24. Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Four

Rory had been certain that they could not possibly organize a royal wedding in under a month, but three weeks and six days later, he was standing in the enormous throne room at Beaulieu, watching as Gray went toe-to-toe with Rowen, who had appointed herself as the wedding planner. Normally, the steward would have done the job, but after Rory had announced his intention to crown Gray to conclude the ceremony, the grumbles had increased exponentially, leaving some, like the curmudgeonly steward who had spent nearly his entire career in service to Sabrina, to either accept the changes or leave. At first, Rory hadn't been certain they could even pull off such an intricate and complex event without someone who had any experience, but Rowen had scoffed at Rory's concerns.

"I've spent my whole life at court," Rowen said. "I know how to plan an event."

And it turned out she did, at least when Gray allowed her to do her job properly.

"I've discovered the problem here," Anya told Rory under her breath. "You didn't give the Prince enough to do, thus he had enough time and energy to interfere with Rowen."

Rory shot her a look. "I gave him plenty to do."

"The Prince used to run an entire farm with practically no help. I don't think either of us is good at estimating what he's capable of handling."

It was difficult to argue with that, or with the fact that Gray was here, and despite ten council meetings this week, and shadowing Marthe in her role as General of Fontaine's armies and Rory keeping him occupied for hours each evening in bed, he apparently had plenty of energy to argue over floral arrangement placement with Rowen.

"If only the Prince had been able to apply himself so successfully to finding the person who used Sabrina's lair," Anya said, and Rory had to nod his agreement. No matter how they'd searched, it was hard to find someone who clearly did not want to be found. The room, buried deep in the catacombs, had been guarded night and day, and nobody had even attempted to approach. They were no closer to finding the culprit and they were about to lose their best tool—the day after the wedding and Gray's coronation, the room was to be demolished entirely.

"The biggest one should go in the front, right over the dais," Gray argued. Rowen didn't say a word, only nodded. Rory already knew that she was going to put the floral arrangements wherever she wanted, no matter what Gray said. Rory had agreed with putting her in charge for a reason; she knew what was needed and how to accomplish it.

Which was why this was an enormous waste of time when they could actually be going over the complicated ceremony—the entire reason why they were in the throne room today.

"Darling," Rory said, approaching the pair, "why don't we leave these minor arrangements to Rowen, and go over the ceremony itself. The etiquette is rather complex, and well . . ." Rory gave him a look that was both fond and exasperated. "Well, we know formal etiquette is not your strongest skill."

Gray glanced over at him, eyes warm—quite possibly just as warm as Rory's own. "No? I'm hurt, sweetcheeks."

Rory blushed. It was one thing for Gray to try this new nickname out in private, in their bed, but to do so in front of Rowen, Anya, and the handful of nobles who had chosen to witness the rehearsal? Entirely another.

"Darling," Rory repeated between clenched teeth, still amused and still fond, despite the nickname and despite a hundred other things that should drive him crazy but somehow, never did, "we are wasting time."

Gray smiled broadly, like wasting time was his favorite thing and not at all the opposite. "Well, then, lead the way, Your Majesty."

A slight improvement over sweetcheeks.

Truthfully, in less than twenty-four hours, Gray wouldn't be required to use that particular honorific for Rory any longer. Not that he had ever been particularly diligent about its use. But after his own coronation, there would be no need, because he and Rory would be equals, both Kings in their own right.

It hadn't quite caused any outright riots just yet, but it wouldn't matter if it had. Rory was adamant and completely sure that this was both the best choice for him personally, and for the kingdom he ruled over. He'd given a speech to the court, which was something he was finally getting the hang of doing, detailing why it was a necessary step. It must have been fairly convincing because afterwards, the grumblings had mostly died down. Along with the steward, the Duke of Rinard had left Beaulieu, followed very shortly after by Count Aplin, and Rory knew he wasn't alone in hoping that was the last they'd seen of those two—and that the reason they'd been unable to catch the magical practitioner was because they'd already departed and would hopefully never return.

