Mine, Forever After Page 4

  Evrard paused in the doorway. “You thought even though Ardglass was lost to you, you could pick up where you left off with Fontaine.” He tilted his great head, his bright white mane falling to the side. “You thought you’d found a purpose again.”

  “I did,” Gray said savagely. It annoyed the ever-living hell out of him that Evrard knew him so damn well, but it turned out there was some benefit to discussing his problems with someone who could read Gray’s mind. He wasn’t used to Evrard being so entirely wrong. “I found a purpose, I did, I had adopted Fontaine as my own, and Rory as my future and …” Gray broke off with a muffled oath and stomped over to a chair and slumped down into it.

  When he glanced up, Evrard was carefully picking his way across the threshold, despite Gray’s longstanding order that animals, even animals who talked, didn’t come in the house, they stayed outside or in the stables. “You thought being Rory’s consort and protecting him would be enough,” Evrard said softly. “But it’s not.”

  “I’m angry with myself for believing that was the case. For thinking that loving Rory would be enough.” Gray’s head fell into his hands. “I want it to be.”

  “How could it be? You,” Evrard said, his voice growing, and taking on that magical quality of excessive confidence, “you were born to be a king.”

  How was that supposed to make him feel any better? “And now, thanks to Gideon, I’m not,” Gray observed wryly.

  Evrard’s mane shimmered in the dim light of the farmhouse. “You are not listening,” he said, clearly frustrated. “What do you think you would be if you and Rory were married? An assistant? A mere consort? You would be a king, same as him. He is able to bestow the title and powers onto you, same as his own. And you should share the throne. You possess some of the knowledge and the skills needed for ruling Fontaine, and while Rory’s learning was different, it’s complementary. Together, you are the balance.”

  “That means asking him to share his birthright,” Gray said. He wanted to believe Rory would be willing, but then very few men who obtained power were ever able to give it up. Rory definitely was not most men, but he was still a man, with the same weaknesses, no matter how fiercely his intelligence shone.

  “He would do it and more, for you, and for Fontaine,” Evrard pointed out softly. “And regardless, he cannot, if you do not ask.”

  “But I have asked,” Gray burst out.

  Evrard’s gaze seared into him. “Did you truly ask? Or did you hedge, afraid that he’d turn you down?”

  Gray stared moodily at the floor. “I did ask him to marry me, and while he didn’t outright reject me, he certainly didn’t agree either.”

  “It sounds to me like you both need to talk through your problems.” Evrard’s voice was unbearably wise. And Gray was fairly certain he was also trying to point out that the last thing he should have done was run away instead of talking through everything they were struggling with. Because that was what he’d done, wasn’t it? At the first overt sign of trouble, he’d packed up and left.

  “I needed to know this was still here, in case …” Gray hesitated; he didn’t even want to say it out loud.

  “Rory has taken on a huge responsibility, but you’ve given up your life twice now, without hesitation.” Evrard paused. “Looking back to make sure that what you left still exists isn’t the worst thing you could have done. And as you can see, the Valley is still here. If you wanted to come back here and live, you could.”

  Even though Gray didn’t respond to Evrard, he already knew what his answer was. He wouldn’t be coming back here, not permanently. He belonged in Beaulieu, with Rory. They just needed to figure out his place there, and how to rearrange things so he fit a little better.

  After settling Evrard into his stable with fresh straw, Gray collapsed into his old bed, and to his surprise, slept well, and then rose with the dawn, feeling his mind settle on a decision.

  He’d cared for this farm for too long to see it stand stagnant, even with the strange preservation magic that had settled over it.

  “We made the effort to come,” was all Gray said when Evrard questioned their schedule, “and so I’ll harvest this crop. We’ll leave at the end of the week.” His heart was already yearning to return to Rory, but another part of him—the part that had worked so long and so hard to make this farm his home—knew he couldn’t leave it like this.

  “We talked about this …” Evrard began to say, but Gray held up a hand, stopping him.

  “I don’t care if it stays frozen like this for a hundred years. I’m not leaving these vegetables behind when the people of Fontaine could eat them.”

  He’d have to be a lot blinder to see Evrard’s satisfied expression as he turned away.

  ———

  The days passed more quickly than Gray anticipated. He worked hard from sunup to sundown, harvesting the crops in the fields, and then packing them away in crates he’d put together during many past winters. Evrard could not be expected to carry such a heavy load, as well as Gray, so he traveled to the village, and with his coin purse full of Fontaine gold, bought a solid work horse and a brand-new cart. It was the first time he appreciated not having to bargain for every piece of dried meat or stick of wood. He’d had the results of his hard labor to barter with before, but never before had he been able to outright purchase anything. He hadn’t even wanted to take the gold, but Rory had insisted. Now Gray was glad he had, because, when he returned to Beaulieu, he’d have something to show for his absence. Without the gold, and the transportation it had purchased, the crops never could have left the Valley.

  The day before they were planning to leave, Gray was out in the corn field, sweat dripping down his forehead even though it was very late autumn—nearly winter—and the weather had definitely turned cooler. This was the last field he had to harvest and pack onto the already full cart, and he wanted to get done earlier so he might have time to relax in the bath, in anticipation of the journey home.

