20. Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty

The banquet was as crowded as Gray had worried it might be. He'd gone over the invitation list himself, and then helped undertake the onerous task of assigning seating based on rank. But it was one thing to see hundreds of names in tiny print on a long scroll of parchment, and quite another to see the faces all those names represented, crowded together, even though the reception rooms at Beaulieu were enormous and dwarfed even the throne room in Tullamore.

It was no surprise that since he had spent so much time in the Valley, with only his own thoughts for company, Gray still found such crowds daunting. He put on a good face for Rory, because this couldn't have been easy for him either, as he understood Rory had rarely participated in such gatherings prior to his coronation, but like all things, they were in this together.

"I feel like I cannot even catch my breath," Rory muttered as he and Gray stood at the very end of the receiving line, bowing to every noble and aristocrat that had deigned to attend—which, it seemed to Gray, was all of them.

So far, they had yet to see either Count Aplin or the Duke of Rinard, and for that Gray was extremely grateful. Still, there had been a distinct coolness in the air as they'd greeted some other members of the court—nobles that prior to this evening, Gray might have counted as at least impartial.

Rinard had warned him, Gray thought morosely. They needed to combat this growing discontent quickly and without drawing any additional attention. Maybe Evrard was right, and the best way to fix all their problems would be to make what was currently unofficial, very official.

"I think we are almost at the end," Gray reassured Rory, tightening his fingers on the back of the gold embroidered white silk tunic he wore. "It will be over soon."

Rory glanced up at Gray, his amber eyes wide and filled with exhaustion. "Sometimes it feels like it will never be over."

Straightening, Gray greeted the next guest, and then the next, before he had a chance to respond. "You should let me help," he repeated. It was the kind of entreaty he'd made many times before, and always Rory had kindly but firmly brushed him off. But now, Rory hesitated.

But before he could answer, the Duke and the Count, arm in arm, stopped directly in front of them.

"Highness, Your Majesty," the Duke of Rinard said. He bowed, as befitted both Gray's and Rory's positions, but Gray remembered enough of his own etiquette training to know it was not quite low enough to greet a king. Perhaps not an overt slight that anyone else might notice, but enough that it made Gray uncomfortable. Rory shifted next to him, Gray's hand falling away from his back.

"Duke," Rory greeted Rinard coolly. "And Count Aplin is with you as well. How appropriate."

The Duke leaned over, brushing a quick, possessive kiss over the Count's cheek. "I did not realize you were aware of my consort," he said. His voice slithered across Gray's consciousness, and his anxiety, already heightened, ratcheted higher. Maybe Rory had been aware the Duke and the Count were committed consorts, but Gray hadn't known. Not for the first time, he thought what good he could do by creating a network of informants, even within Beaulieu itself. It would prevent anyone from developing unsavory ideas, and keep Gray informed when they did.

Not only was Rinard developing them, but Aplin clearly was as well. The hair on Gray's neck prickled as Aplin's eyes, usually a mild gray, flashed an odd glowing green.

But as soon as Gray had seen the change, it was gone, leaving him wondering if he had really seen anything at all. Surely, if another member of the court possessed magic, the same kind of magic as Sabrina, someone would know. And since nobody ever kept their mouth shut here, someone knowing typically meant everyone knowing. But he had heard nothing of this phenomenon and it filled Gray with an anxious dread.

"Of course I am aware of Count Aplin," Rory responded smoothly, "I made sure that my own consort supplied him with rooms appropriate to his station for this very banquet."

Aplin frowned, and then his expression smoothed. "Of course, Your Majesty," he said, bowing at precisely the same height as Rinard had.

Watching their backs as they departed, their figures melting into the thousand invited nobles, Gray realized that if Aplin was Rinard's consort, he could not be nearly as harmless and easily dismissed as he'd hoped. There was a conspiracy afoot, and Gray was going to have to untangle it before it suffocated Rory.

"How did you know about the rooms?" Gray asked. Aplin had passed along the message to Gray, but Gray had declined to ever give it to Rory. Had Aplin found another method to deliver it?

Rory shot him a long-suffering glance. Gray looked down the line and saw there were easily another twenty-five aristocrats in the receiving line. Under any other circumstance, he'd have cried off, suggesting that the King was exhausted and would hopefully find time to greet the rest at a later time. But if Rinard and Aplin were conspiring to depose Rory from the throne, then he couldn't afford to alienate any other possible supporters.

"We're almost done," Gray reassured him—unfortunately all too aware of how much of a lie that was. They weren't almost done. In fact, it felt like every day they were only beginning.

"Aplin sent along about twenty messages to my personal steward," Rory explained under his breath. "He said he spoke to you."

