by Bec McMaster
My hair is neither straight nor curly, and the second there’s any humidity in the air, it’s a mess.
Imerys has cheekbones that can cut, and there’s a touch of the Danesh Su about her features. Their empire lies to the west of the Far Isles where the fae male I once thought was my father still lives, though merchants from the empire make up a large majority of the Far Isles’ population.
“I have more important things to do than drink and dance all night.”
“I’m Iskvien.”
“I know who you are. And I know what you want.” She turns to walk away. “You need an alliance so you can take my kingdom to war. But you’re not going to find it in the library. And I’m not going to kiss your feet and offer you welcome, like my sister has, when you’re going to get my people killed.”
Your kingdom is already at war. But there’s no point saying it. “I think you and I share different ideas on the type of welcome your sister has granted me.”
It startles her.
“And what I want is a list of the Arcaedian immortals that survived the wars,” I call. “That’s all. And I hear the library here at Ravenspire is the best in the south.”
“A list of immortals?” Her footsteps stop, and she stands within a halo of light that streams down through the central core of the tower. “Why?”
“Curiosity.”
Imerys turns around.
I know her type. I am her type. Books filled the void within my life that my sister’s loss left. Books were sometimes my only companions when my mother exiled me from the main chambers of her court.
When my favorite nanny vanished when I was eleven—or was probably made to vanish—I found the library at Hawthorne Castle and with it, peace. A world outside my own. Families who loved each other. Friends who existed within the pages when no fae dared extend a smile in my direction.
An escape.
Imerys can no more ignore my question than I could have, because it’s a chance to prove her knowledge and a lingering itch to share her world with me.
“There are no true immortals anymore,” she says. “The Old Ones cursed the fae to lose their immortality. Some say it was the true reason we hunted them to the edge of extinction.”
“Artemius says there were other immortals,” I reply and notice her expression warm. “I’ve read some of his work, though he never states precisely who or what cursed the fae, he mentions that Arcaedia had its share of immortals before the fae arrived through their portals.”
“You’ve read Artemius’s scrolls?”
“Only the first three. My mother had the last two burned.”
Her eyes widen in horror.
“I know.” All that history, lost. And for what reason?
Maybe she didn’t like what Artemius wrote. Or maybe my mother wanted to rewrite history herself.
I push past Imerys, running my fingers over a sexy grimoire that wants me to read it. “I was studying the Hallow in Ceres and realized some of the runes carved into the sentinel stones are symbols that represent the Old Ones. But there are only thirteen Old Ones locked away in their prison worlds, and nearly sixty-one different runes. Do the runes merely represent the names and locations of Hallows? It would be easy to think so, but the runes themselves give some hint of the Old Ones those Hallows are tied to. So I began to wonder if there were more Old Ones who haven’t been recorded and then….”
Down the rabbit hole I went, says my rueful smile.
Imerys closes the grimoire I’m stroking with a pointed look. “I’ve only ever heard of the thirteen.”
“That doesn’t mean they didn’t exist.”
Oh, now I’ve got her.
She looks at the shelves that rise into the darkness. The library at Ravenspire fills one of the circular towers, and this level alone seems to house more books than I’ve ever seen in my lifetime.
“I was reading a grimoire from Prince Kyrian’s library and saw mention of the Morai. They existed on Arcaedia before the fae arrived, but they’re not classed as Old Ones. And I was wondering what the difference was, because the Morai are certainly powerful in their own right.”
Also, horrifically terrifying.
“He allowed you in his library?”
“Allowed is a strong word. I thought I’d ask permission afterwards.”
Imerys snaps her fingers, and her trio of faelights appear again. “You steal one of my books, and I’ll break your fingers.”
“I wasn’t planning on stealing anything. Just knowledge.”
“Hmm.” Imerys takes off through the shelves, her faelights chasing after her like playful kittens. “Down here, I think.”
