A Fistful of Water: Chronicles of Marsdenfel #3

Year 533, New Calendar - I

THE TELVEN REALM OF BREIDENTEL
Late Autumn

Sometimes, I hate myself.

Eating at a king’s table is not one of those times, even though the king’s wife is insane and began life as a charity case that my uncle, King Aldrik of Salles, took pity on, after she saved my sister’s life.

That charity case-turned-queen consort, Lallie Nonsire, is drenched in blood, as if she bathed in it. She killed this realm’s previous king and has probably finished off all the guards who owned more loyalty than prudence. Her husband, King Liathen II of Marsdenfel, now rules this realm, Breidentel, in addition to his own, Marsdenfel.

I guess Lallie’s a good choice for him, if he wants to make a habit of this sort of thing. As a Shifter freak who can change into a wildcat at will and heal almost instantly from injury, she can wipe out a platoon of soldiers and likely survive. Magic-insane people don’t handle threats well, and this realm’s previous king tried to kill her friends a time too many. Or maybe Lallie just snapped when the king decided to use her cousin Tuelzi for target practice.

Beside me, Tuelzi—who’s a freak like Lallie but takes longer to heal and isn’t nearly as crazy—hands me some butter for my bread.

“Thank you.” I was young when Father lost his estate to others’ political scheming, but Father and my sister, Silva, both still have ranks of their own, thanks to their abilities to prophesy. That means they practice the etiquette I don’t get to use. Kitchen maids don’t sit and eat with their betters.

I’m a guest right now, though, because my uncle King Aldrik of Salles needed me to Find—magically track down—Lallie. Today’s a glimpse at what I should have been.

And today reminds me why, when one of my royal relatives or their spouses start pitching fits about being highborn, I want to slap them silly. Don’t they understand what they have?

A queen won’t go hungry if she’s sick and can’t afford to work or buy food. A queen doesn’t have to work her hands raw, scrubbing the pots by her lonesome because the scullery maids have decided to go dally with their men. People don’t spot a queen in the hallways and snicker, gossiping about what a shame it is that the faery blood skipped that one, because she certainly won’t fetch a husband for her looks.

Lallie eats readily, most of it meat, and the rest of it bread and butter. Blood from her hands and clothes contaminates her food, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

She’s a Shifter; she can smell and see the blood far better than I can. I’m only human, with a bit of giant and a little more faery in me. The human gives me the family water magic, and the fae gives me the finding magic. The giant, the blood I have least of, just makes me big. I’m as broad as Silva and a good head shorter.

Might have been better if I were more like Aunt Trelanna and outright fat. At least then I’d be interesting to look at, rather than disproportionate.

“Is there a problem, Housemaid Feyim?” King Liathen asks, tone calm.

I grit my teeth at the question, one that calls me a servant even as it mentions my surname, which stems from my prophetess of a grandmother, who got my family in a mess where only a few of her descendants would benefit from her faery blood. What idiot decides to give an unmarried king an illegitimate son? “Your Majesty?”

The elfin king looks through me as he gestures at my platter of…whatever we were served. “You aren’t eating.”

“Some of us don’t eat as much as your wife,” I answer.