Chapter 73: A New Routine
A sickly bright, blue-skinned faerie shoved Galadriel inside the massive chamber and she barely caught her footing before collapsing along the wooden floor. The room looked to be a drawing room but in the state it was, barely resembled anything other than a place to store whatever trash this damned mountain acquired. There were broken bits of furniture, splinters of wood under her feet, ash from the hearth smeared across the ground, paper confetti—which Galadriel was sure had come from one of the books tossed from the decorative shelves. A putrid smell hung in the air, thick and clogging her nostrils. Perhaps it belonged to the unidentifiable puddle she could see on the other side of the room.
Some of the population living Under the Mountain had taken rather well to their new ruler.
"Clean this up," the blue-skinned faerie hissed. "We have guests coming in an hour."
"An hour?" Her jaw fell open. "That's impossible. I'll need one of the other servants to help me. Three if you want it sparkling."
The pig-like nose of the faerie managed to shrivel it even more. "Not my problem," he sneered. "Or should I tell our Queen that you're not keeping up with the work?"
Amarantha had bigger problems to deal with than Galadriel's insistence that she was being given too much work, but the idea of this faerie bothering her... Gritting her teeth, she said, "I'll get it done."
With a righteous noise popping out from the back of his throat, the faerie slammed the door behind him, sending dust billowing through the air. For a minute, all she could was stare at the mess, half wondering what she needed to do first, half wondering what would happen if she simply didn't. Amarantha wouldn't kill her. Probably. Galadriel had become a little trophy to the queen, a prize that she showed off especially whenever Beron was around, which had become too often for Galadriel's liking. His sons were just as bad, sneering at her whenever they passed, tripping her over, blaming things she had no idea even happened on her.
Her back ached as she scrubbed the floor where the vile liquid—not vomit, she deduced, not that it made it any better—had once been. The broken furniture would need to be replaced and she sent the shards away with magic but had to hunt and haul in pieces from other rooms to fill the space. They could tell when she did too much with magic. Feel the residue of dust even when it wasn't there. It earnt her a strike across the back with a whip. The single slash had been enough that Galadriel only used magic when there was no possible alternative.
She missed home. Missed it with all her being. It wasn't even the work that made her miserable—it was that after it, when she went to her room. Ate alone. Slept alone. Some nights Rhysand would creep into the bed with her, but he'd be gone by the time she woke in the mornings. Galadriel couldn't count how many times she laid there, eyes closed, waiting for Cassian's warning yell downstairs that he was coming to tear her from the bed. Or the times when she'd waited, staring ahead in the silence in anticipation, for Azriel to emerge from the shadows and scare her even when she expected it. Or to hear Mor and Amren bickering over dinner.
She managed to get most of it done within the hour, other than a proper clean of the hearth and a thorough clean of the shelves and furniture legs. The blue-skinned faerie returned, muttering something about her poor job but she went for the door before he could order anything more of her.
"Whore," she heard as another gaggle of more faeries pushed past her to get into the chamber that had turned into a pleasure room. All she could do was glare.
Spying, it turned out, wasn't the hardest part of her life Under the Mountain. People talked and when they didn't, she learned to listen to the silence. What wasn't being said was just as important as what was. In three months, only one of the events she retold had ended in a public execution. That was the hardest part—not knowing whether Amarantha would dismiss the small details, or whether a little spill if she pushed Galadriel would mean watching the heads of a family be spiked in the throne room.
~
Galadriel blinked, staring straight ahead as she stood in Amarantha's personal drawing room. Wine had been poured into two glasses, but she was smart enough not to take the bait. "I haven't been down to the market space today, so I don't have anything to report."
Amarantha drank boredly from her glass, lounging on a velvet chaise. "Have you heard anything interesting? Servants speak. Gossip is currency amongst your kind."
"I don't speak with them."
"It is your job to."
Closing her eyes, Galadriel nodded. It was a lie. She had been listening closely to the other servants talking amongst themselves. Most of it was blasphemous. Mutterings of threats they would probably never be brave enough to follow through with. Nothing they deserved to die for.
"I think there's a thief," Galadriel said. "Servants have been complaining that they've been accused of theft but swore they hadn't touched anything. At first I thought they were lying, but it's repeated itself among circles that don't overlap much."
"You think I find the work of a petty theft interesting?" That clipped voice was warning enough.
"One of the servants that complained worked for Beron's second eldest. He says that Beron's sons are talking about slaughtering any servant suspected of stealing."
Amarantha's eyes narrowed. "All matters of justice are to be put through me." Galadriel figured they had very different definitions of the word. "I'll have... a word or two with them." It might not save any lives, but it would reign in the sons of Autumn. Let them know their moves were being watched. And that could only do Galadriel good.