Rowen led them through the lengthy ceremony, and thankfully, Gray had only a few questions and remarks for her until they reached nearly the end of the marriage rite. "And now," Rowen said, pulling a length of cloth from behind the podium they stood in front of, "Prince Graham will bestow upon King Emory a length of valuable tapestry from his kingdom of Ardglass, as a symbol of his commitment to this union."

Gray blanched and stared at the cloth like it was a coiled serpent, poised to strike. "What is this?" he demanded.

Rory barely held back a resigned sigh. It had been his idea to add this particular flourish to the ceremony, and he'd known that Gray wouldn't like it—at least on the surface. Gray still held a lot of complicated feelings towards the country of his birth. "This is a part of the Ardglassian commitment ceremony," Rory began to explain, hoping that the bored, informative tone he adopted would calm Gray down and not inflame him further.

"I know what it is," Gray said, gesturing to the cloth. "I meant, why is it being included as part of our ceremony? We are being married in Fontaine, and approximately ten minutes after this, I will be crowned a king of Fontaine. Do you think we should further remind everyone that I was born to be a king of a neighboring country?"

Rory had struggled with whether they should include it for exactly those reasons—but then he'd realized that those concerns could be reframed, and therefore seen in an entirely different way. Gray's lineage should be seen not as a detriment, but as an advantage. The court was concerned that Rory had no experience, and had never been trained to be a king. Well, here was someone who had been trained to be a king. It was one of many reasons why Rory had become convinced that Gray needed to share his throne.

"I think we should, yes. We can hardly make everyone forget it, and why should you not celebrate your country on the day of your wedding?" Rory said, but the glower on Gray's face only grew.

"I need to talk to you," Gray said, and the edge to his voice made it abundantly clear that it was not optional. "Privately."

"One moment," Rory said, and followed Gray over to the edge of the throne room. The massive room, with its enormous vaulted ceilings, was a feat of engineering and virtually guaranteed that even a hushed whisper could be heard, but Rory wasn't going to remind his betrothed of that particular fact.

"Are you insane?" Gray demanded.

"The last time I checked, no," Rory responded quietly.

"Then why do you insist on possibly jeopardizing your throne with these stunts? We've just barely got the court calmed down over me sharing your throne. And now, you're going to stir up all this talk all over again by adding this to the ceremony." Gray crossed his arms over his chest and Rory was reminded of how Rowen must have felt, feeling absolutely sure the flower arrangements were in the right place, but having Gray argue with her anyway—for no real purpose except to argue.

"Are we doing this or not?" Rory finally asked. "Because when I suggested this plan to you and then I proposed, I meant to commit to it, without flinching, no matter how difficult the path got. You are from Ardglass, that's something you could not possibly change, even if you wanted to, and you shouldn't want to—even if the reminders can be painful. You are who you are because of what happened, and I love you for that strength. It brought us together and it should be celebrated, especially on our wedding day."

Gray stared at him, expression inscrutable. "You really believe that."

"I do. I believe in it," Rory said firmly, "and I believe in you."

"I don't want to bring you to ruin," Gray admitted softly, brokenly, his eyes haunted. "I love you too much to do that."

Rory reached out and took his hands, squeezing them tightly in his own. "You could not possibly. And I prefer to see that we bring each other strength, not ruin. I could not do this without you, and I like to believe you could not do this without me. So let us do this without flinching, without hiding away those parts of ourselves that might make others talk."

Gray did not say anything for a long, drawn-out moment. His expression went from sad to resigned to finally one that Rory at least wanted to believe was hopeful. "And," Rory added, "Anya has spent many evenings embroidering this cloth that came from Ardglass. It has great significance to her, and I believe she hopes it will hold the same for you. It is a gift, from the remnants of a kingdom that you gave the best chance to succeed, and they wish to thank you for it."

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 Mecant, 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 beloved'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.

"Ladies and gentlemen of Fontaine, of this royal court, we are here today to see our king pledge his faith and his hand to Prince Graham, his consort and his protector, and for Prince Graham to return his own promises, both to our king and to the kingdom. Will you hear their pledges?"

