by Bec McMaster
“You wouldn’t remember it.” He was just a baby, and no matter how strong his magic is, there would have been nothing to hold onto.
I can’t be seeing his memories.
His dark lashes obscure his eyes as I turn in his arms. “It was the first nightmare I ever had. A recurring one. One of the other children told me that my mother had cast me to the forest for the wolves to eat, and that’s what I dreamed of for months. I would cry and wriggle, but I could never escape. I was too little. Helpless. And then the wolves come.”
I rub his knuckles, trying to chase away the shadows in his eyes. “He sounds charming.”
“We weren’t all friends.” His voice roughens. “Old Mother Hibbert takes all that she finds. Not all of them are babies. The older ones are the ones that struggle with it the most, because they can remember their fae parents leading them out to the forest and tethering them to the altars. I don’t blame him for being angry. He made my early years miserable, but I can’t even remember his name now.”
The bristles that line his jaw spike roughly against my hand as I stroke his cheek. “What was it like?”
Thiago softens into my touch and sighs. “Hectic. Loud. Cold. Old Mother Hibbert had over a hundred of us there in her hut—”
“A single hut?”
His lips kick up wryly. “It’s not the kind of hut you could imagine. The inside is bigger than the outside, and there are chambers burrowed into the walls and tunnels. It’s a labyrinth, and sometimes the walls and doors changed. Sometimes rooms moved. Sometimes the hut even moved, though it did so mostly at night, and we’d only notice when we woke and found ourselves in a new part of the forest.” He stares blankly into the mirror. “It was cold though. Always cold. And there was never quite enough food.”
I hate that he spent his childhood this way.
“Sometimes the foraging parties wouldn’t return,” he admits in a lower voice. “Old Mother Hibbert would ring the bell when that happened, and we’d all have to return to our rooms and hide under our beds. She’d lock the doors and ward the hut, and we had to be silent. So silent. If we didn’t make it back in time—” He exhales sharply. “There are many creatures who hunger for fae flesh in Unseelie. And children are the most vulnerable. Old Mother Hibbert tried to protect us as best she could, but over a dozen children vanished every year. It was… a nervous upbringing.”
I step into his body and wrap my arms around him. Thiago stiffens, but then he slowly relaxes into the embrace, his callused hand coming up to stroke the ripple of my spine through my nightgown.
He’s been there every step of the way for me.
It’s only right that I return the favor.
“I wish that I could take that away for you.” And maybe this is the reason I looked into his eyes that long-ago night of Lammastide and saw the other half of my soul.
We have both been lonely.
We have both been lost.
I always thought I was the broken one, but maybe he’s broken too? Maybe our jagged edges can meet in the middle and somehow… fill each other up.
“Pain is what shapes you,” he murmurs, cupping my face and tilting my chin up. His gaze falls to my lips. “I would never give up a single moment of suffering, a single step in my path, because it all brought me here. To you, Vi.”
This prince. I don’t deserve him.
But my tongue, as always, won’t say what I want to say. “Even if I make deals with eldritch creatures?”
Thiago’s gaze falls to my lips. “Keeps life interesting.”
“Mmm.” The way he’s looking at me. “I feel like you’re trying to make life interesting yourself….”
It’s easier to steer the conversation away from those things best left avoided.
“Do tell?” His voice is like molten honey as he lowers his head. “Perhaps you would prefer to make a deal with me?”
“What kind of deal?”
“The kind where—"
A sharp rap comes at the door, breaking us apart.
Even after all these months, I still feel like someone is going to catch us together and I should feel guilty about it. But that was only the poison my mother whispered in my ear. This wicked prince was my husband and lover long before I remembered it.
And while I still can’t recall the day we first met—the first time we kissed, the first time we made love—I refuse to let my mother inhibit this moment. She stole my memories from me, but she won’t steal him.
Thiago laughs under his breath, as if my guilt flashes across my face. “Later,” he promises. And then he goes to answer the door.