Amarantha shoved herself to her feet, slamming the glass down on the nearby table. Passing the mirror above the lit hearth in her bedroom, she smiled and touched the ginormous emerald necklace at her neck. Galadriel caught her eye in the reflection and quickly looked away. "You look so dull these days, Galadriel," she mused flittingly. "Are you sick?"
"It is being underground," Galadriel replied, both as honestly and kindly as she could. "Shade doesn't suit my skin."
Amarantha gave a little humph. "Like a flower, then. Little Flower."
"I've never considered the comparison."
Picking up a little silver box, the queen inspected the intricate engravings. No doubt a treasure of her conquest. Glancing over her shoulder, she surveyed Galadriel in a way that she couldn't read. "Tell me, Little Flower, what is Rhysand like?"
Galadriel stammered. "He... He is vindictive. Arrogant."
"No," Amarantha snipped. "I mean as a lover. Is he rough? Dominant? Does he like taking you from behind or having you on top?" Heat flooded Galadriel's cheeks. "I can always smell you on each other so don't try to lie about it."
Rounding her shoulders in discomfort, Galadriel managed to get out, "He likes watching things. Hearing me make noises."
"What else?"
"He—" she coughed, invisible hands strangling her throat "—he likes to be ridden."
A little smile told her that Amarantha was pleased with that information and a pit of dread had Galadriel wondering if Amarantha was noting it against her own pleasures. "You are dismissed."
The Attor, who had been waiting in the corner as silent as a spider, lunged forward. He snagged a clawed hand around her wrist, dragging her from the chamber like leaving Galadriel any longer inside would be the utmost insult to his master. Her wrist barked as he twisted it to throw her out and she hit the far wall of the corridor.
She walked back to her room cradling it. Then immediately dropped it back to her side when she opened her door.
"I'm sorry," Rhys murmured from where he sat against her desk. "I know you're tired, but I just wanted to see you." Guilt curdled in her stomach. She'd violated the privacy of their intimacy. Told Amarantha things he trusted her with that weren't meant to be shared. She didn't even have the mind to lie.
"What's wrong," she immediately asked.
He sighed. He was about to say Nothing, but he caught her expression. Taking the sign that this wasn't a standing sort of conversation, and truthfully her legs ached too much, she sat on the end of her bed, pulling her feet beneath her. "I just wanted a break," he said. "She brought in a prisoner this morning. Had me tear through his mind. The male was trying to find a secret exit he'd overhead someone talking about. Wanted to get some younglings from his court out." Bowing forward, he ran his fingers through his hair. "I had to kill him."
Galadriel folded her hands in her lap, thinking carefully. "He was dead the moment he tried. At least he died in the presence of someone who would bother to pray for him." Because that's what Rhys did every time he killed on her orders. Galadriel hadn't realised, because his lips never moved, but one day he'd opened the channel between their minds and she'd heard the prayer that helped guide souls back to the Mother.
The vein pushing against the skin on his neck informed her exactly of the way he was straining but trying not to show it. "Tamlin turned her away again," he said with an airy, empty chuckle. A notable turn in the topic. "Didn't realise the bastard had standards."
Galadriel had managed to avoid Tamlin. Not by choice, but their paths just never crossed. Amarantha kept him occupied most days. "It's not going to bode well when her temper snaps." Amarantha was like a pliable piece of wood. It would bend, where she'd play her little games that she loved so much. But too much and she would break. "But I don't blame him."
"Who do you think would take over the Spring Court if Amarantha killed him?"
Galadriel crossed her arms at the hint of true curiosity in his voice. "As much as you two hate each other, you're not against one another right now. If he died, he could be replaced with a lot worse."
Rhysand picked at his nail. "Maybe it would be the youngest Vanserra."
"Lucien," she corrected, but then thought on the possibility. Lucien was the son of a High Lord, the closest thing to one beyond Tamlin in Spring. Tamlin had no other family so the possibility that the power would shift to Lucien was certainly one that existed.
Rhys shrugged. "When her attention isn't on Tamlin, it's on me so for all intent and purposes, him being alive is very much something I want." He slid from the desk, wandering aimlessly around her chamber. His eyes fell to her wrist.
Shifting, she pulled the sleeve down but he'd already noticed and grabbed her hand. "I knocked it on the side of the hearth. I thought I saw a spider and freaked out," she explained. He stared at her bruised skin and she conjured the image in her mind, seeing a giant, hairy critter crawling from the ashes in the hearth she'd been cleaning, her jumping and squishing her wrist between the brick and herself.
"You haven't bothered to speed the healing?"
She smiled. "I've been busy and it doesn't hurt." He sighed in a way that informed her she was in trouble as he swiped his thumb over the tender spot. His magic combined with hers and the bruise disappeared. "Thank you."