Chains bind the heaviest of the books to their lecterns. Demi-fey flutter through the air in this section, and a phoenix feather burns within a warded glass dome.
“Halt, foolish intruders,” hisses a little demi-fey guard, lunging forward with a tiny spear. The flutter of her wings is so fast they’re transparent, and she wears a smock made of nettle thorns and thistledown.
I’ve never heard one of the demi-fey talk. They’re mischievous sprites and sylphs who tend to congregate around the fae, but most of them lack the intelligence to follow basic orders, unless they’re well-trained like Thalia’s little squad.
“It’s just me, Gossamer.” Imerys clicks her fingers, and one by one, faelights spring to glowing life throughout the stacks. “I have a friend with me, though if you see her here alone when I’m not around, you have to let me know. She steals books.”
“I don’t steal books—”
Imerys shoots me a long look.
“I borrowed it. And Prince Kyrian was more than aware of that fact.”
Gossamer starts to glow. Golden at first, before she turns a blushing pink. “Steal books?”
Great. Now a fluttering moth is chiding me like I’m three. “I. Do. Not. Steal. Books. I borrowed it and then he said I could have it.”
The pair of them exchange a look.
“Old Ones. And runes.” Imerys slides the ladder along the shelf, thoroughly caught up in the quest now. “Here. This is Anduluvian’s Myths of Arcaedia. It’s old. And hungry.”
She tugs on her mesh gloves and then takes the fat book from its shelf, where it rustles a little as if it can sense her. A thick chain rattles over the shelf, but Imerys unlocks it with the key around her neck.
“Some of the books bite,” she admits, flipping the pages. “And you don’t want to get blood on any of the spellwork contained within, or you might find yourself with some company you’d prefer not to keep.”
“Lucere?” I say jokingly, because I’ve read the mood of the court. “I’m fairly certain she’s hunting in the woods with my husband, so I’d say we’re safe.”
Imerys’s eyes go wide. And then she chokes on a laugh. “I was talking about daemons, though they might be preferable to my sister at times.”
“You don’t back her claim?”
“I back her claim.” Imerys places the book on one of the lecterns. She blows a lock of hair out of her eyes. “Don’t mistake me, Your Highness. I am loyal to my family. And I think my sister will make a powerful queen. But she and I do not always see eye to eye. Lucere is bold and wishes to prove herself a threat to be watched by the other queens. And princes,” she adds belatedly.
“She has to,” I admit, thinking of the state of the Alliance. “She’s found herself the bystander in a war that will sweep her up and use her, no matter which way she chooses to cast her allegiance.”
“She could abstain from war.”
“I wish we all could if I’m being honest, but I know my mother. I know her ambitions.” I see it all laid out in front of me. “If Lucere doesn’t bare her claws now, my mother will sweep her off the board. She’s wanted war for a long time, and I…” Regret sours my tongue. “I’m the reason she will use to provoke it.”
Imerys watches me. “If you could make your choice again, would you side with your mother?”
“No.” It’s not eve
n a choice. “I love Thiago. And it doesn’t matter if I did not—Mother would have found some reason to cast off the shackles of the Alliance.”
Imerys stares at me for a long time.
And then she clicks her fingers, and a book floats toward her from the top shelf. “This one too, I think.” She places it next to Myths of Arcaedia. “As I said, they’re hungry. Will you do the honors?”
There are certain rules among the fae.
To give another your blood, hair, or fingernails grants them the ability to link a spell to you. If you’re powerful, then you needn’t worry, but that’s why we rarely cut our hair, and nails are tended in the privacy of your rooms where you dispose of them yourself.
It’s a rare curseworker who can wield the magic in your blood, but I’ve had more than enough experience with curses in my life.
And yet… to deny her is to tell her I don’t trust her.
I need the information in that book.
And more, I need to find some sort of alliance within Ravenal.
“Move aside,” I murmur, tugging the dagger from my belt and pricking my finger. I press the bloody smear on the cover of the book, where the leather—or what I hope is leather—absorbs it.
