by Bec McMaster
There’s no sign of the hint of violence I just caught a glimpse of. He absorbs it all and simply suppresses it.
But now I desperately need to talk to Eris. Or Thalia.
Because my husband lives and breathes control, and if I hadn’t stayed his hand, then he might have let it overwhelm him.
Later.
An enormous oak tree leans against the cliff face ahead of us. Its roots are so thick that doorways and windows have been carved among them, and I’m not sure where the cliff ends and the oak begins. A jaunty little sign with a pair of books on it hangs directly above one of the openings. Another sign features a wine barrel.
“The Wayfarer’s Oak.” Thiago points to the hundreds of fey lanterns that drip from its branches. “Each night the lanterns help guide its people through the old quarter. Nobody knows who lights them—or whether it’s simply an old magic long forgotten—but it’s said that the day the oak falls is the day the city is doomed.”
Image intrudes; A brief flash of laughter and dancing as we dine in a little restaurant not far from the oak. It’s a memory of the pair of us, and I can almost smell the wine and taste his kiss on my mouth.
My head turns, and there it is.
The Wayfarer.
The restaurant is hewn directly into the cliff walls, and wisteria chokes the brass frame of the awning outside the restaurant. A half dozen tables sit scattered beneath it, wearing skirts of white linen tablecloths. Little demi-fey flutter here and there among the wisteria, breathing fire into glass orbs that nestle within its vines. At night it would be breathtaking.
“We’ve been here.” I want to chase down the memory, but it vanishes like a dream upon waking.
“Yes. We’ve dined there sometimes. There were years when the curse broke early and you would remember me and we had more time to enjoy the city.”
“What else did we do?” There’s no point dwelling on all the memories that slip through my fingers. I may as well explore my city again.
“You spent hours in Binder’s,” he says, dragging me through the crowd, toward the little door with the book sign hanging above it.
And now I know another reason why he brought me.
He thinks the more I immerse myself in things I’ve done with him, the more I’ll remember.
A bell tinkles as we enter. A tired little face looks up from the counter, a smile flashing as the hob recognizes rich customers—judging from our clothes, no doubt—and then Thiago offers a polite greeting to one of the customers who stands by the counter.
Books. Books everywhere. The castle may be ours, but this feels like home in a way I’ve not experienced for… however long it has been.
I brush my fingers over the spines of several books. They’re old and weathered. Not new books, kept pristine in a castle library, but well-loved, well-used, promising to lure me into mythical worlds.
It takes me a moment to realize there are eyes resting on me.
I look up through the stacks, and see my husband smiling as if he knew a part of me vanished the second we arrived here.
“You have an account,” Thiago muses, his eyes sparklingly wickedly. “Get whatever you like. I’ll have them sent up to the castle and after I’ve finished my errand, we’ll dine at Wayfarer’s.”
Hesitation steals through me. He shrugged off that moment in the square, but I can feel it still, lingering in every look he grants me.
“Dinner,” I promise.
An hour passes.
Thiago slipped back inside not long ago, saying he’d left his message and was waiting for the Prince of Shadows to contact him. He muttered something about ordering food for us, and I promised I’d meet him shortly as I stole into the darker recesses of the bookshop.
There are little nooks and crannies everywhere, filled with bookcases that seem carved out of the roots of the mighty oak. But it’s the trail of breadcrumbs I’m following that steal my attention.
The hob promised this section contains all the old lore to be found.
So far I have nothing.
Every royal crown on this section of the continent has a bland background. Thiago knew a little about the unseelie crowns, but nothing of interest.
What I do know is this: The Crown of Shadows was named as one of the powerful relics that drove the Old Ones back during the wars against the alliance the Unseelie and Old Ones formed. Thiago thought it could be used as a conduit for the fae to access the Old Ones’ power, but it was lost during the wars, and there’s been no word of it since.
The only entity I could ask who might possibly know the truth about it is the Mother of Night, but I don’t trust her to tell me the truth.
It has to be here somewhere.
There has to be some myth, some old tale… something.
Relics of power.
Blaedwyn, one of the queens of Unseelie, wielded the Sword of Mourning against the Erlking. They say her heart turned to stone the moment she set hands to it.
I should know. I used it. It was never meant for another hand, but as I struggled to lift it, the Mother of Night appeared and somehow, she absorbed its weight so I could wield it.
If I clench my fist I can still feel the sword out there, driven deep into the heart of the Hallow that trapped the Erlking.
How did the Mother of Night touch it?
She wants the crown and she can touch the sword.
I start thumbing through books. Maybe it’s not the crown I need to find. Maybe it’s the sword. Who forged the sword? Something like that isn’t easily crafted. They’d have to be an expert, highly practiced in magic.
And powerful.
I’m not alone—the murmur of quiet voices rumbles in the background—but one word strikes me out of my absorption.
“…finally let that slut out of the castle,” whispers a harsh voice. “Does he think we’re going to bow and kiss her feet the way we’re forced to kiss his?”
“For now,” rumbles a second voice.
My hands still, the pulse kicking in my throat.