A rush of sound met Gray's ears. He'd been most concerned about this section of the ceremony, as there was a definite possibility that the court would not want to hear their pledges. But it seemed that was hardly a problem at all. All Gray saw was smiles and encouragement reflected back at them from the crowd.

Everyone loves a wedding, Evrard echoed in his head. Gray supposed he'd been right the whole time. It was only too bad he wasn't here so Gray could tell him so and Evrard could gloat properly.

"I, King Emory of Fontaine, take you, Prince Graham of Ardglass, to be no other than yourself. Loving what I know of you, trusting what I do not yet know, I will respect your integrity and have faith in your abiding love for me, through all our years, and in all that life may bring us." Rory's fingers tightened on Gray's own, like he was trying to calm their trembling, and Gray understood. His own heart was thumping irregularly, excited and a tiny bit terrified.

"I, Prince Graham of Ardglass, take you, King Emory of Fontaine, to be no other than yourself. I take your faults and your strengths, as I offer myself to you with my own failings and successes. I will do everything in my power to help you when you need help, and vow to turn to you when I need assistance. I choose you as the person with whom I wish to spend the rest of my life." Gray took a deep breath as Anya took a step forward and extended the embroidered cloth, which he took. He ignored the rustle that went through the crowd; they were surprised, but it remained to see if it was a good or bad surprise. "And now I will pledge my past, and my present, and my future to you, and your kingdom. My promise is represented by this tapestry, illustrated with the story of my birth, and of the most important journey of my life—my journey to finding you."

Rory reached up and wiped a single, crystalline tear from his cheek. "Nothing would honor me more," he said, letting Gray wind the cloth around his neck and cinch it down by his turquoise sash. The golden threads echoed his eyes and as Gray caught a glimpse of Evrard, immortalized in silver thread, he realized that Anya had made sure that he was present for this most important day.

"Now that you have made your pledges to one another . . ."

A snarl rose from the crowd, and Marthe hesitated, Gray's gaze immediately dropping from Rory, to scanning the crowd.

It parted, and stalking towards the dais where he and Rory stood was Count Aplin, looking worse for the wear. Mud smeared up one side of his silvery tunic, his hair looked as if he had just ridden for hours, and his eyes were wild and unfocused.

Panic lanced through Gray in a sickening rush as the guards stepped in front of the Count, who with a single wave of his hand, sent them toppling backwards in a frightening rush of power.

"Guards," Marthe called out, and Anya stepped in front of Gray and Rory, pulling her sword from its sheath.

But Gray knew it wouldn't do anything, not when the Count was clearly the magic user who had utilized Sabrina's lair in the catacombs, and who had tried to enact a dangerous spell, before he'd been interrupted.

Or had he been interrupted? Gray wasn't sure if he had or not, but his deepest fear was that the only one who could stop Aplin was him and the magic of Lion's Breath. Gray reached for the sword, and only realized, after his fingers closed around dead air, that he had stupidly allowed himself to be dressed without it today. Today, of all days, he was unprotected, and Aplin was possibly going to murder both him and his almost-husband before Marthe could even complete the wedding vows.

"Ah," Aplin cackled, "missing something, Your Majesty?" His snide tone made it horrifically clear that he had interfered with the valet, and made sure that when Gray dressed this morning, he would be without the one weapon that could possibly defeat the kind of magic that the Count wielded now.

"You will not get away with this!" Rory shouted, his tone deadly angry.

"Oh really?" Aplin questioned, brushing aside more fully armed guards like they were children's toys as he made his way even closer to the dais. Gray's heart constricted. "It seems as if I am. And very easily, too."

Gray clenched his fists. How could he have been so stupid? Maybe he was a king, but he was also protector of this kingdom, and of its ping, and he was failing utterly.

Marthe let out an appalled gasp as pieces of Aplin's face began peeling away to reveal an enormous silver serpent in his place.

"This is . . . really not good," Rory muttered between clenched teeth as Marthe drew her own sword and joined Anya in front of them. But Gray knew the two women, despite their experience and skill, would be no match for Aplin's magic. The only way he could be defeated would be with the purifying and cleansing fire of Lion's Breath, and without the sword, Gray could not hope to summon it.