Golden light flares over the lock, and Imerys’s face brightens as she unlocks it and opens the book with slow reverence. Every page is yellow with age, and dark ink blots across the page like little spider scrawl. I can barely understand a word of it.
“Anduluvian was one of the first refugees from the home world,” Imerys murmurs. “She speaks the Old Tongue, so some of it is difficult to decipher.” Flipping through the pages, she pauses when she comes to a familiar rune.
A crescent moon, full moon, and waning moon superimposed over each other.
“The Mother of Night.” I swallow the lump in my throat. Just thinking of the creature I made a deal with sends a shiver down my spine, as if the mere thought is enough to summon her.
Another page. Another symbol. A triangle with a set of horns. “The Horned One,” Imerys murmurs.
The Old One that Angharad wants to use my blood to raise.
I shiver.
Each page reveals new symbols, some of which I’ve seen on the corresponding Hallows. The Dream Thief. Red Mag. Bloody Mara. The Frost Giant. The Green Man. All of them Old Ones that have been locked away in their prison worlds.
But then the pages keep turning, and there are other symbols.
A pair of half-circles joined together, like a child’s equivalent of a bird. Behind it is a full circle, which could be a full moon. I’ve seen it on the stones in Valerian, though I don’t know what it means or which Hallow it aligns with.
“You were right. There were more Old Ones.” Imerys’s fingers continue turning the smooth pages. “But only thirteen were ever captured. Only thirteen went to war against us.”
And we couldn’t even truly kill one of them.
Imagine if all of them had picked up their weapons and fought the fae?
“The Old Ones were worshipped by the creatures who ruled these lands before the fae arrived.” Imerys pauses, running her finger down the page as if she’s trying to translate. “This is the Daughter of the Three Moons. She was once worshipped as a huntress of the night, before the Mother of Night took over her aspect. I wonder if her worshippers forgot about her and turned to the Mother?”
Which would mean the Mother grew in strength while the Daughter of the Three Moons faded in power. Prayer and belief give the Old Ones their strength, and at their height of power, there were entire cults dedicated to them. Every sacrifice that was given to the Hallows they used as nexus points would have directly strengthened them.
More pages flutter by.
“You were right,” Imerys breaths. “There were more of them. The Prince of Thorns. The Silent Lady. The Fire Whisperer. Jack of Frost. Brother Tooth.”
Brother Tooth? “I’ve heard of him. My nurse, Nanny Redwyne, used to tell us stories about how Brother Tooth would steal our teeth during the night if we didn’t leave a coin out for him on Samhain.”
“Did you?”
“Of course I did. I didn’t want any creepy nightcrawler stealing my teeth while I slept. The coin was always missing by morning.”
We share a smile.
“Though now that you mention it, I do recall Nanny Redwyne showing off her lovely red velvet cape one week after Samhain, when I was six or seven.”
A breeze stirs across my skin, and I lift my head. I shut the door when I came in, but there’s no sign of anyone else. “Did you feel that?”
But Imerys rifles through the pages with quick grace. “There’s another section in the back of the book, detailing the creatures who lived in this world before the fae arrived.”
Every single candle snuffs out, leaving only the light that spills through the circular window in the ceiling far above.
Both of us freeze.
I’m quicker to move than she is.
Drawing the dagger sheathed at my hip, I spin around. Imerys snaps her fingers, and light blooms throughout the library, stinging my eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Imerys cranes her neck. “What’s going on?”
I don’t know.
Gossamer peers over a pile of books, no longer threatening to halt any intruders.
Nothing moves. But the bracelet around my wrist gives a twitch.
It’s not until I notice my breath is coming in a cloud of fog that I realize how cold it is in here suddenly.
Something moves down one of the long rows of bookcases.
“What was that?” The pulse still kicks in Imerys’s throat.
I cross the floor, knife held low. There’s no sign of anything shifting in the shadows. No stir of breeze.