“Patience, friends.” A third man cuts through the undertone, his voice like a knife through velvet. “The Gray Guild is meeting on Elms Day. That bastard may present himself as prince all he likes, but he doesn’t rule beneath the city. And there are means to counteract his magic.”
Heart quickening, I slip closer, reaching up to ease the book I hold back onto a shelf. As I do, I catch a glimpse of three cloaked figures hiding within the next row of shelves.
One of them is tall and cloaked in dark gray, the others of middling height. The leaner one of those two wears black, and the other a dark green.
“They say he’s going to bind her to the lands and offer her up as queen,” hisses the one in green.
It’s me.
They’re talking about me.
I squat down, toying with several books as if I’m completely focused upon them, but every inch of me stiffens.
“If the bastard does that,” says the second man, “then the city will rise. She’s not one of us. She’s not—”
“Neither is he,” the green cloak points out.
But it’s the taller man who cuts them short. “These are the types of words….” He pauses, and then waves his hand in the air. Gold sparks form out of nowhere, widening into a circle around them, and then, even though I can see their mouths moving, I can’t hear what they’re saying.
A ward.
But if there’s one I learned in my mother’s court, it’s how to slip through one.
Splaying my palm against the floor, I let my conscious crawl across the floor and slip beneath the edges of the ward. If I stay as small and quiet as a mouse, they won’t even notice me. It’s not the sort of thing I’d try with someone of Thiago’s power—he’d sense me for sure—but the throb of power around these three doesn’t push at the skin, the way Thiago’s does.
The sudden crack of words is almost startling
“…doesn’t have the power to bind the lands,” murmurs the tall man. �
�My contacts in Asturia tell me she’s pathetically underwhelming. Can barely light a hearth. Be patient. This game is not over yet.”
“And if she does manage it?” says a cold, hard voice that I think belongs to the black cloak.
“There are pieces in play. Keep your mouths quiet until Elms Day. We have a plan that shall remove this blight from the throne forever.”
Silence falls as they both stare at him.
“He’s protected,” one of them says slowly.
“Not for long,” says the taller man. “The bastard may rule the dark, but he’s not the only dangerous fae in the city. And I have… friends who would very much like to pay him back for past endeavors. We can’t counter his magic, but maybe we don’t need to?”
They start toward me and I realize I’m not very well-hidden down here.
I turn and slam into a tall, hard body.
Before I can suck in a sharp breath, a tattooed finger presses against my lips, and a hooded stranger pushes me against the shelf.
Where did he come from?
A hand claps over mine as I reach for the knife at my hip, and the pressure of his finger intensifies. The shiver of magic slipping over my skin feels like cool water, rather than the molten glide of honey that reminds me of Thiago’s magic, but he’s clearly laying a veil over me.
Fine. I fall into stillness. I can be quiet. Besides, this is not the place for a sudden struggle, and I suspect he’s not involved with the trio of conspirators.
The man in the green cloak sweeps past, tossing his hood back as he slips out the door of the bookshop. Blond, handsome in a foppish way. He doesn’t even glance at us. The others have vanished, but that doesn’t mean they’re not still here. Glamor and illusions are gifts that many fae wield, though few of them are quite as skilled as Thiago.
The stranger is skilled.
The fae in the green cloak should have noticed us. We’re right there.
My breath catches. Thiago’s only mentioned one other male who might be able to veil like this. I take a closer look at him as he slips his hood back.
Long, silky-black hair gathers into a half-knot at the back of his head, and intense eyes as black as the heart of night itself return my stare. There’s a hint of the Danesh Su about his face—those eyes and cheekbones that could cut like a knife—but it’s the tattoos that crawl up his throat that capture my attention.
A blood moon, glowing red for a second, before it fades into whorls of black ink.
Erlking’s hairy cock….
“The Prince of Shadows sends his regards,” the stranger purrs, lifting his finger from my lips.
Chapter Seven
I try for the knife again, and the bastard simply takes it off me.
“Ah, ah, ah,” he chides, balancing the tip of it on his finger before he flips it, and then presents the handle to me. “If I wanted you dead, Princess, then you wouldn’t have seen me at all.”
True. It stills a few of my nerves. Not all of them, though.
“How did you know who I was?” I can still see my fake red hair tangling over my shoulders.
The Prince of Shadows twists his hands together in front of his forehead, then slowly parts them. A golden eye appears. A tattoo of pure magic, not ink. “Long ago, I traded my soul for the ability to see through magic itself.”
Very mysterious. Also, very hospitable of him to answer. “I’d swoon, but my husband has inured me against charming strangers. He also lies through his teeth when I try to corner him on a topic. “Theron himself, I presume?”
“Such a name might exist.” He produces the Sorrow’s Tear, brushing the red-black petals against his lips. “I received your husband’s calling card.”
“My husband is waiting for me at the Wayfarer, and you’re probably lucky he’s unaware you’ve cornered me here.”
Where in the Darkness is Finn?
Theron smiles, as if I’m blundering down the path he wants me to take. Oh, look at me, a mysterious charming scoundrel who wouldn’t dream of sticking a knife in someone’s heart.