Gray ground his teeth together and gave the next noble, Countess What's-Her-Name, an entirely faux smile. "I did speak to him. I declined to pass on his complaints because I believed they were silly."

The look in Rory's eyes was stark. "Silly, yes, but unwise to ignore."

Gray didn't like the feeling he'd been chastised, but then whose fault was it that he was currently on "placate nobles" duty? Especially when he was terrible at it?

They made it through the remaining twenty introductions, and then had at least a few minutes where they could retreat to a small adjoining room before the banquet began in earnest.

Rory looked slightly surprised that Gray led him out of the receiving room, but also seemed resigned as Gray pulled him into the antechamber, and then closed the door firmly behind them.

"I need a minute," he said.

Rory leaned against the wall, still impossibly beautiful in his white and gold silken finery, but when his eyelids drooped, the dark circles underneath them stood out starkly on his pale skin. "We have a minute," he said, and then paused. "Aplin and Rinard aren't harmless, you know."

It was difficult, but Gray restrained his eye roll. "Yes, I'm aware," he said. "They're incredibly dangerous, especially Rinard." Gray took a deep breath, trying to calm his suddenly racing heart. Why had he ever believed that once Sabrina was dead, they would be safe? Safety, after all, was something he could never take for granted.

"Aplin is far more dangerous than Rinard. Rinard postures, and talks a lot, but I believe Aplin's naivety and pettiness hides a deeply calculating mind."

It was a possibility that had never occurred to Gray before this moment. And once he thought about it, his conclusion chilled him. He'd wanted to wait, but waiting wasn't possible. Not now.

"I spoke to Evrard today," Gray said. "There is a possible solution he suggested to help balance out your duties as well as dismiss any insidious talk amongst the court."

Rory's eyes opened and he gazed into Gray's own. "What was his suggestion?"

This was entirely the wrong time to suggest it, and Gray was hardly prepared, but he was not going to ask Rory to marry him without some semblance of romance. He had no ring, but he could at least get down on one knee.

He did so, and Rory blinked in shock once, and then twice. "What are you doing?" he asked, his voice a surprised squeak. Lately, especially, Rory acted older and wiser than his years, but occasionally, his playfulness would return, and Gray would be reminded that he was really a young man, taking on too many burdens at too young an age.

"King Emory," Gray said, praying his voice would remain steady, "Rory, it would give me the greatest happiness and honor to take your hand in marriage, if you would be so willing."

Deafening silence filled the air between them. Rory was still gaping at him, clearly shocked that Gray had chosen this moment to propose—frankly Gray was shocked he had selected this moment too, so he could hardly fault Rory for that—but the automatic agreement that Gray had expected was nowhere to be heard.

Finally, Rory took a step towards him, and then another, reaching out to grasp Gray's hands in his own and lift him to his feet. Rory's expression was full of regret and Gray experienced a sudden burst of anxiety that maybe he had made assumptions all along that could not possibly be justified. "This was Evrard's idea," Rory stated, but didn't ask. He clearly already knew why Gray was proposing. And even though Gray had not gone out of his way to prevent it, he'd hoped that happiness over being together forever would help make the origin of his proposal more palatable.

Unfortunately, that did not seem to be the case.

"It was Evrard's idea," Gray agreed, but tightened his grip on Rory's hands, pulling the man closer to him, pressing him against his own body. "But I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. The idea to get married now might be Evrard's but it was always my intention to be with you, for as long as you would have me, you know that."

Rory did not look quite as convinced as Gray had hoped.

"I do know that." Rory's voice was regretful, and Gray felt the immediate loss of contact as he pulled away. "But I do not want to get married because it would silence my critics. Especially Aplin and Rinard. This is my life, not theirs, and they do not get to control it simply by existing."

"Then marry me because you want to," Gray begged, uncomfortably aware of his own pleading tone, but also painfully aware that he had just been turned down. For fair and just reasons, but they didn't prevent the rejection from stinging.

But Rory didn't say anything, just continued to look pained, like somehow his own heart was cracking, right along with Gray's. "We should go back to the party," he said gently, and this time he did reach for Gray, tucking his hand into Gray's much larger one. "We will be missed."

Gray wanted to tell him that for once, Rory's royal duties shouldn't come before his personal ones, that they should stay here and decide how to move forward, how to eliminate the threats against them while staying committed to one another, but the distance in Rory's eyes—the first Gray had ever seen—kept his mouth shut.

Gray didn't stop the servant from filling his wine glass again with the ruby red liquid in the glass pitcher. Rory shot him a look.

"What?" Gray asked, "I'm enjoying this party."

