside her mate.
“Fetch Sin’halissar, please,” she bade Golsat.
The gargoyle bowed and departed, his stride surprisingly light and agile. When the door closed behind him, Uberon directed his piercing glare at the sailor and spoke, “What makes you worthy of Sin’halissar?”