He reached out and gripped Rory's hand. At least if they fell, they would fall together, and at least it would be in front of the entire court. Unlike Sabrina, who had carefully worked behind the scenes and concealed all evidence of her dark magic, Aplin was doing it front and center, stroking his ego with every slithering movement he made towards the group huddled at the back of the dais.

"I want you to run. You and Rory both," Marthe ordered under her breath. "Perhaps you can escape him, lose him in the halls of the castle."

"And expose more people to his dark treachery?" Rory shook his head. "This will end now. What he wants is me."

"You and that usurper," the serpent rasped out. "That foul-mouthed Ardglassian that you permitted to touch you, to protect you, to marry you. And then you were going to allow him to destroy the throne? I could not let him or you take that step."

The crowd gasped as the snake approached the group. Anya's grip tightened on her spear and she threw it with deadly accuracy—perhaps one of the best throws of her life. The serpent ducked at the last moment, its huge head wavering on its neck, sharp teeth shiny with venom in its great mouth. The spear glanced off its neck, but green blood flowed from the injury.

"He's not as strong as Sabrina was," Rory hissed. "He can be hurt."

"If one could get close enough," Marthe retorted testily.

It was a split-second decision that later, Gray wasn't sure he'd truly thought through at all. But the truth was, after the age of eleven, he'd never expected to be anything at all. He'd believed, without a single doubt, that a great life, a meaningful life had passed him by, and that any opportunity to truly change the world was gone. Rory's love had given him a glimpse of a different future, and it evolved even further with his new plan of crowning Gray King. But what else could give the most meaning to a life? Sacrificing his own for a greater purpose.

Gray reached out and grabbed the dagger from Anya's belt, and darting forward, moved past the protection of the two best warriors in Fontaine, so he could face the deadly serpent alone.

"Gray!" Rory cried out, but Gray blocked out the voice, because it already hurt that the beautiful future that he'd hoped for with Rory was going up in flames. But he could do this.

He ducked as the great head swung, its jaw snapping shut and just missing his arm. Rolling closer, he eyed the exposed underbelly of the snake, hoping that it was as vulnerable as its real-world counterparts. He poised, hoping to strike with the dagger, praying it would be deadly enough to stop the Count from continuing his attack, but before he could swing with it, flames suddenly erupted out of the pointed end.

The serpent reared back, screeching as flames engulfed him. Gray, as surprised as the first time Lion's Breath had summoned its deadly magic, couldn't believe that this little dagger, of no ancestry whatsoever, was summoning the same flames the ancient sword had.

Abruptly, it was over, the remains of Aplin smoking on the marble floor, a horrified hush spreading through the enormous chamber.

"Gray!" Rory yelled, running towards him, after finally loosening Marthe's grip. He fell to his knees next to Gray, who dropped the dagger like it had scorched him, even though the metal was as cool as the first moment he'd held it. "Oh god, what happened?"

Gray stared at his almost-husband. "I don't know . . . I didn't have the sword. I just thought I could hurt it, hurt him. Enough to maybe stall him, maybe give Anya another shot, enough to save you."

Rory was crying, tears dripping down his cheeks as he clutched at Gray's shoulders. "You insane idiot, you saved me, you saved us all." He put his head in the crook of Gray's shoulder and hugged him fiercely.

"I think . . ." Marthe approached now, her voice as uncertain as Gray had ever heard it. He supposed that it wasn't every day a gigantic serpent was burned to ash in front of her. "I think it is my utmost honor to pronounce you committed partners and Kings of this realm." She extended her hand and Gray realized that she carried in it his new crown. Rory glanced back, and smiled, taking it in his own two hands. Gray, who had knelt down to be closer to Rory, found he did not have to move at all. So it came to be that in front of the smoldering ruins of their second-worst foe, Prince Graham of Ardglass became King Graham of Fontaine, and to his own shock and his husband's, the entire court erupted into wild applause.