"You don't usually enjoy parties," Rory pointed out. "And banquets, those you especially dislike."

It was impossible to keep his hurt inside. It felt like it showed on every inch of his body, radiating out of him like the sun and its warm rays. Except that Gray felt like the exact opposite. "This is my first banquet," he pointed out slowly.

"And you seem to be having a much worse time," Rory retorted. At least they were seated at the very head of the gigantic table, separated by enough sparkling glassware, delicate porcelain, and shining silver that nobody could hear them bickering. Or notice that perhaps Gray had imbibed much more than he usually did.

"Perhaps that has nothing to do with the event, and everything to do with the proposal you just rejected," Gray said.

Rory's gaze shuttered close. "I didn't reject you."

"You didn't say yes," Gray pointed out, gesturing with his glass. "I think I would have noticed if you had."

"Can we not do this now?" Rory hissed. "At least save it until we're alone. Please."

It was not fair, but then life felt particularly unfair right now. Maybe it was that he was seeing everything through the haze of the wine, but to Gray, it felt like all he had done since arriving at Beaulieu was to be everything he thought Rory wanted, to be available whenever Rory had a free moment, to take care of every pressing matter that he could, so Rory could be free to rule his country. And in payment, Gray received very little if any personal time, possibly treasonous nobles, and a rejection of his marriage proposal.

If Evrard was here, at this stupid, blasted banquet, then Gray could at least complain to him, but he was in his stable, snug and undisturbed, and likely completely unaware of the chaos he'd created with his simple suggestion.

Gray had resented the unicorn many times in his life, but his resentment had never burned as acutely as it did right now.

He leaned back in his chair and glared at the liquid in his glass. "I think I should go back to the Valley." The words came out without him even thinking about them, and definitely without him considering the effect they could have. For when he'd lived in the Valley of the Lost Things, it was not as if he had felt life was any more fair. In fact, he remembered all those painfully lonely nights, wishing to meet someone he could share his exile with, and never, ever glimpsing even a possibility on the horizon.

Then Rory had arrived, changing everything, but now, somehow, life as Rory's consort was nowhere near like he'd imagined it during those lonely nights. But then, Gray thought, watching as Rory's expression went pale, he had never imagined that his consort might be a prince or a king. He'd only ever wanted some poor shepherd boy or a sweet milkmaid. He'd never dreamt that he would find himself back in a place similar to where he had been born.

Maybe . . . just maybe . . . he had had the right idea all along.

"Do you mean," Rory hesitated, "do you mean to leave? To go back?"

Gray didn't know what he meant. He knew, objectively, that he was still in love with Rory, and that he never wanted to leave him, but there was something about Beaulieu that was driving him slowly insane and was making him say things he'd never have considered under normal circumstances. But then, becoming the consort to a king and wielding a magical weapon was hardly normal, even for someone who'd grown up with a unicorn as a father figure.

Maybe what he needed was a little break. Some space, for both of them. Maybe Rory would miss him more when he was gone, and realize they were meant to be together, regardless of circumstance. "Not forever," he admitted softly, setting down his glass and catching up Rory's hand in his and raising it to his lips. He brushed a kiss, agonizingly slow, over Rory's skin. "Just . . . for a little bit. I could use some time away."

It was impossible to miss the hurt in Rory's eyes. Truthfully if anyone needed a break it was him, but he was the King now, and he felt the obligation so keenly that Gray knew he didn't believe a break was something he deserved.

Another problem, heaped upon the million others on Gray's plate, and he couldn't hope to solve any of them.

"I will put together a small company to escort you in the morning," Rory said, and this time his voice wavered and Gray would have to be blind to miss the sudden sheen in his amber eyes. "But I will miss you."

This time, Gray's kiss landed on Rory's lips, and it crossed the line from polite to something else entirely. He didn't care. "I will miss you too, you know that. I don't want . . . I don't want to end up like this, me drinking too much wine, you working all the time, and us bickering at banquets."

Rory wiped a tear away. "We won't. I swear it."

"I'll forego the company," Gray added. "I'll take Evrard. I have Lion's Breath. I shall be fine."

"You'd best promise you will be," Rory said, a smile threatening to break through the thundercloud on his face. "I will not tolerate anything less, and I hear the King of Fontaine is completely unable to compromise."

Gray smiled back. He felt better already, like he could already feel the hard dirt of the road beneath Evrard's hooves, and the wide-open grasslands of the Valley. "He's still learning," he said, brushing another kiss across Rory's perfectly flawless nose, "but I believe he will get there. Someday."

"Someday," Rory agreed with a sniff.