Because the only reason someone would knock on the bedchamber of the Prince of Evernight when they know he’s with me is if something has happened.
“Tell me.” Thiago sinks into the enormous throne-like chair at the head of the table in his council chambers.
In this moment, he’s no longer merely my husband.
He’s the Prince of Evernight. The Lord of Whispers and Lies. The Master of Darkness. And the most dangerous male in the south. Clad in black leather like this, with only a hint of the darkened tattoos that ripple over his chest peeking out of the opening of his shirt, you could be forgiven for thinking of him as a mere warlord. But there’s something about the firm set of his shoulders and the regal tilt of his head that makes it clear he rules every inch of this castle.
There’s no sign of the dark wings that belong to his true form—he’s mastered the art of shifting between his Seelie and Unseelie forms so well that even I wouldn’t know they exist, if not for the fact that sometimes he’ll slip into his natural form when we’re in private.
And this far south of the wall, where the Seelie rule, he cannot afford to let others know he’s not entirely one of them, even though my mother has long suspected.
The word “Unseelie” is a dangerous weapon this far south.
I circle the room and sink into the seat at his side as the rest of Thiago’s court grimace at each other. Thalia—Thiago’s cousin—had been the one at the door, and she’d hauled him away to discuss something urgent while I dressed, so I’m as much in the dark as anyone else.
Two of his finest generals, Baylor and Eris, are both dressed in leather as they scowl at the table. Thalia reclines like some lady of the manor, though her green eyes are watchful, and Finn, the last remaining member of Thiago’s hand-picked court, leans back in his chair at the end of the table, tossing grapes in the air and catching them as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.
One chair remains empty at the end of the table.
It’s where Baylor’s twin brother, Lysander, should sit—though since my sister put an arrow in him six months ago, there’s been no sign of him. I’d thought him dead, though Baylor assures me that he and his brother can’t be killed. Not with the Grimm still alive.
“Adaia’s roused her border lords.” This comes from Baylor, who is enormous, his shoulders straining the breadth of plate leather and tendons cording in his powerful forearms. I’ve seen him wield a six-foot-long broadsword when he trains with Eris, and he swings it as deftly as though it weighs five pounds.
With long blond hair, golden eyes that gleam like a wolf’s, and a firm mouth that’s never seen a smile, he’s more than earned his title. Every single one of my mother’s generals swallow a little when they know they’re facing The Blackheart across the field of war. Centuries ago, he served the Grimm—one of the Old Ones who was locked away in a prison world during the last wars—and he’s not entirely fae.
But he’s not the most dangerous creature in the room.
No, that honor belongs to Eris, who leans back in her chair with her boots kicked up on the table and her dark brown hair braided in furrows across her scalp, to where it tumbles in a gleaming sheaf down her spine. “They’re staging at Caer Luwyn.”
“I thought there’d been no sign of the Asturian armies gathering?” Thiago asks sharply.
“There wasn’t.” Thalia reaches across the table
to steal a strand of Finn’s grapes. “They appeared in a cloak of mist and all of a sudden.”
“Opposite Eidyn.” Thoughts race in my husband’s eyes.
It’s a terrible place to stage for an invasion. The western marshes are just as likely to swallow half my mother’s troops. And Eidyn will give us the better ground. No Asturian force has ever taken the keep.
Eris tosses her gauntlets on the scarred table. “Thalia’s spies tell us there’s a sea of gold and red marching north to join the first wave.”
I knew it was coming—my mother promised us war, after all—but after months of inactivity, there was a little kernel of me that hoped she might have come to her senses.
A foolish desire, for I know her best, after all. But it’s amazing what manner of hope you can conjure when you wish for something hard enough.
War.
It won’t just be two powerful kingdoms angling at each other. This will drag the entire Seelie Alliance into ruin.
Because I chose to love an enemy prince.