  The noise of hooves pounding the ground startled him out of his rhythm, his knife falling to his side as he glanced up.

  Since they’d arrived almost a week ago, he’d seen not a soul except for the quick trip he’d taken to the neighboring village. He was certainly not expecting to see anyone, though he supposed that the rules of the Valley still applied. If someone was lost and needed shelter, the Valley was accessible to them.

  At first, Gray couldn’t see anything, even as he shaded his eyes from the weak wintery sunshine.

  Then, like a vision from his fantasies—or perhaps from his memories—he made out a group of riders, horses in formation, with a slight, but erect figure crowned with bright auburn hair riding at the forefront.

  Gray’s first thought was sweet, blessed relief. He’d known he was missing Rory terribly, but he’d pushed the feelings away because they’d hurt, and keeping busy helped numb him, at least a little. His second thought, as Rory and his guard rode closer, was that something terrible had happened to make them flee Beaulieu again. You never should have left him. You weren’t there to protect him when he needed it the most.

  Gray wiped his face with an already dirty sleeve, and stepped out of the corn patch, waiting for the riders to come closer. When they were finally near enough to make out which of Rory’s guard had come with, joy swept through him in a dizzying rush. Marthe was not with him, which hopefully meant that all was well, and Rory had left her behind to maintain Beaulieu’s defenses.

  Which meant only one thing—Rory had come for him.

  Finally, they stopped. Gray met Anya’s gaze, and she smiled brightly at him.

  Then Rory swung his leg over his horse and Gray couldn’t look at anything except his lover as he walked towards him.

  Rory was smiling too, so sweetly that Gray could barely stop himself from rushing and throwing himself into his arms, no matter how dirty and sweaty he’d gotten.

  “I hear this is an excellent refuge for the lost,” Rory said, his hot, possessive gaze making it clear
that he didn’t care how dirty or sweaty Gray was either.

  Rory might be one of the most brilliant minds of this age, but Gray could still keep up. “Are you lost, then?”

  Rory didn’t say a word, but walked closer, closing the last few feet behind them. He reached up, cupping Gray’s cheek, rough with the beginnings of a beard because Gray hadn’t been bothered to shave while he was alone in the Valley. “I was lost without you,” he admitted softly. “I’m so sorry, more than I can even say.”

  Gray let out the breath he’d been holding—maybe from the moment the crown had been placed upon Rory’s brow, or maybe even earlier than that, from the first moment they’d entered Beaulieu.

  “I’m sorry too,” he said. “I was coming home. I swear.” He gestured towards the loaded cart. “But I couldn’t let all this go to waste when our subjects could use it.”

  The corner of Rory’s mouth quirked up. “Our subjects?”

  Gray steeled himself—reminding himself that they both wanted the same things, that they were still wildly, madly in love, and that most important fact hadn’t changed, even though nearly everything else had. “I hope to call them my subjects too, whether or not you consider my proposal,” Gray said quietly. “I want to help you. I want to help them. Please let me.”

  Rory’s expression didn’t waver. “I think we can work something out. But first, there is something you should know.” He paused, and his gaze grew darker, more determined. “I’m afraid that Sabrina isn’t quite as dead as we hoped.”

  Chapter Four

  A week before

  Missing Gray, while slightly more manageable with every passing day, was a feeling that didn’t abate merely because Rory had realized how many mistakes he’d made with the man he loved. Still, he couldn’t stay in bed, feeling sorry for himself, or stare moodily out the window and not attend to the mountain of paperwork heaped upon his desk. Still, he made time—time he realized he should have been making all along—to summon Marthe to his office.

  “Your Majesty,” Marthe said dipping into a quick, economical bow.

  “I told you that you needn’t bother,” Rory said, but Marthe’s lips compressed into a stubborn line.

  “You are my king, and I am your general,” Marthe said. “Anything else would be unseemly.”

  And even though she would continue to resist, Rory knew he would continue to ask, and maybe someday, she might relent. Probably not though, Rory thought with an internal grin.

  “You’ve summoned me?” Marthe asked.

  “Please sit,” Rory said, indicating a chair opposite his own. “I wish to discuss tradition with someone I trust. Someone who knows the nobility, but isn’t a member of the court.”

  Marthe’s gaze sharpened as she sat down. “You are thinking of changing things,” she said, and Rory was pleasantly surprised to see that she looked delighted at the possibility.

  “I am,” Rory admitted. “I … perhaps for other men, or other women, ruling a kingdom isn’t overwhelming, but I am still learning, and still want to make many of the decisions myself. So I find myself with more work than I know what to do with.”

  “I know Your Majesty wishes to stay involved,” Marthe suggested, “but there are some that would be willing to assist.”

  “Some?” They both knew exactly who she was referring to, but just like Marthe refused to concede to informality, Rory wasn’t going to make this easier on her.

  “I know Prince Graham was raised and educated to be the King of Ardglass, and you trust him completely. Perhaps you could share some of the burden with him.”