But my heart’s racing, and the coppery taste of blood magic dances over my tongue.
Something was watching us.
The fetch?
Angharad, one of the queens of Unseelie, set one hunting me four months ago. The bracelet around my wrist keeps it from finding me, but I know it’s still out there. Once one of the Heartless are given an order to hunt, they don’t stop until they capture their prey.
But if it was watching me, then why didn’t it attack?
“Do you mind if I take the books back to my room?”
For a second, I think she’s going to deny me. But fear wins out over her sense of protectiveness. “One night,” she says, “and then you return them.”
“You have my word.”
Imerys snorts as she shuts the book. “I have more than that, Princess. I know where you sleep, and if they’re not back by noon tomorrow, I’ll send Gossamer to fetch them.”
I find Thiago in the stables, examining a handsome golden colt with the crown princess. “Vi.”
“Your Highness.” Lucere moves away from his side with a furtive smile, as if she’s trying to suggest there’s something more happening here.
“How was your ride?” I paste a smile on my lips, even if I don’t feel it in my heart.
“Wonderful.” Lucere glides out of the stall, still putting distance between them, though her eyes linger on my husband. “Thiago brought down a stag, and he will be the main course at our banquet tonight. He was glorious.”
Thiago’s lashes lower. “The poor bastard broke his leg in the chase. It was mercy, Lucere. Not any particular interest of mine in hunting.”
He’ll hunt for food, but I’ve never known him to partake in it for sport like some of the southern kingdoms do.
“What do you think of him?” Thiago asks, turning my attention to the colt in the stall.
I pat that velvety nose. The color of his coat shines like a newly minted coin, though his mane and tail are as silver as moonlight. The arch of his face hints at elfin blood, and as I run my hands down his legs, I admire the quality of his structure. “He’s gorgeous. Absolutely breathtaking.”
“A gift,” Lucere purrs, “for Evernight.”
Thiago’s gaze cuts toward her, and
he strokes that glossy coat. “A gift worthy of a royal fortune. I fear my offering last night was a mere trinket in comparison.”
The rubies are already around her neck, though she’ll choke on them if she knows Thalia was the one who chose them.
Lucere strokes the gems as she demurs. “Of course not. I shall be the envy of the Alliance. I fear this small exchange is barely worth a single ruby.”
Thiago smiles at me. “He’s yours, Vi.”
Lucere’s eyes flare, and her smile freezes.
“A worthy mount for my beloved.” Thiago nods gracefully to her. “Thank you. Wherever the Princess of Evernight rides, all folk shall know of the generosity of Ravenal.”
“You’re evil,” I tell him as we link thoughts. “I think she’s going to bite through her tongue.”
There’s a touch of wickedness about his mouth, but he offers me his arm. “I fear I’ve abandoned you too much this morning. Shall we take a walk around the gardens? Lucere was telling me that there’s a lovely little grotto with a waterfall.”
Oh, I’ll bet she was.
“That would be lovely.” And then, because she’s been eyeing my husband like a piece of steak, I smile at her. “Thank you for the gift. I will always cherish him.”
“What’s wrong?” Thiago demands the second we’re in the gardens where no one can hear us.
“Besides that bitch salivating all over you?”
His eyes hood. “She’s going to be the future queen of Ravenal. We have to play nicely.”
I sigh. “I know. That doesn’t mean I like her.”
“I’m not particularly fond of her either.”
Really?
His expression darkens. “I have a wife, and she knows it, and yet she’s constantly trying to touch me in places she shouldn’t.”
“Should I know about these places?” I tease.
“I nearly shoved her off a cliff this morning,” he says with a sigh, raking a hand through his hair, “when she put her hand on my thigh.”
This time my eyebrows arch.
“Don’t look at me like that. Lucere reminds me of your mother. Because she knows she has something I want, she pushes me. I’m not her fucking pet, but she’s trying to treat me like one.”