“Vi?” Thiago turns to me, and I blink out of the reverie.
“Yes?”
“You know your mother best. You know her forces. What do you think?”
“How many?” I ask, for the border lords—whilst fully aware of the danger they’re in—are barely loyal to Adaia. Once upon a time they belonged to the Kingdom of Evernight, and then there were long years where they sought to reign over themselves, until my mother slew their leader and brought them under her umbrella.
I’ve visited the border keeps, and while they don’t dare speak of freedom, I’ve heard the songs their bards play and seen the looks on their faces as they listen to “The Last Stand of Lord Balrogh.”
If they could rule themselves, they would.
“Twenty thousand,” Baylor tells me grimly. “They’re marching under Thornwood’s banners.”
Twenty thousand. “That’s the north and the west.” But only half my mother’s armies.
“Thornwood’s as tough as old boots,” Baylor says. “He won’t be easy to break.”
“That depends,” Eris mutters, “on whether he’s digging in and waiting for us to come to him or marching across the borders. If he comes for us, then we’ll crush him against the Firenze river.”
“We start staging at Eidyn,” Thiago says, using a golden rod to push little brass figures across the map toward the border. “But we don’t move. Let Queen Adaia make the first gambit.”
I pace around the table as they argue about the best course of action.
Three months. Why the three months?
Why would she wait that long?
My mother knew there was a possibility I might have regained my memories in time and chosen Thiago at the Queensmoot three months ago.
She came prepared to slaughter us all then and there, and when the choosing didn’t go her way, she murdered one of the fae queens of the Alliance and declared war on both my husband and Prince Kyrian of Stormlight.
She would have had her armies ready to march three months ago.
So why did she hesitate to send them west?
“There’s something we’re missing.”
“Vi?” Thiago holds up his hand and the room falls silent.
I tell them my theory.
“So you think the Asturian army on our ass is merely a distraction?” Eris asks, leaning forward in her chair. “For what?”
“I don’t know. It’s too obvious for my mother. Adaia knows her border lords are fickle. She knows the might of Evernight’s armies equals her own. She murdered the Queen of Ravenal, and with Ravenal at her heels, she can’t turn her entire focus upon us.”
Thalia’s lashes lower. “My little birds haven’t mentioned any disturbance from Ravenal.”
She’s not only Thiago’s right hand, she’s also his spymistress, though I only learned that fact two months ago.
I consider the map again. A little circle of enemies surrounds the Kingdom of Asturia. “Ravenal to the south of her. Evernight to the north. And Stormlight holding the seas.”
It’s a trio of knives at her throat. My mother never does like to be backed into a corner.
“But she’s not alone. And Aska is not her only ally.” My gaze slides north, to the edge of the map. Thick dark trees carved of pure ebony are placed there, and several scarred castles and ruins peak from their depths. The wild lands of Unseelie hide all manner of creatures, and few among the Seelie Alliance know the true depths of the lands.
“Mother was working with Angharad.” The witch-queen rules the Unseelie, and if you bring her into the equation, it changes the dynamics quite significantly.
Because now it’s not a small island of two kingdoms desperately trying not to sink, but an enormous crashing wave of Unseelie poised to flood into the Alliance kingdoms.
And Evernight suddenly becomes the piece between the wolf’s jaws.
My heart sinks.
“It’s Angharad. It’s got to be Angharad.”
If Unseelie rises against us, then Evernight will be crushed.
“Surely your mother wouldn’t invite Angharad to invade,” Thalia says. “It’s one thing to be working with her, quite another to offer her the Alliance kingdoms on a gilded platter. Once Angharad gains a single toehold in the south she’ll never be removed.”
Thiago leans over the map, making swift decisions behind those devilish eyes. “Eris. Send Gwydion to Eidyn and give him command of our border armies. Send Noaz north with several companies to guard the borders we share with Unseelie. If Angharad strikes down from Unseelie, she’ll come through Mistmere. She won’t be able to get through the mountains in the north of Evernight.”
