A Tale of Two Kingdoms (Knights of Black Swan, Book 6)

by Danann, Victoria

  “Certainly you would know.”

  “So what’s the game, Archie?”

  “Don’t call me that, demon.” Kellareal resumed his innate form. “You know I’m not an archangel.”

  “Sensitive. Again, what are you playing at?”

  “It’s no game. It’s Council business, which means it’s none of yours.”

  “Maybe not, but my granddaughter is my business.”

  “I’m not going to hurt her and you know it.”

  “All the same, it won’t hurt for you to know I’m watching.”

  The angel sighed. “If you must know, we’re setting the wheels in motion to resolve this elf fae conflict.”

  “We?”

  “They. The Council.”

  Deliverance gaped. “Excuse me while I fall down laughing. The seven of them couldn’t agree on a movie, much less resolve a two-thousand-year-old war. Fairies and pixies sharing a Coke?” He was shaking his head when he said, “Not in this dimension.”

  “There’s no justification for ethnic slurs. They’re stuck. They need a push.”

  The demon considered that. “A push, huh. What do you have in mind?”

  Kellareal regarded him coolly. “Again. Not. Your. Business.”

  “Maybe I could help.”

  “When did you become interested in helping anyone other than yourself?”

  The angel thought he may have seen just the briefest flicker of something other than jest or cynicism pass over Deliverance’s flawless features, but he recovered so fast it was impossible to tell.

  “I didn’t. I’m not. Goodbye.” And he was gone.

  Rosie popped them back to their room and sat down on the edge of the bed. She looked up at Glen.

  “If you knew how you looked with that thing on your head, I feel sure you would want to take it off.”

  Glen eyes drifted upward almost like he’d forgot he was wearing a biker light attached to his skull by a jockstrap. Actually he hadn’t thought about it the entire time they’d been with Finrar. Pulling the contraption off his head, he looked at it like he’d never seen it before and was embarrassed for himself in arrears.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Rosie laughed. “I didn’t think about it either.” She saw that he was serious. “What’s the matter, Glen? You okay?”

  The combination of preoccupation and the dislodging of the contraption had left him looking like an absent minded professor with bedhead. It was captivating and cute.

  His eyes jerked up to meet Rosie’s. “I’m gone for you.”

  Her lips parted. “Glen.”

  He put the head light down and pulled her down so that she sat next to him, thighs touching. She could feel his breath on her cheek. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

  “Okay.” She sounded just as breathless as she felt. She didn’t want to feel anxious about what was happening, but Glen wasn’t acting like himself.

  “I declared for knighthood. I’m in.”

  She stared into his eyes trying to process. She hadn’t known what he was going to say, but she wasn’t prepared for that.

  “What?”

  “One of the members of Z Team retired. I’m taking his place.”

  “You’re not.” She said it so quietly it almost sounded like it was coming from somebody else.

  “I am. I’ve been training for this for a long time and I need…”

  She stood up quickly. “No.” She shook her head. “That’s not… You can’t.”

  “Look, baby. I’m not saying I’m doing it forever. I’m just saying I’m not ready for a desk job. You know?”

  “No. I don’t know. Why are you telling me this? Is it like a this-sure-was-fun-have-a-nice-life talk?”

  “No! I… I don’t know exactly. I guess it’s a can-we-talk-about-this talk.” He felt his stomach muscles clench when he saw a big tear roll down her cheek and, for a moment, he was considering second thoughts.

  “Well, you must have had something in mind, Glen. Break it down. Let’s say that you’re going to Marrakesh. Z Team is getting you instead of the sixty public lashes they deserve.”

  “Whoa.”

  “What, exactly, do you see me doing while you’re there?” Glen stared at Rosie for a couple of beats and then dropped his gaze. “Son. Of. A. Bitch. You chose that over me.”

  She continued to stare at Glen, but he wouldn’t look at her.