“Ah, Princess.” He brushes the rose against my lips. “I’m not afraid of your husband. You’re in my territory now.”
I bat the rose aside. “Touch me again with that rose and I’ll shove it up your ass, stalk first.”
“Strange. You seemed to enjoy it earlier.”
So he’s been watching us. “My husband has the right to touch me. You don’t.”
He holds the rose up in surrender, a smile on his lips.
“As enjoyable as this is,” I continue, “you’re not here to try and charm me.”
“You’re right. I’m not. What does he want?” Despite the earlier smile, there’s a dangerous look in his eyes.
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“Because he’s being watched.”
I run the tip of my tongue over my teeth. “By whom?”
“Friends,” he replies. “Not friends.”
“This… Gray Guild.”
Silence. Theron stares at me for a long moment. And I realize there’s no reason to suspect he’s not involved in this.
The guilds rule the city. They rose to power during Queen Araya’s reign and Thiago allows them to remain, for it gives the people of the city a voice. It also saves him from having to negotiate petty little treaties and grievances.
As long as the guilds remain in their place, there’s no reason to strike them down.
But Theron is the head of his own guild.
“Trouble comes,” he murmurs. “But which side of the blade will it come from?”
“If trouble comes, then Eris is going to tear this city apart to snuff it out,” I point out. “And she will remember who stood at my husband’s side. And who did not.”
“Then consider this a gift, freely offered. The guilds meet once a month in public, but there are… certain members who meet privately too. Two months ago, a fae lord appeared in the midst of their gathering offering them assistance in their cause.”
“To overthrow my husband.” Two months ago…. Right about the time those pamphlets started circulating. I knew Mother was somehow involved in this. But who would she send? “What did he offer?”
“Gold,” Theron replies bluntly. “Information. And warriors.”
“And how much did he offer you?”
Theron arches a brow. “Enough gold to drown myself and all the souls of this city.”
“I believe my husband said he’d match it if you came to him.”
He glances at the rings on his fingers. “I’m not merely interested in gold. This city is my home. And every time I glance into the waters, I see darkness coming. A storm is on the horizon, Princess. Do I care who rules the kingdom? Not particularly. But the storm? I wake from dreams where bodies flood the streets on a tide of water, and I see my own men and women there, pale and bloated. I see a city in swampy ruins. I see children crying for their parents as they wade through receding waters, and parents crying for their children.”
There’s always a price for gaining the ability to See through secrets and lies, because sometimes you start to see the future too.
Water. And a storm. My mother has fae who can channel water, but a storm itself? They’re aggressive and unruly and even the best Stormchaser can only direct a storm for a mile or two before it spins out of control.
“And after the water breaks the city, night falls. But this time, it doesn’t lift.”
Our eyes meet.
The curse that gnaws at the north of Evernight has been gaining ground inch by inch for centuries, but it’s still contained to the north.
Evernight. Or ever night.
How is my mother involved in this?
“But every dream I have,” he continues, “circles back to one moment. You. You walk through water as high as your waist and it parts. The water recedes. The city repairs itself. Corpses jerk to their feet and vomit water from their lungs, returning to life. Night falls and there you are, glowing like a beacon in the darknes
s. Glowing so bright that you become the sun. Dawn breaks over you.”
A shiver runs through me. “I don’t have the power to do any of that.”
“As I said, I don’t care who rules the city. But I care for the city. And there’s a chance you can save the city.” Drawing his hood up over his face, he nods to me. “The Gray Guild will meet on Elms Day to carry out their attack. I don’t know where they meet, but I will know. And I will send word.”
“Wait!” I grab his arm as he turns to go. “There is something else I must ask.”
One of his brow’s arches.
I consider how best to word it. “Thiago’s friend has been cursed, and it’s reputed that you have a hexbreaker among your… crew.”
Instant suspicion. “I have no hexbreaker.”
As expected. Curses and hexes originated in Unseelie. To suggest the possibility of one means there are unseelie in this city who shouldn’t be here.
“If you had a hexbreaker who could break his curse, then we would be very grateful,” I stress.
“Grateful doesn’t fill my coffers.”
I pluck the Sorrow flower from his fingers. “Roses won’t earn you a moment of her time. But this might.”
“What makes you think I wish for a moment of her time?”
The fact that I don’t even need to say Eris’s name.
“You want her attention,” I point out, “or you wouldn’t keep stealing into her rooms.”
His eyes narrow. “I’ll… consider it. Tell her I don’t have a hundred horses, but… maybe I won’t need them.” He tugs the book from the shelf behind me—the one I was looking at—and examines the cover. “You have an interest in old myth.”
“I like history.”
“Crowns too, by the sound of it.”
Clearly, he’s been watching and listening ever since I entered the shop. “Unfortunately for my interests, they don’t seem to have what I want here—”
“Nobody will have what you’re looking for.” An enigmatic smile crosses his face. “After the wars, the Seelie queens decided the information you’re searching for is too dangerous to be allowed to fall into the wrong hands. They tore through their kingdoms and burned every book that might hold details of the Old Ones, and the relics used against them.”