“Gwydion?” Eris demands. “And Noaz?”
If there’s anyone who can hold Angharad at bay, it’s Eris of Silvernaught.
“You’re both with me,” Thiago tells her coolly. “Vi and I have a rendezvous to attend.”
“Where are we going?” I ask.
Thiago squeezes my shoulders, then presses a kiss to the slope of my neck. “I have news of my own. Your mother wants to meet with us. She has a gift for us.”
“A gift?” My stomach drops. I know all about Mother’s gifts. “No. We don’t want to meet her. We don’t want anything she can give us. This is a trap. She’s—"
Thiago reaches out and places something metallic on the table before removing his hand.
A golden ring rattles before it slowly settles into stillness. It’s thick enough to grace a man’s finger, and the sigil is that of a howling wolf.
“Xander,” Baylor blurts, shoving to his feet.
“Yes. We finally know where your brother is. Adaia said she’s willing to talk peace. In exchange for Lysander. Vi is right. Eidyn isn’t the danger. It’s a distraction.” Thiago slowly straightens. “You have your orders. And only today to fulfill them. We leave at dawn.”
Chapter Two
Andraste
Sometimes I think the silence is the worst.
It’s a time when you’re alone with your own thoughts, your eyes blinded to the world, and nothing but the incessant drip-drip-drip of water in the distance offers any respite from the horrors of your memories.
Pain can be ignored. Pain is nausea twisting your stomach. Numbness flooding through your hands. Pain is an old friend, and maybe my mother thinks she can use it to break me, but she doesn’t know the truth.
I’m not afraid of pain.
But silence is the whip that breaks my soul.
Silence. Loneliness.
Memory.
The look in my sister’s eyes as she realized I’m the one who betrayed her is my least favorite memory, but it’s the one that keeps playing in my head, over and over and over.
I try to shift on my toes, and agony flares through my shoulders like a pair of knives driven deep. The chains around my wrists remain stoic, and though I’ve tried, I know they’re anchored to the ceiling above me and nothing I do will shift them.
I will endur
e.
I will not scream.
I will not beg.
It’s not my first time in the oubliette. Nor will it be my last.
And somehow, that thought makes me want to laugh.
Or cry.
Because I don’t know how long my mother will leave me chained here, and I don’t know what condition I will be in when she finally allows me to go free.
It takes me a long time to realize I can hear footsteps.
I tilt my head in the darkness, my heart suddenly racing. I don’t know how long I’ve been hanging here—time means nothing in the ever-present dark—but surely this is not long enough? I spent months in these chains when I fought for my sister’s freedom the first time. Months that broke me.
This could only have been… maybe weeks?
Maybe it’s not freedom that beckons. Maybe it’s torture. Mother will never dare whip the crown heir, but there are other ways to torture a body. Or a soul. And they don’t have to even leave a bruise.
I tense as keys rattle in the lock and the door squeals open. Everything sounds so fucking loud after the silence.
But then there are no further sounds, and I know that someone watches me, even if I can’t see them, and maybe that’s worse….
Heat flares, and I turn my eager face to it even as my abdomen tenses.
“You’re a mess,” Edain says coldly.
Not him. Anyone but him.
My heart’s in freefall, my throat closing over as if to contain a startled gasp. But I don’t dare let him see it.
I tilt my chin, trying to shift the blindfold, but all I catch a glimpse of is his boots. “My apologies, my lord.” My lips feel too dry, and they mangle the words, but I continue. “I seem to have misplaced the servants.”
My stepbrother stalks closer, and my cold skin yearns for the heat of his torch, even as I grind my teeth together.
“Surely you’re not here to bring my meal.” My stomach growls at the thought, shockingly loud. “Nor my bath.”
The clink of sound tells me he’s set the torch in the wall. “Your mother is still furious with you, so I would try not to be so witty when you’re brought before her.”