  “It’s Tuesday, three a.m. at home in California. If you change your mind before supper Thursday, maybe decide it’s me instead, let me know. Otherwise, fair warning, I’ll be gone. You won’t get another chance.”

  She stood up, but he still didn’t look at her.

  “Coward,” was all she said before she vanished.

  Glen sat on the edge of the bed for the next hour without finding the motivation to move other than to breathe in and out. Finally he reached for his phone and dialed Simon.

  “I need a ride.”

  CHAPTER 4

  “E’en, your Highness. Mr. Innes is here and havin’ whiskey at your table.”

  The manager of the Highlander Club took Duff’s coat.

  The prince smiled in greeting. “Thank you, Aels. I know the way.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Duff descended the stairs to the wine room. His guest looked up when he heard the seal of the door swish open.

  “Duffy!”

  “Pey. You can no’ possibly have grown as respectable as you look.”

  His friend scowled. “Of course no’. What do you take me for?”

  After a one-armed embrace during which Peyton Innes never relinquished hold of his whiskey glass, they sat in companionable warmth. Peyton was the older brother, by three years, of one of Duff’s closest friends. He was big and ruddy and redheaded and gave every impression of being fearless. He’d gone into law and had been with an old legacy Edinburgh firm since graduation.

  “Shall I ask how’ve you been or shall I ask what sort of solicitor services you’re in urgent need of?”

  Duff smiled. “For now, let me just ask, how you’ve been?”

  “Fine, Duff. Yourself?”

  “Well. Your mate?”

  “All will be well if I’m home before the clock strikes eight and no’ smellin’ like I’ve been makin’ love to Scotch.”

  Duff laughed and glanced at the tumbler. “Should I be takin’ that from you then?”

  “Only if I begin demandin’ another.”

  After a few seconds of quiet, Duff said, “About the question of respectability…”

  “Aye?”

  “I’m hirin’ you to perform a few services on my behalf. I must know that you will be holdin’ the legal tradition of confidentiality sacred. I’ll be needin’ your word that I can count on that.”

  Innes set his glass down and sat back in his chair as he gave Duff a professional look of appraisal. “Well, Duffy, I must be askin’ you a couple of things first. You know the law as well as I do. There are legal exceptions to confidentiality, as you are aware, and I’m previously bound by a partnership trust that supersedes any vow I would now make to you.

  “Under the circumstances I would normally ask two thin’s, but in your case the first would no’ seem to apply. You are no’ likely to be involved in the pursuit of tax evasion since taxes are paid to you indirectly through your family. As to the second thin’, will any money launderin’ activity be involved?”

  Before Duff could respond, the door opened was held open by the club manager while two servers delivered the mutton and potatoes, cooked and dressed to perfection, and served it on hand-painted pottery plates picturing a red stag leaping through a ring of heather. Duff didn’t need to glance at his watch to know that Aels would have made sure the request for service at six-fifteen was honored.

  When the staff was gone, the room seemed very quiet of a sudden. Not wanting the moment to become awkward, Innes picked up knife and fork and cut into his meat. “Nothin’ like a ripe mutton, eh, Duff?
Looks lovely indeed.”

  “Aye. Most appealin’. As to the question put before me just ahead of the lamb’s arrival,” the prince held up his right hand in a mock taking of oath, “the answer is no, Pey. No money launderin’ activity is associated with anythin’ I may be askin’ about.”

  Innes stopped and looked Duff full in the face with the sort of sincerity that Scots are known for. “In that case, my answer is aye. Certainly you have my word, little brother. ‘Twould be yours whether I was bound by the legal profession or not.”

  “Thank you, Pey. When all ‘tis done, I hope you’ll still be callin’ me brother.”

  When Duff reached the top of the third floor stairwell and turned he could see the light in the outer offices at the end of the hall. He didn’t go out of his way to sneak up on his assistant, but the man was focused on his task to the exclusion of all else.

  “Grieve.”

  As expected, Grieve cleared at least three inches from the seat of his chair when Duff said his name and clutched at his lapel near his heart. “Sir,” he panted.

