Two days later, Jareth was awakened at an unholy hour by a sharp voice telling him to get up. "Lea' me 'lone," he groaned, pulling the covers up. "'M king here, an' I didn't ask to be woken."

To his immense shock, he felt the toe of someone's boot applied strategically to the base of his spine, and then an abrupt shove that rolled him out of the bed entirely. It also hurt, damn whoever had the gall to assault him so! Sputtering with rage, he fought free of the blankets, his head pounding viciously. "I'll have you drawn and quartered!" he roared, scrambling to his feet.

Iswyniel, the Sorceress of Astolwyr, was not impressed. "Do you even have the horses for that?" she scoffed. "Shut your mouth, boy, and be glad I didn't rouse you with a bucket of ice-water. Or the help of your servants, who are surely most impressed by the winesop they've acquired as king."

Jareth blinked at his grandmother. The room swayed around him, but that was probably the stash of liquor he'd discovered last night, a welcome anodyne to the rough young wines in the cellar. Finally, he managed to say, "Grandmother? But … what are you doing here? Yea gods, how did you get in?!"

She snorted at him. "What I'm doing ought to be obvious: rescuing your stupid feckless arse, boy. And as for how I got in, the gates were open. I told your people I was your assistant, and they showed me right in to your bedroom. You never felt the intrusion, which tells me all I need to know about how well you've begun your duties as king."

He glowered at her, but bit his tongue to keep his first, sarcastic response behind his teeth. This morning, like the entire week, was already starting out awful, and Jareth didn't want to make it any worse.

And if anyone could make it worse, it would be Iswyniel.

Still, she had no interest here, and she was one of the most powerful sorcerers among the fae. He could confide in her safely, and if anyone would know how to help him, she would. "I have no sense of the land at all," Jareth admitted sullenly.

Her fine brows arched. "Are you surprised? Did you think the High King's word would grant you the Unmastered so lightly? Yea gods, your father has more wit than that!"

"My father rules a blood-bound kingdom," Jareth growled. "And I was raised in the expectation of inheriting Etaron, which would accept me for that bloodline."

"Etaron is gentler, but even she would not grant you all the powers you were due until you proved worthy of them," she commented. "Think of this like wooing a woman, Jareth. You certainly know enough on that score. Just because you were cast into Umardelin doesn't mean she will open to you."

As caustic as the words were, there was a spark of realization that penetrated Jareth's hangover. "So this kingship is like an arranged marriage, then," he said, startled. "Neither of us would have chosen the other, but now we're both trapped."

"Aye," Iswyniel said, with frost in the words, and Jareth remembered a little too late how she'd come by her power: fleeing from just a such a marriage that had turned abusive. "And like a woman bartered into marriage, the kingdom risks more than you do, in taking you to heart. It's her life and her power over which she's granting you command. You have your work cut out. Etaron is like a soft-hearted maid in a girlish tale: so long as you do not harm her, and show at least a little competence, she would let you rule for the sake of your blood. Umardelin is a woman of another sort; she'll turn and cut you down as soon as look at you."

"Ah, gods," he groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. There was no escaping this punishment, and he'd already landed himself out of the realm's favor. But there was also no point in complaining to Iswyniel, who brooked no such nonsense. More than once in his boyhood she had bespelled him to sleep for asking her too many questions.

"Bathe and dress," she told him. "I already asked for the castle and village records to be brought up for review, so we'll go over that at breakfast. You'll be meeting with your staff and stewards tomorrow, once we see what the official records say. I won't be surprised to find discrepancies."

A hot bath sounded decent, though breakfast would be by necessity something mild. His belly had not appreciated last night's overindulgence. "I shall hope they do not wonder at an assistant who plans my days for me."

Iswyniel narrowed her eyes at him. "For your sake, in front of your people, I will try not to treat you as the idiot whelp you are. If they realize what I truly am, it will because you haven't the sense to nod and look regal and let me teach you how to do your job."

"I suppose I'm meant to thank you," he growled.

She actually laughed. "You think I'm here for your sake? You're a fool twice over, for the offense and for trying to hide it, and if you're blindly stubborn enough to let the goblins eat you, that makes you a fool thrice, and good riddance to you. Yet your mother would weep to lose you, and your grandfather would as well. For them, I'll give you a hand toward saving yourself – if you're smart enough to shut your mouth and take it."

Jareth bit his tongue, again, and said quietly, "Thank you, Grandmother."

To his everlasting surprise, she patted him on the shoulder gently. "You are welcome, grandson. Now go bathe, you smell like a pickled weasel."