Royal Enchantment. Sharon Ashwood

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      Talvaric almost wanted to laugh. “Trust me, the goblins are too busy for that at the moment.”

      Barto’s mouth dropped open a moment before he snapped it shut. “That’s unbelievably irresponsible.”

      Talvaric lifted a brow. “Are you actually angry?”

      After Morgan’s capture, some fae seemed to be regaining scraps of their souls. That raised some interesting questions, especially since many fae, including Talvaric, now regarded emotion as a weakness.

      “No.” Barto flushed, proving his denial a lie. “But I think it’s time for me to leave.”

      “Come now, won’t you stay and drink wine with me? I never like to see a guest depart without showing him the best hospitality I can offer.”

      “I—no.” Barto had gone stiff, his shoulders rigid. “I have other commitments to attend to.”

      Talvaric didn’t argue. If he’d had the capacity, he would have been amused. The servants showed Barto the door, because no one ever found the door in Talvaric’s manor unless he wanted them to.

      Talvaric poured himself a glass of ruby wine, made from the wild snowberries that grew high on the Crystal Mountains’ peaks. That’s where he’d found his dragons and formulated his plans. Rukon had performed his first task well and Arthur had received the message. Talvaric hadn’t been sure the dragon would cooperate, but his added controls had worked. Of course, the message had only been the first step in a long progression of calculated mayhem, but one thing at a time.

      Talvaric watched from an upstairs window as his erstwhile guest mounted a fine gray stallion and galloped off across the manor’s rolling lawns. A minute later, he returned to his collection and unlocked the barguest’s cage. The huge, black nightmare backed to the far corner of its cage, cowering like a terrified puppy. Talvaric felt a knot of something warm and tingling in his gut. This display of subservience was the best part of mastering his beasts.

      “That male I was with has annoyed me, and I believe he might just squeal to the council about the troll. I trust you have his scent?”

      With a nod of its huge head, the creature crouched still more, its nose almost resting on its paws.

      “Dispose of him, but bring the horse back unharmed. It looked valuable.”

      In a rush of fetid air, the barguest vanished to do his bidding. Talvaric finished his wine and dreamed of what he would do next.

      Morgan’s throne was vacant, and someone had to fill it—someone with courage enough to seize the opportunity and brave the consequences. Why not Talvaric? The titled fae might look down their noses at an upstart commoner—but not if he could prove, very publicly, that he was the most powerful of their number.

      Talvaric would succeed where Morgan had failed, and destroy the fae’s greatest enemy, Arthur of Camelot. And, he would do it in a way no one could ignore.

      * * *

      “See?” Clary turned her cell phone toward Gwen. “Wedding dresses look like cakes. Wedding cakes look like dresses. There’s a kind of weird symmetry involving layers and fluff.”

      They’d been talking forever, still sitting in the coffee shop. They were becoming fast friends in a matter of hours, and Gwen was thoroughly enjoying the process. “So when will Sir Gawain and your sister wed?”

      “When she’s done planning, which could be never.” Clary shrugged. “Tamsin wants what she wants, and Gawain lets her have her way.”

      “That hardly sounds like the same man,” Gwen said, shaking her head. “The knight I knew was gruff, to say the least.”

      “That hasn’t changed. If he was a dog, they’d say he was unsuitable for adoption.”

      “Except for Tamsin?”

      “Yeah.” Clary sounded unimpressed. “Meanwhile, it’s all wedding, all the time. Plus, she’s a historian, which means a medieval wedding has to be accurate to the period.”

      “Why?” Gwen wondered. “What’s the point of that?”

      “It’s a thing historians do. So what was a real medieval wedding like, anyway?”

      “Mine was—it was not at all what I had expected for myself.” Gwen had switched to tea and held the cup in her hands, warming her fingers. She hadn’t been cold until a moment ago, but memory changed everything.

      * * *

      Gwen recalled standing at the window with her nurse, looking out on the summer-green hills. Below, the sound of saws and hammers broke the morning peace. Growing bored, she leaned on the wide stone sill, her chin in her hands. “What are they making?” she asked.

      “A great wooden table, I’m told.” Nurse smoothed Gwen’s hair. She was a plump, homely woman who had been with Gwen since infancy. She’d fed and bathed her as a baby and been a mother when the lady of the castle died and Gwen had just turned eight. “The table will be your dowry.”

      “A table?” Gwen said with disgust. “That’s a silly thing for a dowry.”

      “A special round table,” Nurse said, “so all the knights who sit there will be equals. It will be grand, large enough to seat all of your Arthur’s mightiest warriors, and he has many and more champions, let me tell you. It will fill the whole of his feast hall.”

      “That’s a stupid idea,” said Gwen with all the certainty of her sixteen years. “I’ll go down in history as the queen with the silly table.”

      “You mustn’t call your father’s gift stupid, chickling. Men don’t like that.”

      “It’s my dowry, and it’s a poor design if it’s going to fill up a whole banquet hall. They should build the table like a ring. If they did it in sections, the servants could serve the food from inside the circle. It will take less wood that way.”

      “What a clever girl you are,” Nurse said, but she sounded sad. “Don’t tell your father.”

      Gwen didn’t understand why, but the wisdom of her nurse’s advice became clear once she went ahead and shared her idea with King Leodegranz. Her father saw the advantages of her design at once, and the round table was built her way. Gwen was delighted until he told everyone the innovation was his own. The world of men had no place for young girls with ideas.

      By the time she married Arthur, the table had been finished and delivered to Camelot and Guinevere had turned seventeen. The wedding itself was a dream—or a nightmare. Camelot was far larger than her father’s lands, the castle grander and filled with strangers. Gwen was expected to be a fine lady, fit to rule at her new husband’s side. She felt like an utter fraud.

      It was easy to stand tall and proud during the wedding and the feast afterward. Her gown was so stiff with gold embroidery it might have stood on its own. Her handsome new husband was all merriment, drinking and dancing with everyone. He danced with her of course, but only a few times. Gwen knew that was proper, that the host had to make sure everyone had a little bit of his attention, but she selfishly wanted more. She hardly knew anyone there, after all.

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