  “Grieve, are you goin’ deaf, man? I was no’ exactly bein’ stealthy on my approach.”

  “Perhaps, your Highness. I shall look into it.”

  “What are you doin’ here so late?”

  Grieve looked at his watch. “’Tis only eight.”

  “Aye. What time did you arrive this mornin’?”

  “Seven thirty, sir.”

  “I see.” Duff sighed. “I do no’ deserve you, Grieve. But do you no’ have a hobby or any, em, thin’s of interest outside this room?”

  Grieve looked mystified. “What could be of more interest than affairs of state, sir?”

  “Indeed, Grieve. Carry on.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Oh.”

  “Sir?”

  “About my schedule? Heavy as you please tomorrow, but clear the pages from then till Monday mornin’.”

  “Sir?” Grieve’s eyes were big as he blinked like an owl.

  “I’m takin’ some personal time, Grieve.”

  “Personal time, sir?”

  “Aye. ‘Tis what Americans call it. You may use me as you wish tomorrow. Dawn to midnight. I will skip meals if necessary.”

  “Oh, sir, I do no’ think ‘twould be…”

  “But! Tomorrow night at midnight, I do no’ serve at the pleasure of the fae again until Monday.”

  “I see, sir. A most unusual idea.”

  “Aye. And that bein’ the case, ‘twill be no need to mention it to anyone.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Good night, Grieve.” Duff nodded and continued on toward his personal rooms feeling a little guilty about the worried look on Grieve’s face.

  As many of the Thursday and Friday appointments as possible were moved to Wednesday and every second of Duff’s day was booked to the point where the hallway leading to his office was lined with people waiting like Washington D.C. Congressional lobby cues. Now and then it occurred to Duff that Grieve might have been enjoying himself, having taken instructions quite literally.

  When the hall was empty it was just after nine o’clock. Grieve poked his head in.

  “That was the last of them, sir. Your calendar is clear till Monday mornin’ for, em, personal time.”

  Duff looked up. “Good job, Grieve. I do no’ want to see you till then.”

  Grieve looked shocked. “But sir! I have work!”

  “Then take it home. You are no’ to set foot in this place before Monday mornin’. If you attempt to do so, I will have security give you the bum’s rush.”

  “Sir!” Clearly the image of being taken by the seat of the pants was enough to make him feel outraged, which was exactly the reaction Duff was hoping for.

  Duff tapped his watch. “Monday mornin’.”

  Duff ran down to the kitchens to see what there might be to eat. Grieve may have initially protested the idea of booking appointments right through mealtimes, but had scheduled him with no break for the entire day. The kitchen staff had already cleaned up from dinner, but the coolers were stocked full and it wasn’t much trouble to put together a respectable plate of cold cuts, cheeses, fruits and bread. He sat at a twenty-foot-long stainless steel preparation table and ate alone, amazed at how good food tastes when the first meal of the day is eaten very late in the day.

  While he ate with his hands he began planning the next day, feeling a little giddy about being on his own. That alone was cause for celebration. He went back for a second helping of shortbread and washed it down with pale ale. He looked around the immense, dimly lit kitchen. He had a full tummy and was feeling a little bit tired from a day of too many people wanting too many things, and a little bit cranky about the fact that Grieve had clearly wanted to make sure that it didn’t happen often. But underneath all that was something else. Some sensation that wasn’t there before. It was sort of pleasant and sort of warm. One minute it was butterflies in the stomach. The next minute it might be an inexplicably stimulated groin. Anticipation maybe.

  He gathered up a store of snacks - cheese, shortbread, beer, nuts, and a variety of sweets he probably shouldn’t consume, and headed upstairs to his version of a lockdown retreat.

  Sitting at his desk in his bedroom with a portaputer, a bagel and lox and maps spread all across his floor and his bed, Duff was enjoying a rare and profound sense of freedom. He had closed and locked the outer office doors, the inner office doors, the sitting room doors and withdrawn into his own private chambers with no one expecting to see him again until Monday. Even so, he sat barefoot on the side of an immaculately made bed – a holdover from his days of rigid military school training no doubt - wearing jeans and a navy blue long sleeve tee with a Strathclyde emblem.