As predicted, Rory fell asleep nearly the moment his head hit the pillow when they finally returned to their quarters from the banquet. Gray stayed up later, packing a bag, but mostly watching Rory sleep, his auburn curls spilled across the ivory sheets, his face so peaceful.

Even though Gray knew in his gut that going back to the Valley was the right thing to do, his stomach clenched at the inevitable sorrow they'd both feel at being separated. Even a few weeks was far more than they'd been apart since the first time they'd met.

Still, in the end, he wouldn't be leaving if he didn't believe this wouldn't lead to a breakthrough. At the very least he had to try because they couldn't keep going as they were.

When the first rays of early morning sun crept over the castle, Gray gently rolled Rory over and watched as his eyes fluttered open. For a split second, only joy and love were reflected in their depths, and then after a moment passed, and Rory woke further, he remembered why his lover might wake him, and a shadow crept in.

"You're leaving," Rory said, and there was an edge of hurt to his tone.

"I wanted to get on the road early," Gray said softly.

Maybe leaving Rory right now wasn't particularly kind, but at least to Gray's mind, it was necessary. "Of course you did," Rory said. Bitterness joined the hurt. "When should I expect to see you again?"

"I won't be gone very long. Maybe a few weeks. Just to make sure the Valley is secure. Give you time with the Mecant elders."

Rory could hardly argue that while the elders were at Beaulieu, and he was fulfilling his promise, there was very little time for Gray. Still, he'd just begun to frown, before Gray leaned down and kissed the disgruntled expression right off his face. Gray poured everything he felt into that kiss: the hope and happiness he felt whenever he thought of their long, glorious future, the pride in Rory's accomplishments, the deep pervading heat that filled him at just the thought of Rory, panting and aroused, perched above him. They were both breathless when Gray finally lifted his head.

The shadows had disappeared from Rory's eyes completely.

"I love you," he said, and it wasn't that Rory didn't say it often, but this time it sounded fervent—like a vow. And Gray took it as such, holding the words close to his heart and letting the balm of them soothe the wounded hurt he'd felt when Rory had chosen to answer his proposal with silence.

"I love you too," Gray responded, leaning in to brush one more kiss against Rory's glorious curls. "I'll be back home before you know it."

"I thought we had solved this particular set of problems," Evrard said, sounding incredibly put out, "and then I discover, to my utmost shock and horror, that we are going back to the Valley. The Valley! You hated the Valley."

"I didn't hate the Valley." Gray made sure to keep the amusement out of his tone. Evrard wouldn't appreciate Gray finding his outpouring of melodrama funny. "I was lonely there."

"Yet, here we are, going back, and for what reason I am still endeavoring to discover."

"We needed some space. I . . ." Gray took a deep breath. "I did as you suggested, and it was a disaster. Rory hated the idea."

Evrard stopped trotting down the road so abruptly Gray nearly lost his seat. "He what," he exclaimed.

Gray was even more relieved he'd decided Evrard needed to accompany him back to the Valley, because if he'd discovered the truth with Rory within lecturing distance, he probably would have put Rory so firmly off marriage, a wedding never would have occurred.

"I told you that he wasn't going to want to be married because of Aplin and Rinard's gossiping," Gray said, despite the fact that he was truly afraid what Aplin and Rinard were doing was far worse than a little loose talk.

"Well," Evrard sniffed, "I never suggested you inform him of that particular benefit. That was all on you."

"I wasn't going to lie to him." That was something Gray had vowed never to do.

"Still," Evrard hedged. "There is a method of communication called diplomacy."

"And I'm exercising it by putting some distance between us," Gray insisted.

"You are so sure this will work?" Evrard did not sound particularly convinced.

"It's better than continuing the same thing and continuing to let it separate us further." Gray took a deep breath. "By the time we get back, the Mecant tribe will have departed for the season, and perhaps Rory will have had some time to reflect on what he really wants his rule to be like."

"And some time to miss you?" Evrard chortled. "Perhaps you are more conniving than I had given you credit for."

"It's not . . ."

"Yes it is, and I applaud it," Evrard said, sounding very final about his decision. "After all, you are doing it with every intention of it helping Rory, not hurting him. You mustn't worry. You're not Sabrina. You could never be her."

Gray let out the breath he hadn't known he was holding. It was annoying that occasionally Evrard knew him better than he knew his own mind, but then it could be illuminating too. He'd never have thought what bothered him about being labeled "conniving" was that he never, ever wanted to resemble the sorceress he had slain.

"A half day and a hard ride and we will be at the Valley," Evrard continued. "That is plenty of time to not only review your plan for Aplin and for Rinard, but to continue your etiquette lessons."

Gray groaned, hard.

Maybe he shouldn't have left Beaulieu after all.