  Rory smiled. “I could, unofficially. But what if I wished to make such a division of labor more formal?”

  She didn’t reply immediately, and Rory knew that now he’d surprised her. “You mean,” she asked slowly, “to give him some of the power traditionally held by the throne?”

  “I mean to marry him,” Rory said simply, “and upon our marriage, elevate him to kingship, alongside myself. Some decisions, those impacting the whole of the kingdom, would be ones we would need to make together, but others … I was thinking of splitting the traditional duties in half.”

  “I … I was not expecting this, Your Majesty,” Marthe finally admitted.

  Rory stood and wandered over to the window overlooking the courtyard. “I haven’t found many references to such action in the past. But even more than myself, I know you to be a scholar of history, especially of Fontaine. Is there any precedent?”

  “I …” Marthe hesitated. “Whether there is precedent or not, this will not be popular with the nobles and with the court.”

  Rory turned. He knew he was still too pretty, still too young, to have a truly kingly bearing, but he was working on it. He drew up to his full height—wished he had a few more inches—and leveled his most royal look at Marthe. “This throne is my responsibility and my birthright and those who oppose me should take care to remember that.”

  Marthe had known him since he was a young child, bookish and quiet, and he was pleasantly surprised to see how astonished she looked. “Of course, Your Majesty,” she said. “I do not know of any precedent, though if I remember correctly, there were some ancient documents, from the beginning of this kingdom, giving you the permission to do so.”

  “I have read them too,” Rory said, returning to his seat and leaning forward, capturing her gaze. “I was hoping you would say so, and that we could agree on this particular interpretation.”

  “Your Majesty.” Marthe took a deep breath. “Rory. You are the King. You are free to do whatever you wish. Your aunt saw fit to do the same, but while she was clearly corrupt and sold her soul for the use of dark magic, she did so without the kingdom knowing. Plainly speaking, to the majority of your subjects and your court, she was a decent regent. There is no saying once she held full control that she would have maintained fair and just rule. The common people, they do not care who holds the throne as long as they are treated well, and as your aunt treated them well, there is belief that you will do the same. For the nobles, however, it is different. She cultivated many of them, elevated them, spoiled them with power and riches. They are not so easily persuaded to support you, especially when they never knew she was an evil sorceress.”

  “She was power-mad,” Rory said. “It would have shown eventually, but you are right. It was not evident to the country when she was killed, and that hurts my own position.”

  “The kingdom does not trust Prince Graham yet. Ardglass is not, and has never traditionally been, an enemy of Fontaine, but the court sees him as a prince from another country—one you are very close to, one whose bed you share.”

  Rory drummed his fingers on the table. “I’m not trusted.”

  “Perhaps an exaggeration, but there is a current of distrust, and I am sure you know of whom I speak, but there are those who curry that distrust, to their own benefit.”

  “Count Aplin, and the Duke of Rinard,” Rory said bluntly.

  Marthe nodded.

  “It would be a great benefit to me and also to Gray if I could somehow expose my aunt’s treachery and dark magic to the court,” Rory thought out loud, “but it cannot be as simple as merely saying so.”

  “There needs to be evidence,” Marthe agreed. “Evidence they can see with their own eyes.”

  “They must make the decision that she would have been a poor ruler themselves. But …” Rory smiled. “Perhaps we can lead them there.”

  “I have yet to do much investigation of the catacombs underneath some of Beaulieu. You knew there was an existing structure, when your great-great-great-grandfather began the construction of the existing castle?”

  “I was aware,” Rory said, “though I was under the impression those areas had been sealed off.”

  “They were, but I have long held the belief that Sabrina opened some of the rooms and used them as a secret lair to experiment with her dark magic.”

  “Why would you think so?”

  Marthe held out her hands.
“Have you found any evidence of dark magic in the castle proper? I have not, and I have searched. Yet we know unequivocally that she had it. I was hoping to leave the place where it was kept buried, deep in the ground, but perhaps we should expose it—and her, along with it.”

  “I too would rather leave it buried but …” Rory could not help but think of Gray’s soft expression on the early morning of his departure, and the desolation in his eyes when Rory had turned down his proposal. He could not lose him, no matter what the cost. And this plan of his, where they married and shared the ruling of the kingdom, was instrumental to their future. “We must find it and we must show it to the court.”

  ———

  To Rory’s surprise, Diana came to fetch him, short of breath and with panic in her eyes, the very next morning. “Marthe needs you,” she said, giving Rory a quick, perfunctory bow that made Rory’s heartbeat accelerate with uncertainty in his chest. The only one of his guard who was more of a stickler for protocol than Marthe was Diana. So the fact that she essentially eschewed it this time in favor of speed did not bode well at all.

  “Is everything alright?” Rory asked as he and Diana, with an accompanying Anya, hurried in the direction of the throne room.

  Diana’s expression was grim. She led them past the throne room and they stopped in the hallway, where they had entered Beaulieu six months ago, trying to surprise Sabrina and defeat her before any of the armies could engage. The grate had been pulled open, and Rory could see the flickering of torches in the dark tunnel below.