  Pulling out his phone, he scrolled down his list of contacts. He knew there was no one else in the room, but looked around anyway. It was enormous. Of course. A rectangular shape perhaps forty feet by thirty feet with a fireplace as tall as he and ten feet wide. At the end of the room a bank of east facing casement windows showcased rain being splashed by wind currents. The entire room and everything in it was a very pale sage green.

  Monochrome. Just like my life. But ‘tis about to change. Forever.

  He selected IAY, send message, then texted, Sunday 10pm. It was their method of making a phone date. He looked at the curious response and took a deep breath. ok xoxo

  Step One. Asylum

  He set the phone down and got to work on the task list. It was taking shape in his mind. He’d spent a sleepless night running through various scenarios, playing them out in a series of events that always ended the same. In disaster. He didn’t have a clear winner, meaning a plan with no risk. What he did have was a plan with the big risk preloaded up front. If he could get past the big gamble he was about to make, the rest was just a matter of list making.

  His chief worry was making decisions for Aelsong without her agreement because half their fate was hers, but right or wrong, sometime near dawn he’d decided that’s exactly what he would do.

  With hours to kill until it was nine a.m. in Ottawa, he began making lists to keep himself busy in the meantime. Around noon he got hungry. The last thing he wanted was to run into somebody who wanted something, which meant the kitchen was out of the question. Too many people likely to ask the wrong things. What was he doing? Why was he dressed like that? Why wasn’t he at work? Where was Grieve? Didn’t he have a lunch appointment?

  So he pulled the hoodie up over his head and ran down the back stairs two flights to the tour guides’ break room, which was an obscure little nook tucked into a corner and typically unnoticed by anyone but those who used it. Of course he knew every cranny. Any child left to his own devices for any length of time knows everything about his home including the contents of every drawer and cupboard.

  The tour guides, mostly university students who worked part time showing off the bits of the palace that were open to the public, couldn’t have been more shocked when
the prince burst in, shut the door behind him and leaned against it like someone was after him. As soon as they recovered they all stood.

  He looked at the curious faces and half-eaten sandwiches. “I’m sorry to be disturbin’ what appears to be a very fine lunch. Please do no’ mind me. Just pretend that I’m no’ here.” At that, they looked at each other, some more wide-eyed than others. He pointed at the door. “I’m, em, waitin’ for a pizza delivery.”

  With theatrical timing as perfect as a director’s cue, there was a knock on the door. Duff nodded in that direction in a gesture meaning, “Go ahead. Open it. “

  It was not a door that was used as an entrance or exit. Ever. But a young elf wearing a kilt in MacKesson tartan, pulled it open to find a pizza deliveryman. It was a testament to Duff’s directions that he’d found it at all and an even greater feat that he’d managed to get past the palace detail. But there he stood in a Mac under a shallow portico with sheets of rain forming watery walls on three sides.

  Duff came forward, took the pizza and thanked the deliveryman who stood with mouth open. “You’re the prince, ain’t ye?”

  “No. I just play him on TV.”

  “Oh. Well. That’ll be eight pound thirty.”

  Duff almost looked surprised, reached into his pockets and realized he hadn’t brought money down. He hadn’t thought about it since he didn’t normally carry money around his own house.

  He looked up at the poor man who had braved a deluge in hopes of a nice tip by a palace occupant and looked around at the young expectant faces as mortification set in. “I’m, ah, sorry. I’m afraid I…”

  The lad who had taken it upon himself to act as doorman came to his aid. “’Tis quite alright, your Highness. Please allow me to buy you lunch.”

  “Oh, that’s very decent of you, kind even, but I could no’ impose…”

  “No’ in the least. I shall ne’er be without a story to tell again,” he chuckled.